Lost in the shadows, dust swirls l’dance macabre in the cold, grey chink light. The cell door is locked. Strange how, within the calm of silence, the impossible can be accepted. John’s death at University, mind-destroyed by Julia. And now a stranger wears his mask, impostor, and the pretence has crumbled.
Rest In Peace, my brother…
No Last Rites…
No God in Heaven.
The cross has melted into a stagnant pool of lies, festering within his mind. Who are the Old Ones? I’ll probably never find out; lost within the reaper’s shadow, devoid of a focus for any faith.
The golden chain breaks as it is violently tugged. The crucifix clenched in the white knuckled fist bites into the soft flesh of the palm. Paul throws it into the far shadows. It tumbles upwards and glows as it passes through the chink of light at the peak of its ascension; falls rapidly away. Splintering sound, how brittle the gold has become with all faith drained away.
Shards of gold explode like glass, fall useless onto the floor.
Only the figure of Christ remains intact.
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan