Last Judgment, Assignment #18

He hides in the shadows of the night, darting across the sidewalk lit only by the dim glow of street lights, like little fireflies bottled in glass lanterns. The night air is brisk, and each breath fills with prickling needles. He clutches the ache in his side as he runs, feeling the blood – still warm – on his white shirt. Sirens echo in the distance. A set of ghostly white steps call out to him – he makes a dash for the top. The door is ajar; he takes the chance to pry open the heavy wooden door enough to slip in and seals himself within.

Darkness closes in on him – a black hole. He bends down to feel the ground: a coarse mixture of grainy sand and smooth clay. Kneeling, he sheaths his knife from the left inner vest of his jacket, and proceeds to dig into the dirt, until he can fit his foot into the hole. He strips off his clothes; his jacket he tosses off, his shirt – now soaked in his sweat and her blood – he pulls over his head and places in the newly-dug hole. He stands bare-chested to the night.

He sinks his hand into his left pants pocket, fingers grasping the cool metal of his lighter. In one flick he ignites his shirt to make a fire. His eyes are mesmerized by the flames that dance before him. Her muffled screams still echo in his ears; he can still feel the collapse of her limbs as she fell still and silent. He looks down at his sullied hands, runnels of dry blood crusted on his palm, his veins bulging under his skin. He sees the events of the night as shadows that play across the floor, miniature flickering figures at his feet.

The figures begin to dance away from him, charming him to follow them as they stretch farther and farther to the edges of the room until – bones! He tumbles backwards. Along the walls, the dirt-yellow skulls stare back at him through vacant sockets; they are jawless, stacked in vertical columns so as to form three solid archways. In each niche a hooded skeleton faces him, dressed in thick brown robes tied at the waist with a single frayed rope. Their hands are folded in front of their torsos, heads lowered, shading their faces. His eyes trace two lines of femurs that run up the sides of the arches to a ceiling decorated with circles of spinal columns, femurs, jaw bones, and more bones that become unrecognizable.

He begins to feel a chill boring into his skin, a coldness that his small pyre cannot overcome. Shuddering, he huddles himself in his arms, legs pulled into his chest. He hears her scream again, this time piercing his eardrums, resonating through his head. Aching, he is caged in a storm of screams circling him, as if trapped under a bronze church tower bell as someone pounds from above. It is coming from above! As his head cranes back he sees her contorted body, crouching above him on the ceiling. Her robe drapes down, almost touching his hair. He can see invisible strands of her disheveled, stringy hair wiping across her face. His hands clutch his ears, but they cannot shield against her voice, until….silence.

As quickly as the maelstrom of screams swirled in, it dissipates into the cold atmosphere, and he is left shaking in a coat of cold sweat. His breaths are sharp, short, timid. His eyes scan the bones that surround him, and he begins to feel their gazes reach for his body – a thousand long bony fingers stretching from all four sides. His heart races – he is trapped, and the cold is now trafficking under his skin; every hair on his arms prick up.

His eyes bulge; they stare at him behind darkness. The three robed skeletons crane up their heads, and he feels their damnation spear upon him, drilling into his bones – iron hot they burn through him, the stench of fetid flesh cooking a nasty aroma in his nostrils. He sees his knife only a few inches from his feet but he is chained, stunned.

Deliver me! He screams but his voice is caught in his throat, and only a choking gasp crept from his lips. He feels the bony fingers now tearing at him, the fabric of his soul ripping from his body. He searches for forgiveness – forgive me, friars!

A circle of cold, neon light falls upon him – his eyes squint from its blinding gawk. He is splayed on the ground, his legs rigid, his arms pulled out from his torso. He hears male voices gruff above him and the scratch of the dispatcher fade in and out. Red and blue lights dance on his left cheek, and the sound of handcuffs unclipping wakes him from his nightmare. He is brought up to his knees once more, hands drawn behind his back, as he stares once more at the hooded skeletons, whose heads are once again bowed to the floor. He feels the cold metal wrap around his wrists, and welcomes the warm palms of two men who prop him on his feet.