Blogs by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage
See the Christ. Watch as She Raises the Dead...
8/24/2008 5:45:23 PM
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Juan’s cousin had a growing reputation for healing the sick, rumors of raising the dead. Pilate could think of no where else to turn. Hospitals could not save dead people.
Pilate carried Mary to the car he rarely used. He removed the cover, placed Mary in the passenger seat. Pilate backed out of the yard through double gates.
Pilate phoned while driving Harbor streets. He called his shorties, one by one, until he gleaned where Juan’s cousin was. Shorty only one not supposed to be slingin dope that night.
He got the address, made short work of the drive and screeched to a halt. The wedding reception was full on. With engine idling, Pilate plucked Mary from the car. He followed the nauseating smell of cooked flesh. He saw her.
Immanuel waited, surrounded as she was by nine men and three women. They were not happy to see Pilate. Her disciples bunched closer, protecting her. They didn’t like Pilate being there. Not while he was shellacked with sticky blood and staring with creepy eyes. Pedro kept a hand behind his back, close to the 9mm. Just in case his Lord was wrong.
“Trust in the sword, Pedro,” she said in a small, still voice, “and ye shall die by it.” She glared at him, not kidding. “Release the shooter, drop your hand, and do it right now,” she scolded.
Pedro instantly obeyed.
Pilate approached. Just being near her made nerve endings tingle. She possessed so much restrained power. She kept her focus played on his eyes. While her disciples stared in abject horror at his clothes, drenched in blood, Juan’s cousin looked only at Pilate’s eyes.
He gently placed Mary at the bare feet of El Cristo, telling what he knew. She knelt beside the supine body and listened for heartbeat. There was none. Immanuel placed her hand over Mary’s destroyed eye. It began to quiver. The people nearby felt tremendous heat rolling off El Cristo.
At first the yellow waxy substance pushed out of Mary’s eye, thin as a surgeon’s thread. It pushed out of pulpy mess and attached itself to Immanuel’s quivering hand. Another waxy string oozed slowly out of the eye, thicker and darker, vile smelling.
Six waxy strings vibrated between Immanuel’s hand and Mary’s eye. She grabbed them with her empty hand. She tugged ever thickening tendrils all the way out. Immanuel released the gooey substance to the grass. It hissed and burned. It sank into the earth and was gone.
Immanuel had a disciple fetch bandages for Mary’s eye. It would never see again. She put her mouth on Mary’s lips and blew air into empty, motionless lungs.
Mary’s chest stayed inflated and began to vibrate. Immanuel sat beside Mary and watched her quietly. The partygoers were silent as well. She still seemed dead as shit to Pilate, but he also watched.
Pedro’s sister and fellow disciple, Andrea, brought out a first-aid kit. She bandaged the eye while Mary quivered. Then Pilate noticed Mary’s color deepening. She took great, violently shaking breaths. He could smell oxygen returning.
Immanuel held Mary’s hand and massaged it gently. “Talitha cum,” she commanded, “little girl, get up.”
Without preamble, Mary sat straight, looking all around. She sniffed and told those staring she was hungry. They took her inside and cared for her.
Once she left, Immanuel summoned Pilate. “We need to talk, you and I.”
Pilate nodded and followed the tiny miracle worker to a more secluded section of the yard. It was dark there.
Pilate, grateful beyond words, was willing to wait patiently for Immanuel to get to it. She peered at him, not speaking right away. Just when it was getting painful under the microscope of her gaze, she spoke.
“I’m not afraid of you,” is what she said. It stopped him cold.
“Why not?” asked Pilate, wanting to know. “You should be; everyone else in The Harbor is. Do you not know what I am?”
She considered him, towering over her in the dark. He thought still he was master.
“I do know what you are,” she replied. “I also know who you are and were.”
Pilate thought he didn’t hear correctly, asked her to repeat it.
“Oh, yes, vampire, I know you.” She had Pilate’s full attention. “You have trod this Earth many times, Prelate. You have always been a part of the human herd. They have fed you and amused you. You have been their king and their slave. You have even been their food. You’ve lived many years and you have lived few. You have seen much, bore witness to the majesty of the ages. You’ve feasted well and you have starved. You lived numerous lives and have died horribly, violently.”
Pilate backed an unconscious step from her. Immanuel’s words made him feel as though scales – not felt or seen before – were falling from his eyes. The heat boiled off her and Pilate retreated from her power. She made him sore afraid.
“You remember naught,” she continued, taking a tentative step toward the retreating vampire, “only disorganized memories you feel so intensely, but serve no meaning; a road with no signs.”
Pilate had his back to the house. He felt dizzy and wanted to run away, but could not.
“It’s time,” she told him, advancing. Her tiny hand caressed his cold cheek. “It’s time to know the truth, Pilate,” her stare captured him, “until you know all.”
Pilate closed his eyes. He still felt her touch. It was warm, a thing he’d never known. He couldn’t stop her. Immanuel’s touch bore a hole through the very center of his being. She could’ve done anything to him. He wouldn’t have been able to defend himself against whichever attack she chose to mount. He’s the helpless child, on a flimsy boat, awed by the power and greatness of the ocean. The waves broke over the sides, slopping cold and wet. He didn’t know how to swim, was going to drown, and all she did was touch him.
Pilate felt her life force swirling around them. He slid down the wall. Immanuel grabbed him up by his filthy shirtfront, stood him straight again. She held him there and gave a command, one word.
“Remember,” she said. Then she let him fall.
Pilate slid down the wall and kept on falling. Through the timeless void, until he began to truly see. Eventually, Pilate would know everything. And it shall make him weep.
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