The Wastefulness of Creation
His breathing was heavy as he dropped the transfer shovel next to the naked young man. He knew killing the homosexual was what God would have wanted. There could never be homosexuality in Heaven. The priest believed that and he wanted Hell's door to open. God was a forgiving person, but he could never forgive the biological incorrectness of the sin that men do.
The priest looked down and noticed that the young man had stopped breathing all together. It was God answering his request. He closed his eyes and began a prayer that he knew God would hear. It was the bond he had with the All Mighty. In the silence that followed, the priest simply stood still, allowing the immensity of God's grace and scattered lights from the moon above to dwarf him. Even though he was doing God's work, he knew that the image of The Lord was all around him. He really believed that God loved good, and he brought good right to his door step. The killing of the evil that lead men to the darkness of Hell, was what he believed was God's idea of good.
The priest raised his right hand toward the sky and closed his eyes. “My Father, I am here to remove the stains of evil. Look at the evil that is crumbled before me. I never get tired of looking at it. He is part of the wastefulness of Creation. I kill in your name oh Lord. I kill for you.”
The priest closed his eyes and felt God reaching over and hugging him. He felt the warmth of The Creator sooth his tired body. It was the comfort that gave him the strength to continue God's work. He knew he was the one chosen for this, and he was honored. The embrace was tighter and shaking from his spasms of mirth, the priest felt closer to God.
The young man was naked and the blood pooled just beneath him. The transfer shovel almost split him in two from the backside. It was violence so hideous that even the Devil would have turned away. However, if Jesus could be nailed to the cross in such violence, then the homosexuals could be split in two.
Eventually, the warmth of God subsided, he felt calm and the night's quiet asserted itself. It seemed that even the hustle and bustle of nightlife had ended. It was as if God just calmed the storm so that he could go home and bask in the glory of his good deeds.
“God,” he whispered as his voice choked and cracked. “I just felt a wave of emptiness. Are you trying to tell me something? Am I not making you proud?”
There was no answer.
The priest bowed his head and there he noticed a bible by his feet. He sensed a hand reaching out and it squeezed his, and didn't let go for almost twenty minutes. The priest felt assured now that he was indeed doing God's work.
The man of the cloth bent down to pick up the bible, but it was no longer there. Then a breeze made his skin tingle and the night just got a little darker. He closed his eyes tight and someone kissed him on the cheek.
He felt complete and praised for the killing. He felt the angels above him, applauding and wishing him long life. He heard the devil scowl, almost rant as if he was probably a little envious. He felt someone lifting him off the ground and a cool mist sprayed his face. It wasn't really happening, but it felt real enough that he knew the clouds were coming closer as he flew high into the starlit night. The air cleansed and that feeling of clean was invigorating. He soared above the buildings, the neighborhoods, and the cities as God held him in such good graces he couldn't help but to release the shout of joy.
The young man, dead in the alley with a handful of mosquitoes biting at his cold flesh. Murdered by a man doing God's work. His life taken away from him because of his life choices. It just didn't make sense, but for the priest, it made a great deal of sense.
The Wastefulness of Creation Part Two
- The Wastefulness Of Creation: Part Two
The alley way had no windows, just worn brick and cinder-block patches where windows had once been and most of them were stained with urine and grime. The entrance to the alley way was thin and lined with trash cans and dirty recycle bins that were n
© 2018 Frank Atanacio