21. Nineteen #2
At this point, my heart is pounding painfully in my chest, and no amount of air seems to satisfy the ache in my lungs.
Each word is a bludgeon. What is he suggesting?
Jaws have begun to drop in the room, and most men are up from their chairs.
Two have taken steps toward me for a closer look.
The others are inching closer to the exit. Are they afraid?
Still, Cecil does not look at me.
“You’re not serious.” Curran spits, but the inflection at the end of the sentence makes it sound like a question. Cecil merely grins, and I couldn’t be more horrified.
“I am. I found her this morning, attacking one of our men. As soon as she opened that pretty little mouth, I was unconscious,” he finally spares me a glance. I don’t meet his eyes. I can’t. “By the time I woke, she was gone and he lay in a pool of his own blood. I’d never seen anything like it.”
The fear of what might become of me has me choking back sobs. They know I killed a man. My lips have curled past my teeth. Copper spreads along my tongue.
Lies slipped into his story here and there, but it can’t have been for my benefit. They’re aware of the worst of it, and I can’t fathom a way out of this. Maybe he only lied to save his own skin.
The betrayal turns me inside out.
Curran is busy warring with himself. The slack of his jaw gives him away.
“And what? You not only expect me to believe that you found the first Reaper in decades,” Curran spits, the skin of his neck growing red splotches. “But you also want to keep her alive? You’ve got a sick sense of humor, Bastien.”
Cecil’s jaw ticks slightly, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets before beginning to speak again.
“Think of the power, Reverend. If we were to train her—”
“Oh! Now she’s trainable?” Curran barks out a laugh.
“If I train her successfully,” Cecil amends, speaking through clenched teeth. “She could bring down targets without ever touching them. Not to mention, she looks completely harmless. No one would suspect her.”
Everyone is silent, deeply contemplating the possibilities.
This whole time, I’ve been deciding whether Cecil is friend or foe. Now I have my answer.
The calculating gaze of the reverend shifts onto me, his stare so penetrating that I’d think he’s attempting to see through me. His eyes lower to my chest, and heat rises on my cheeks all over again. I wish I could disappear entirely.
Finally, Curran sniffs, breaking the tense silence.
“Alright then, prove it.”
At first, I think he’s telling me, but then he inclines his head towards Cecil. Marching to the first row of pews, he seats himself and exhales loudly.
There’s a flicker in Cecil’s eye, a quiver of his brow.
He wasn’t prepared for that response. My panic sets in even further.
Every time I think I know who has the upper hand in this situation, it shifts again.
At the very least, I know that I’m at the mercy of every man in this room.
And I’m not sure which “mercy” I would prefer.
“Of course, sir. How would you have me do that?” Cecil finally asks, his tone uncharacteristically submissive.
Curran crosses his arms across his chest, lounging back. With a cock of his head, he studies me, a smile tugging at his mouth. My eyes must be as big as saucers, my lips bloody. Something tells me he enjoys my fear.
“Well she’s the harbinger of death, is she not? Let’s put that to the test,” he responds, flicking his fingers at the man that sliced my shirt open. “Go fetch a guest.”
Cecil hastily takes a step forward, one of his hands shooting out in front of him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir. Her power could easily kill anyone in this room.”
Curran tsks, rolling his eyes.
“If she’s to be your pet, shouldn’t you be able to control her? Surely you’re able to silence a little thing like that.” There’s an undertone of mocking. He doesn’t believe that I’m capable of what Cecil says.
No other words are spoken, and we wait.
Two figures step in much too soon. One is the man from before, Percy, and he is tugging along a boy no older than fourteen.
The boy stumbles over his own feet, attempting to stay upright.
His eyes are huge and brown, but completely unseeing.
They fidget over and over, like they’re attached to a metronome in his mind.
What could they possibly want with him?
After a struggle, the boy is standing a few feet to my right on the podium. From this distance, I hear his sharp inhales and hurried mumbles. The words are too hushed to make out, but the repetition reminds me of prayer.
Rising to his feet, Curran takes a moment to stretch and pop the knuckles on his hand. Many of the remaining men leave the room.
“Emory Flynn,” Curran calls out, the empty room amplifying the volume of his words.
The young boy gasps, his head whipping back and forth as he tries to decipher which direction the voice is coming from.
My eyes seek out Cecil, and I find him slowly making his way to my left.
His jaw is set, his stare utterly blank. Impossibly, my heart rate increases.
“Your soul has been Damned. It is our honor to release you from the reigns of Darkness and give you the gift of mercy. Do you wish to speak?”
The words travel through my ears and down into my lungs, stealing every bit of oxygen. I begin pulling at my restraints without abandon.
Not this. Not again.
Please, please, please.
A hand grips my shoulder, but I hardly feel it as I thrash and kick. The warmth of breath hits my ear as Cecil leans in, his voice hardly audible over the chaos in my mind.
“Do not watch.”
The boy is wailing now, but he tries to speak in between sobs.
“I am s-sorry for what I a-am. I don’t want to d-die, please. I am s-so sorry.”
No one responds, and I wish more than anything that I could at least tell the boy that he is not alone.
Turning to Cecil, he stares straight ahead, a furrow between his brow the only hint that he might feel anything other than indifference. I continue to thrash, trying to turn the attention to myself. There has to be another way. If they want to kill someone, it should be me.
I can’t bear it. I can’t.
We must have mercy on the damned, Eden.
“At 3:47 p.m. on March 25th, Emory Flynn was delivered from evil.” Curran proclaims, causing the boy's cries to grow even more desperate.
A dip of Curran’s chin is Percy’s cue. In my peripheral vision, he grabs the young boy's head from behind.
As quickly as I can, I bury my face against Cecil’s shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut.
A dull snap and thud sound from beside me, and then…
A chasm in my mind opens. More despair than any one person could ever bear pours out of me, wreaking havoc on my body and mind. All the air is pushed from my lungs in an animalistic shriek. An infinite supply of agony consumes me.
All my senses have gone. I have no concept of time nor space.
At some point, everything goes black, and I welcome the nothingness.