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mood |
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 lethargic |
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music |
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Incubus - Stellar |
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I felt like writing, so I decided to try out the Instant Muse Story Starter. Here was mine:
"My main character/protagonist is a male. My main character is a priest/priestess. An archetype present in my story is Hangman/Executioner. A key object or symbol in my story is a sequined dress. My story will be set in the distant future. My story is about evolution."
I tried really hard to make it fit, but it kind of doesn't. n_x; So, here it is:
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Her hair fell in matted strings to the wood beneath her, skin sliding and grating against the grunge she kneeled on. The platform screamed murder as a lone figure climbed their steps, its boots thick with dirt and weight. It stood tall over her, between the glare of the sun and her down turned face, a dark, genderless being of impartial and unbiased justice, robe billowing and mask expressionless. It stopped inches from where the young girl curled, bound at her back with ragged rope; her skin was raw and passing sanguine where it had touched down.
All the while, Father Behrent watched, stiffly, to the side, gripping his Bible in his moist palms. His breath was slow, and broken; his throat parched; his eyes were glossy and out of focus. From beside the girl, the robed one turned to those that stood before the makeshift stage, staring up with their curious, lustful eyes; they came for one reason only, to satiate the urge for vengeance, for justification. And the masked figure before them fed them this, as its deep, sonorous voice bellowed the various sins of the child, the heathen, the daughter of the devil.
Behrent couldn't make out the words. Not that he need to, since they were the same, day after day. The condemnation dulled to a low bass thrum, and his eyes rolled over the scene, as detached and apathetic as God himself. The muddy faces of the peasants melted into one pulsating mob of savagery and dirt, with the executioner, raising its arms to the heavens as it spoke, their dominant one, their tribal monarch, working them into a throbbing frenzy of bloodlust, excitement. Then there was movement from behind the speaker-- the damned girl was glancing up, shifting her legs.
He caught her eyes for a moment as she peered over at him, and held them there. Even as she trembled physically, her eyes spoke volumes of another person. Her eyes said, Live; her eyes said, Pray; her eyes said, Love. Beneath the foul, torn clothing she wore, and the unkempt, greasy hair that rolled out over her arched back, was a different person altogether. A person to who death was inevitable, a person to whom dignity was infallible. The very spirit of her people, her gods and goddesses and ethics, was buried within that frail case, that lay beaten, violated, emotionally raped.
The leader had stopped speaking, and now turned dramatically, as the masses thronged and cheered. A powerful, gloved arm shot out from the folds of its gown, and grasped the child by her hair, pulling her sharply upwards, so that her shins barely graced the floor, her back curved, and her pale neck was bared to the pack. Now Behrent saw the nervousness of the girl's mortal body in vivid detail. Her strained neck constantly rolled with gulps and sobs, as a sequined dress of sweat, salt, and blood glinted sharply in the dying sun. The thunderous screams of the mob grew as she hung there, the bottom of her hair stained pink at its roots, and the executioner shouted something intelligible and meaningless to them, which they replied to with more shouts, more jeers.
Now was Behrents time. He moved slowly, languidly towards the girl, standing between her and the crowd. His right hand moved in a mechanical sign of the cross over the chest of the silently writhing girl, and he murmured a prayer, any prayer. She was a heathen after all, and probably cared less than he. Behind him, the onlookers grew eerily silent, watching like scavengers awaiting the death of a wounded animal.
"You are a heretic, a heathen, a blasphemer," Behrent spoke, just barely loud enough to be heard. "The Church of Our Lord condemns you to death for your sinful past, your sinful present, and your sinful existence. How do you plead, in the eyes of our Lord, the one, true, God?"
The girl's dry mouth flapped open, her dull eyes locking onto his jaw, as if tired of staring above it. A strangled noise, natural for a person such held, rasped for a moment, before she swallowed thrice, and spoke, her jagged voice cutting through the anticipation strung in the air.
"How can you watch me die and still live yourself?"
Now she met his eyes again, the flicker that he had seen in them before having already died, leaving nothing more than colored emptiness. He prayed softly over her once more, and stepped back from her.
"I have watched you die a thousand times before, but I will never let myself watch again."
He made a waving gesture at the executioner, and at once the crowd roared fiercely; there was to be a death today! The girl was crying now; he heard her cries as he turned away, and lethargically climbed down the stairs, slipping and shoving his way through the crowds. Even though he could hear each sound from the rise, the reaction of the crowd told him all he needed to know about what happened in his wake. The executioner had drawn its dagger to the girl's pulsing throat, pressing it gently, as always, to the bluish stain of her vein. And, like the last hundred, thousand, ten thousand times, it allowed her to scream and beg for forgiveness, all of her strength and attitude sucked out of her the minute she could feel the cold of steel on her skin. It was always the same.
But Behrent never stayed. He simply tucked his Bible beneath his arm, and walked out from the town square, his boots clicking solemnly on the stone streets.
He had watched her die a thousand times before, and, as he heard the cheers rising above the rooftops, her watched her die a thousand more.
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