Sunday, February 1, 2015

calciferous whispers

His body had betrayed him. The preacher kept saying it was his soul, but Daniel knew better, now. His brown hair was slick with sweat and the cleaver shook in his pale, freckled fist. Daniel held himself stiffly between pain and intensity.

It was the story of Job that had brought the boy to this. Well, it had been the breaking point.

Daniel had prayed and read verses and done everything the preacher had told him. Ever since Daniel developed the whispering growth, ever since the old lady in the woods, Daniel soaked up every one of the preacher’s many words.

Then, one day, the preacher compared Daniel to Job. Daniel asked him for the story. The preacher read it to the boy, and gave the wretched lad a sermon besides. Then Daniel knew there was no god, or if there was, then god was a terrible thing.

It isn’t fair! Daniel thought as he stared hard at his purpling left hand and the calciferous growth coming out his palm.

He’d helped the scary old lady to cross the stream, and she still wouldn’t share her too perfect peaches. She had a whole bushel and he only took one. It was a small one too.

Even then, even past the tourniquet, the growth whispered to him. He had had enough.

The clever cut cleanly and buried deep into the wooden block beneath his arm. It all seemed so surreal: the blood slowly oozing from his wrist, the pale orange and sweet smelling juice pouring from his severed hand. He smiled; the sudden silence was so profound.

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