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Softly, the autumn winds whistled through the house, bringing with it the scents of damp and dirt. The melancholic smells settled into the corners of the wood, rooming with mildew and cobwebs, providing a chorus of creaking walls and dribbles of rainwater. The scarlet and persimmon skies had already been flooded with the dark ink of promised nights, ushering everything in slumber. The steep mountains watched over the town as songbirds and rabbits burrowed away to their nests while the ewes and their lambs gathered under the stars to rest. But the house was still awake. The priest was still awake.
Alone, a candle flickering softly nearby illuminated the priest’s silhouette, plastering his dread onto the wall in the form of a shadow. The walls seemed to groan with each sigh he let out, and the wind howled in kin to a coyote every time fear struck his stomach. The priest turned to the window, letting his eyes train on a pair of raindrops racing down the glass pane.
As he recalls, his father taught him the path of God, the road to salvation and the duty to guide those around him. Through time and weather the priest gained his own feet, he filled in the shoes of his father, bringing hope and redemption wherever he walked. The priest was decorated in experience and devotion.
With his hard to come by status the priest established his role quickly in his town, he was well respected within his community, so the announcement of his son's arrival was warmly welcomed by the townsfolk with showers and gifts.
Unfortunately, the new wife and mother did not make it through childbirth. There had been warnings and precautions given the history of childbirth in the woman’s family, but it felt like too much of a blessing to shy away from. The tragedy of her death forced the priest to navigate raising his son alone. Thankfully, despite the lack of a mother figure in the boy's life, he flourished and grew into a wonderful child, always following his father to baptisms, weddings and visits to the ill and weary, vowing from a very early age to be just like him, completely fascinated by his father’s practices.
But recently, something had changed.
The boy had grown quieter, withdrawn, and just plain odd. He stopped accompanying his father in his daily chores and worship, showed little interest in eating, and he would be found wandering lesser populated areas of town. The child’s appearance even seemed to degrade despite his fathers efforts to enforce good hygiene habits. It felt so sudden, at first it seemed to just be a stubborn streak, however his manners and appearance melted into deeper problems.
Early in the mornings the town herders would awake to the grisly sight of their prized lambs slaughtered, the farmers' crops had been upturned by the roots, and on one occasion a fire had been struck near the church. All while these strange occurrences happened, the child would come home tracking mud through the house with dirt caked under his nails. The priest knew he had no true, solid evidence these events were connected, but something inside of him knew. He just didn’t want to accept it.
The priest swept his eyes away from the window, sucking in a breath as he brought a hand to his face, pushing his index and thumb into the corners of his eyes. The pressure behind his eyes felt reassuring but only for a moment before returning him back to the dilemma at hand.
A white flash overcame the room for a moment, almost snuffing out the candles' soft, yellow glow. The mocking bellow of thunder rolled into the priest’s room shortly after the lighting announced the storm's presence.
The priest took his hand away from his eyes as he felt the crashing sound of thunder in his chest fade, it must be late by now. The smell of wax and candle wick smoke urged him forward, he figured he might as well take a walk around the house to check for any leaks before turning in for the night. With a grunt the priest pulled himself to the edge of his rickety bed, every movement he made ruffled the straw and feather beneath the cloth covering, releasing sweet, warm scents of prairie fields.
As the priest rose to his feet the floor creaked ever so slightly, as if sighing from the weight of him walking across its swirled and stained wooden boards. Swiftly he grabbed the chamber stick, cautious not to let the hot wax drip onto his hand while he creaked opened his door and stepped into the hallway. Around him he could hear the storm outside whistling through the trees, threatening to take a branch with its rage, all he could do was hope there weren’t too many downed trees and fences.
The walls around him sang softly with age, they breathed with the priest as the candle illuminated his way through the house in search of any drips in the ceiling. It wasn’t long before he reached the other end of the short hallway where his son’s door sat. The priest halted as he stood before the door, he didn’t know why he stopped, he felt a little foolish. What was he worried for? Why should he pay the warning signs any mind? The priest’s brow furrowed with another sigh, his hand met the doorknob, it felt cool against his warm skin as he gently turned it.
All was quiet in the young boy’s room. The room was littered with books and wooden figurines of army men and rabbits, common playthings for the child. But as the priest entered, the room lacked its usual childlike warmth. Shadows bounced around the room as the priest shuffled through, the candle's flame brought the rabbits to life as they jumped from corner to corner, however, there was one shadow that brought unease to his stomach. The child laid peacefully in his bed, swaddled in blankets, but something about his frame and misformed shadow that just..didn’t feel quite right, even now after the priest stood at his bedside he couldn’t place it.
The silence in the child’s room felt heavy, heavy enough the priest felt it on his shoulders, on his chest, his eyes bore heavy upon the child as if waiting for something to happen. Wrinkles etched their way onto the priest’s face with worry as he stood as still as a statue at the child’s bedside, studying his every feature. Perhaps it was the dim candlelight that made the child’s cheeks appear sharper, and his eyes sunken in, or his hair ever so slightly longer and rougher?
The walls closed in on the priest at a steady pace, slow at first but once close enough it was undeniably hard to breathe.
This couldn’t be his son.
The feeling of realization and blood freezing in his veins brought a certain horror and nausea to the priest, it settled in the pit of his stomach and the back of his throat. Carefully everything started to piece itself together in his brain, recounting past and present memories that slowly morphed into recognition.
He couldn’t tell if he was choking on his own tongue or the fear that crawled up his spine. The priest’s feet were planted solid on the floor, waves of emotion slowly cascading down his shoulders kept him fixated on the sleeping child. In those short minutes as the candle slowly dripped onto the priest’s hand, he felt as though he was experiencing the stages of grief all over again, all at once.
The priest knew the signs of possession. He had seen it in young virgin women and old country men, all gone awry and husks of themselves, vessels of sinister evil. The first signs of possession are withdrawn attitudes, the victim lashing out, exhibiting signs of bodily malnourishment of some kind or another, and most often the demon that took ahold of its poor victim would always have a goal; to bring upon as much pain and suffering to anyone and everything around it.
The priest’s face contorted into almost a grimace, his cheeks sharpened and wrinkled his eyes, emotion strewn across his face. With a shaking hand the priest gingerly reached out for the boy, resting it on his cheek warmly. The child breathed softly, he slept peacefully in a nest of blankets looking as sweet as can be. He looked like a dream, but it wasn’t the priest’s son. The priest let his eyes bore into the child for another short moment before brushing back the child’s dark hair as he leaned down to kiss his forehead. His skin felt chilled on the priest’s lips, as if he’d just been outside, and his hair smelled faintly of sulfur.
The priest pulled back slowly but the smell of it made his nose wrinkle, the stench of rotting eggs and burnt matches coated the back of his throat, causing a distant stinging sensation.
It all felt clear to him now, the weekly occurrences of slaughtered sheep and mysterious sightings amongst the townsfolk all had to add up to this. On the same moon these events started to present themselves, the child fell with symptoms of his affliction. The priest’s judgment and connection between the two felt so muddled due to his bias and blood regarding his son, he felt forced to accept his son’s affliction now. He didn’t want to accept that his son had fallen victim to such despicable evil. Guilt chased the desperation and denial out of him, leaving way for anger and urgency to take hold of the priest.
Understanding pushed the priest forward, breaking his feet away from where he stood, he silently walked away from the child’s beside, only letting himself look at his son once he reached the open door. After letting his eyes linger on the boy for a moment longer he turned away, closing the door behind him. As the priest shuffled back to his own room he glanced down at the candle, surprise flickered in him. The candle had hardly melted at all, It felt as though at least thirty minutes should have passed by now.
The shadows in the hallway hugged the priest a little quieter now, although it wasn’t a comforting silence. Closing the door behind him, the priest set the chamber stick down on his bedside table gently before making his way to a small closet tucked away in the back wall of the small room. In it lay a few notable items, holy water, a king james holy bible, rope, and a branding rod with a cross at its end.
The priest knew what his next course of action had to be in order to prevent any further damage to his poor son and town, his years of experience and his fathers teachings resurfaced. Anger and disgust bubbled in his throat, he would fix this, he wouldn’t allow this demon to inhabit his child in order to execute its sinister ways.
The priest gathered the items from the dusty corners of the closet, taking inventory of his task at hand. By morning this will have been dealt with and put to bed.
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The morning sun kissed the priest’s cheek, although its comfort was lost on the troubled man's heart. Swiftly, he marched through the melancholic town, wet gravel crunched beneath his dark leather boots, his stiff step echoed in his lungs as the wind rustled behind him, ushering him forward.
Almost everything had been gathered and prepared at the far end of town just at the mountain’s ravine. The omnipresent fire smoke flirted with tension and apprehension in the air and townsfolk, all had gathered to watch, for they knew what sort of curiosities they were to witness once the priest returned with the final item needed to begin the ritual.
The priest could feel his pulse in his throat, it pushed against the back of his tongue bringing with it a terrible pit in his gut. The faint sound of small feet hitting ground taunted the priest, beckoning him forward to its sinister source. He slowed his pace, bringing himself to a halt at the sight of the child. In front of him the child skipped rope, seemingly unbothered and engulfed in his play.
The priest’s brow furrowed as he studied the child, his actions felt too performative, too practiced. He went to open his mouth, to call out his name and beckon him over. But the child's name felt lost on his tongue, for he knew it was not his son.
“Son,” It wasn’t until the priest spoke did the child pause to acknowledge his presence. Silence seemed to stretch longer than invited as the two stared at one another.
The priest extended a hand. “come along with me.”
Hesitance flashed in the boy's lightless eyes but he complied, taking the priest's hand without a word. Just like the night before the child's skin felt chilled and clammy, as if he was a living cadaver, the sensation of it brought a chill along the priest's spine. The priest allowed for a moment of silence, letting the two walk towards the other side of town. Their walk was a cheap mirror to their typical strolls through town, shrouded in false bonding and trust. It felt wrong to perform this short display knowing what he was soon to do.
Tunnel vision crept in along the priest’s peripheral; his grip suddenly strengthened around the boy's small hand leaving no chance for escape.
Adrenaline spiked in his chest, swiftly he pulled the child closer as he reached behind his back for the rope he had hidden under his shirt flap. His sudden and harsh movements frightened the child, influencing him to scream and kick like a mad buck tangled in fence wire, the child’s cries and protests fell on deaf ears. Urgency overtook the priest, he bound the child's arms tightly as his hands fumbled over the knots several times, thoroughly ensuring his capture.
The child writhed in the rope, snarling like a feral animal who had been trapped and trophied for sport. Disgust lined the priest’s wrinkles, this was not the boy he knew. When he glared at the thing before him, only hatred bloomed, he could only see a devilish creature threatening to taint the land it crept upon.
The child’s shrill protests echoed throughout the valley, bouncing between the townsfolk who gathered before the priest. The beastly sight aroused further fear and curiosity amongst the growing crowd. Smoke and the smell of acrid metal burning added to the atmosphere, resting heavy on the priest’s shoulders.
The priest’s hands began to ache against the boy’s struggle, rope burned through his calloused hands. The priest felt the eyes of the townsfolk sear into his exposed situation, shame and internalized anger prickled beneath his skin.
A flood of emotion poured from the priest, shouting out he addressed the crowd.
“We are assembled here this morn to rid us of a malady that hath tainted our realm!”
The priest shook the child violently, silently demanding its silence.
“It did creep in during the night and did take hold of this poor soul,” The priest spat mercilessly before shoving the boy into the mud, completely disregarding that it was still his son’s body.
The thump of the child signaled the start of the ritual; there was no stopping the domino chain from crashing down now.
Wildly, the priest turned and stood before the fire, its bright embers seemed to mirror the man's anger, engulfing everything it could lick up. He would dispel this evil, this wretched evil that took advantage of his son. Behind him the child squirmed in the mud, attempting to free himself from the blessed ropes that captivated him. The priest paid the child no mind as he reached for the rod that rested in the fire's warm blanket of smoke and ash, anticipation and adrenaline shot through his fingertips, his heartbeat raced as fast as a horse’s hooves.
“a vile daemon such as that shall be dealt with as it deserve, and with haste.”
With a firm grasp the priest brought up the iron rod by its end, revealing a red-hot cross at its head. The iron cross glowed with orange salvation, its gleam offered heaven in its burning light.
It would bind the demon to the child's body, rendering it weak compared to its free form, allowing the priest to then perform a spell to destroy its essence from the child's body. The priest swiveled on his feet, his festering fury acted as his catalyst now as it reared its ugly head, he faced the kneeling child, wild painted the whites of the man’s eyes.
“I bind thee in the Name of Jesus, by the power of the most Precious Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” A prayer began spilling from the priest’s mouth as he lunged forward, thrusting the sizzling cross onto the child's chest, sending the first vital part of the ritual into action.
A shriek of genuine agony erupted from the child as fire and scorching metal ripped through his soft flesh, plumes of a putrid, musky, sweet scent fumed from the child’s mangled muscle. The screeches tore through the ears and hearts of all who watched. The boy thrashed like a suffocating fish out of water, suffering fell from the child's face in the form of tears and snot. The shrill sound of the child’s anguish sent the priest stumbling backwards, rod still in hand. It was such a backlash of raw emotion even he was shaken from his righteous rage.
The whiplash of it all rammed into his head, sending all of his previous blind rage running. The priest felt his shoulders fall, the iron rod suddenly feeling heavy in his grasp, his chest welled up with sickening guilt, it crawled its way up his throat and onto the back of his tongue, it coated his spit until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Waves of confliction rammed into the priest, churning everything up as he keeled over to vomit. Bile burned his nostrils while the stench of burning flesh and metal danced in his gaping mouth, gags shook his ribs as his knees struggled to support the weight of his hunched over body. What had he done? What had he done to his boy? The child’s cries sounded all too real, had he really made such a grave mistake?
The priest shakily rose, back turned to the child. Mournful sobs and blubbering floated in the air behind him, the child was unintelligible and inconsolable, it was as if this were his first time being hurt in his young life. He hurt his boy, he vowed from the child’s first breath to never bring harm to him and to always protect him. Regret bore its way into the priest’s spine, it shook his words and shrunk the tall man's physique.
"My dearest child, I beseech thee, forgive me.” His outreach manifested into barely even a whisper.
A sudden and dry silence rattled the priest again, for a moment his back remained towards the child, until the sound of laughter struck him. It started quietly, small and childlike, but soon it grew louder and unmistakable like a swarm of locusts. The heartless laughs crept down the priest’s neck, raising hair and goosebumps with every pause for inhale the child took. Bewilderment moved faster than the priest’s feet as he swiveled to face the child.
Before him the child cackled like a crow, the priest had been fooled. The child’s face contorted into an emotion beyond what a young boy should be able to display, his eyes blazed a hellish red, his devilish smile stretched far too wide to reveal gummy canines and molars, everything about the child's appearance was wrong and distorted. The child was gone. His son was gone.
“Ye feeble mortals, I am Abbadon, high prince of the Black Realm,” The child spat. This was the first time the boy had spoken for the past sunrises, however his voice came out in a guttural cry of disdain and complete lack of child innocence.
“I will cleave thee open, devour thy visions, and reveal unto thee the dread that dwelleth beyond thy narrow wits. I was there when thy star did take its first breath.”
Horror trickled down the priest’s temple and brow, his legs felt seasick and threatened to follow his stomach. Cold fear still burned the priest’s nerves as he blubbered out. “No, I forbiddeth thy heinous deeds and pursuit of evil,”
Vulnerability stripped the priest in the dark eyes of the demon, he must redeem his skills, he must destroy this sin, he must avenge his son. "I will bring thy ruin and send thee back to the abysses from whence thou didst emerge!"
“Thou art a verdant fool! Understandest thou not that I shall paint thy doom?" The demon hissed, crumpling in on himself, pain seethed from the small child's body.
Throwing the iron rod aside the priest searched for his savior in the ash beside the fire, an ember of hope flickered beneath the stones as he fumbled for his bible. Hastily he snagged it, flicking through pages before landing on a faded slip of paper that rested on Psalms 140:11. Carefully he took the bible, placing a thumb over the paper in an act of silent prayer.
The priest’s eyes fluttered over the words over and over, as if in an act of reassuring himself. Taking a moment he scraped up every ounce of confidence and faith he could find in his soul, the priest spoke again as he recited the spell, unsurety dripped in his voice. “O celestial Father, I invoke thee and thy strength to rescue and to cast away,”
Desperation lingered in his shaky hands, but he persisted, outreaching a palm towards the demon he raised his voice, as if drawing up all of the energy left in his emotionally spent body. The priest’s words spread through the crowd, rising above the smoke of the crackling fire his words invoked the demon, resparking the scarlet glint in his beady eyes.
“Mary, Mothe of God, of holy Michael the Archangel, of the blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints, and mightie in,"
Like a marionette threaded with string the child rose, an abrupt change of display occurred in the child's face and body language with the flip of a switch. The child's face cringed, his eyebrows scrunched upwards and his chin quivered, it melted quickly into tears and helplessness, weeping in such a dreadful voice.
“Papa, I entreat thee.”
The child’s seemingly empty plea quivered out in a pathetic voice, it stripped away the harsh crows feet and sharp corners from his face previously burned into his appearance and replaced them with rosy cheeks and wispy eye lashes. The plea embodied waves of despondency and naivety flooding from the child.
“Papa, I beseech thee, tis I.”
The child gazed up at the priest, his eyes were pools of grief.
Vomit and clean, pure terror hung from the priest’s ribcage, swinging from his spine and mixing with the longing that resided in his heart. The thing before him looked just like his boy. Blood and innocence seemed to return to the boy's face, his hair curled around his face to perfectly frame his glistening eyes, and his voice was true to his body this time. He sounded just like his boy.
Was it true this time? Were the tears and pleas true?
The priest listened to the sweet whispers of “what if?”, he let himself indulge in them. Because what if? What if he dropped everything and ran to the child, and scooped him up to squeeze him with all the love he could muster. What if he let himself see the son he had missed, the son who always wanted to know the why, the son whose favorite color was blue, the son whose smile could rival the sun because it was so bright, the son he hadn’t seen in god knows how long. He felt like he would give anything to see that boy again.
The child’s display of wretched emotions plucked at the priest’s heartstrings, burrowing into the deepest and most vulnerable parts of his soul. But horribly, he knew he must carry out the spell because, what if?
“I assuredly undertake to resist the onslaughts and deceits of the devil. God doth arise;"
The priest pushed forth faithfully, silently praying for the hope of success.
The child stared at the priest, his glossy eyes bore into him like the fires below. How could the priest pay no word to the child, the child that wept and begged to see him as his son?
“Father, it is! I, thine own son! I entreat thee to halt!” Spit dribbled down the child’s chin as he threw himself into the cinematics of his wailing and begging. The child stumbled forward, his shoulders shook in a way that suggested he would extend his arms if he could.
The priest inwardly took a step back, now catching sight of the child’s shadow that lingered and jumped behind him. It burned into the mud a horrid and disfigured configuration of darkness, unveiling the demon's slick ruse for he could not hide his true nature completely like a wolf in lamb's clothing.
“His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is driven away, so are they driven;” The priest’s steady and sure voice told the demon he refused to give in to his charades.
Fury rolled off of the demon in a thick fog, the realization that the priest saw through him burned away any attempt to conform to the childish facade. The priest watched as the demon's expression twisted with disdain, he could see the gears turning in the demon’s head, scrambling to find another way to manipulate the situation to his advantage.
“Thou art a witless mortal, and dost not grasp what I can achieve; I, Abaddon, will bring about thy ruin!” Now the demon seemed to be throwing whatever closest and easiest thing he could find at the priest, empty threats alone weren’t enough to repel the priest.
The priest took in a quick breath, preparing to deliver the next line when he felt a breeze. The breeze wound itself up into a gust, billowing past the two. The wind brought with it scents of damp and Eastern pine, it was a wonder how such a simple thing could deliver such information.
That's when the priest recollected himself to meet eyes with the demon again after the short, stifling calm moment.
Something gleamed in the demon’s red, shallow eyes.
Confusion sprouted from the priest, for the gleam didn’t have that same glimmer the demon nurtured before, it almost seemed like he had seen something.
The priest paused, letting the gust tickle the back of his neck before it stirred in his feet and hands, unease swirling with the wind.
The demon was as still as stone, but his shoulders led with intention, an animalistic glint burned in his eyes. He looked further behind the priest; his unwavering stare forced a halt in the both of them.
The priest stammered, as if he were about to question the demon or attempt to continue with the prayer, but his eyes only flickered across the demon’s face, searching for a clue. Finally, he followed the demon’s gaze, tracing it from the smoldering fire, past the black gum trees and across the last houses that scattered the town's territory. The wind whispered to the priest again, beckoning his attention, a foreboding weight squeezed the breath from his lungs.
The cliff.
Quick as a whip the priest understood, but by the time he staggered on his feet to turn around to prepare a defense the demon had already made contact, pushing his bony shoulders vehemently into the priest’s stomach. Panic spiked with the pain that stabbed his guts, everything previously in his head now gone, completely flown out the window. It all boiled down to instinct now, and he was failing horrifically.
The priest struck out, shoving the demon from his stumbling body but the demon persisted. Despite the demon inhabiting the young child’s body and harboring a festering burn while still bound he displayed unnatural strength and gumption, repeatedly ramming his small body into the priest.
Townspeople rushed from their frozen states, cries echoed from the valley and taunted the priest, announcing his fast-approaching fate. Adrenaline pumped through his neck and choked out his breath, quickly turning his legs to jelly from its severity. Dirt skidded underneath both of their feet as the priest pressed and buckled at the knees in attempts to halt the freight train that propelled them to their doom, spit flashed from the demon's face as he bared ferocious teeth in effort, determination creased into his wrinkled brow.
The slip of transition from dirt to nothing caused the priest’s stomach to plummet before the rest of him, his spine seemed interested in following. The demon with blazing eyes let out what could only be described as a mixture between a growl and shout threw himself on to the priest again, crashing his knee into the priest’s ribcage.
“Wait!” His final cry shrieked out as he clawed out into the air, frantically trying to grasp anything to hold on to.
Plunged from the cliff the priest couldn’t tell if his face and bones were cold from his heart halting its blood production or if it was the whistling winds that howled past his ears. Drastic panic clenched his heart and teeth, both paining the priest. Wildly he fumbled, gripping the demon with an unbearable amount of strength, he pulled the demon to his pounding heart, refusing even the idea of letting him go.
Even if his son was gone, even if he would never see his poor again, he had to at least hold him one last time.
By now the priest could gather he had a mere few seconds left, his muscles began to tighten as they prepared for impact, sending screaming alarms to his failing brain. The wind washed over him, stirring everything inside of him up again, not rekindling the fire, but drowning it. The priest drowned in it all, filling up his throat with it, feeling it sting in his chest and letting the heaves of sobs take over his shoulders as they shook.
Flushed in the face the priest let out broken sobs, he clutched the child, burying his face into the small nook of his shoulder and neck. Despite the sulfur that coated his tongue, he could still retrace the boy’s scent beneath the demons' hold on the child’s body.
The priest closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of memories overtake him in their fall. He remembered his wife, he remembered how dearly he loved her, and he remembered how his boy had her eyes. And he remembered his laugh, his liveliness, he remembered his boy.
A soft jingle fell from the priest’s neck as he pulled away to look at the boy. His wet eyes met the child's; his gaze was returned with smoking pools of scorn and wretchedness. Quickly the priest mangled off the rosary that wrapped around his neck, holding the child’s back with an elbow, he fastened it around the small boy's neck, wishing he could’ve given it to him at his wedding instead of now. Now taking both hands, he cupped the child’s face tightly, forcing a harsh, yet soft eye contact.
The priest examined the child’s face, taking in his features before smiling. It was one of those smiles that wasn’t happy. It was the kind of smile that's mournful, it wasthe kind of smile when you know your fate and know there's no changing it now.
It was the kind of smile that wept, “I’m sorry, I love you.”. because words alone could not describe what the priest felt. No words could describe a father's guilt, the weight of knowing he failed his only son. Now, they were both doomed to death of some kind and it was out of his hands.
A deafening crack shattered through the priest’s head; its weight and strength could be replicated when you break apart a pomegranate brutally instead of allowing space for its jewels. A sharp, grueling, and agonizing pain struck the priest’s abdomen next, tearing through skin, stomach lining, and a large intestine.
A scream pooled in the priest’s lungs but the only thing that filled his mouth was the sickening taste of iron. It filled the cracks in his teeth and slithered its way up his nasal passage, smothering his oxygen intake.
The priest felt an indescribable and excruciating pain pool in his back and bloom into his abdomen, accompanied by an insufferable pressure, It spread and grew through his limbs as quickly as the blood that spilled down the spear rock that impaled him.
Whimpers and gurgled wails of suffering bubbled from his mouth, struggling to escape from drowning in sticky blood. By now every pain receptor had been catapulted into overdrive; there wasn’t enough adrenaline to support the priest’s wane in consciousness. Through dancing and looming darkness, the priest hunted the rocks for another figure, desperately searching for a splash of blue against the gray. The priest fought, refusing to give in to the beckoning warmth until he confirmed life.
A tiny shift brought his eyes to a roughed and bloody lump. More blood and panic lodged its way in his throat. The priest held his wheezing breath, watching for the child’s. Intensely he waited, waiting to see the rise and fall of the motionless child’s back.
Several excruciating seconds passed, it felt as though all of his blood had already drained and the vultures finally came for him when a soft cough shook the priest. He was alive.
From the rubble the crumpled body of the child rattled out another wheeze as he dragged himself upwards on two hands.
Relief wouldn’t be the right word to describe what he felt, because it wasn’t as short or sweet as that. The priest felt relief to see his son alive, but worry followed it, never fully allowing relief to have its own moment in the wreckage. For the priest knew it was out of his hands now and he could only pray for whoever came across the demon next.
Warmth and nothingness engulfed the priest, the sensation numbed everything around him, before the priest knew it, he was merely a pair of eyes watching his son rise up. It felt so inviting, so indulgent and comforting but firm and pre-decided. He knew it wouldn’t wait for him, he knew he had no more time.
The last picture that the priest rested his final gaze on before everything faded away was the demon, following his every stumble and backwards glance. As emptiness cradled the priest the only thing he could do was quietly and dreadfully wish to find his boy again on some warm, sunny day.