Work Text:
I write this to you now from my bedroom, for it is the most unassailable accommodation in which I can conceptualize myself creating such scripture. I shall sleep with this leather-bound book snug tight into my bosom to protect it from prying eyes, knowing now that these annals have attracted them like fruit flies to red wine.
Speaking of which, by my side sits an empty bottle. My glass is half empty— I anticipate it will be drained by the time I have finished. I had uncorked the gift from a member of flock this evening— his immature intentions surely pure and mine equally so as I accepted his offering— aspiring to savour its rich flavour as I emptied my mind, but I had reached the final drops of the bottle long before I had mustered the courage to retrieve my pen from its pot of ink.
I write to you now with His blood as my witness.
Ever since that night, however many nights it lasted, I have been plagued with visions and phantom sensations of him. He lingers in the walls of my church, just as I’d anticipated, but no matter how long I search for him, never do I lay my eyes upon him. It’s as if his form is beyond that of what my mortal mind can comprehend, keeping him cloaked in shadow— invisible to my viewpoint.
My wrists ache as I write this to you, but they pale in comparison to the pain in my soul. A pain that Good Stab has planted. One that I must confess to get rid of. A heavy soul cannot succeed in its climb to heaven.
There are images trapped in my head. They depict that night— or however many nights it was— though the itinerary of events is misconstrued. Wrong.
I picture the moment we had shared by the fire. Beneath the stars as His body burned in front of me. Oh, the terror I felt. Even now, there is a sinking feeling in my stomach. My heart races at the sight of him through my mind’s eye. Our gazes had only met briefly, his hidden behind those tinted spectacles, but I could see through them clear as day. I could see the fire in his eyes. I could feel their heat.
Moments later— and I feel feverish as I bring this memory of abhorrence back to the forefront of my mind— he had lunged at me, but not with the same swiftness he held in reality. No, in this fever dream I have been dominated by, Good Stab had merely crept towards me. His pace was slow, like a wolf hunting down the unsuspecting lamb, tracing its movement until— at last— it struck.
It is rather difficult to imagine the sensation of an instance one has not yet felt. I am led to believe that these visions are merely a part of his pagan witchcraft because of this. For the sensations I am bewitched by are not that of reality— not with his flat teeth pressing against my skin— rather the sharpened ones— the ones that only exist in fantasy and imagination— those had been the ones that had scraped against my flesh, then.
My throat ties itself into a knot now, as it does in my dream. My hands tremble as I expel this secret. This confession is not one that any faithful pastor should be making. A pastor, such as myself, should turn to Jesus in pursuit of forgiveness. Confession should never be transposed into scripture such as this.
But, even to Jesus, I cannot, in good faith, confess this sin.
Those sharpened teeth… I do not yearn to feel them. My stomach twists at the thought. Yet I cannot stop my mind from bringing these hallucinations to me. My skin tingles where his ghost had caressed me. The side of my neck aches— although ache hardly feels like an accurate descriptor— where his teeth had been, although the bruises he had left are now long gone.
I do not yearn for them to return. This, I can confess wholeheartedly.
I would much prefer his teeth sharp, for his jaw to tighten around my throat, first restricting my intake of air before spilling my blood. Perhaps that is the source of my illness.
Within the confines of my soul, I can feel his sharp teeth pricking my skin, gently at first, almost as if a beast like him has the capacity to hesitate. In an attempt to free myself— I say this is— my hands land upon his shoulders. Although, I discover they have no intention to apply force. Perhaps that is a figment of my reality slipping into my nightmare— my hands tingle as I write this to you now; His blood courses through my veins. This is the closest to him I have ever felt, after all.
Slowly, his sharpened teeth enter my body. They tear through flesh and muscle as simply as my own would consume chocolate pudding— as if I were made of nothing at all. As if God did not intervene to protect my body by some miracle.
In my final moments of my fantasy, my eyes meet with the Son of God. His eyes are filled with flame, just as Good Stab’s had been before he made his approach.
Jesus watches as he undoes me, draining me slowly of all the holy blood I have to offer. My lips curve around desperate prayer, spitting up into the night as I choke on my own blood. The pain is exuberant, coming to me in waves that lap at my very soul, eroding it bit by bit. Even now, I feel it coursing through my body, every frail muscle beneath my papery skin drawn tight— tensing, then relaxing in waves.
I inhale deeply— now, as I do in my imagination— although I shudder around the rush of oxygen; the heightening of sensation nearly consumes me.
There comes a point where this pain— fruitful by nature— twists slowly into pleasure. It becomes too great for my frail body to wield, so much so that I am blinded into perceiving it as bliss. A pagan joie de vivre, perchance.
As I feel— contained solely within my mind, and not my soul, of course— the last of my life drain into Good Stab’s body, my grasp on this mortal coil fades, and I am thrown carelessly into the abyss.
I ponder, now— to you, my scripture— why I envision my soul descending. No, merely floating in stasis. It does not rise. It does not fall. It is chained, simply, just beyond the reach of reality. I have been faithful in all that I do. I do not engage with sin. I accept confession with a good heart. I have been nothing but honest with you. With God.
Jesus, I pray, bear no witness to my final confession. It is written with trembling hands and a feverish body. My breath comes with great labour, out of fear or ecstasy, I know not.
I admit to you now that perhaps I had been faced— in my imagination— not with the grand death that awaits us all, but with the more tempting, abhorrent petite mort. From his sharpened teeth, Good Stab has drawn my soul from me and taken it for his own, and therefore the weight of this sin does not sit upon my shoulders.
Just as I had been when the flame had posed the genuine threat of a burn as opposed to the imagined one, I am unsure as to whether or not I had fallen into Good Stab’s arms or the ground. Although, as I write to you now, I will confess that I picture the blades of grass to be the pillow beneath my head.
My head continues to spin with this illness. In fact, I feel worse now than I did when I had lifted my pen and brought its tip down to paper. I am convinced that this sensation— this fever dream in all of its macabre— will dissipate in the coming days, lest this be a weight I carry on my journey to heaven. No matter how heavy, I will carry it. It is a cross I can bare, and have borne, as the bruise along my spine indicates.
The ache in my wrists have done nothing but grow over the course of this inscription. My fever has heightened. I fear a fainting spell is on the horizon, as anticipated.
My glass is empty.
Okay, I know I’m not supposed to add my own personal notes here, but for the sake of history, I feel like it’s a necessary evil.
My tresayle must’ve spilled blood or wine or something all over these pages, making them an absolute bitch to transcribe, so the accuracy of this passage is… questionable, to say the least. I’m doing the best I can here, alright? His script is barely legible to begin with, let alone when it’s smeared and covered with some dried red wine.
A part of believes that that's honestly for the better. The content of these pages doesn't need to be immortalized in the modern day anyway.
Now I feel like I need a bottle of wine after that.
But, more pages await. Not many, but… more.
Pray for me.