Prologue

    The noose falls around my neck as an unseen rabble cheers.  I can feel the wooden boards beneath me tremble as the men stomp their feet, while the women tear after filthy children.  Their stench"beer-soaked, carrion-ridden and baptized with a sprinkling of dung"is overpowering.  Rotten fruit and clumsy jeers alike are thrown at me.

    They say that those who walk up the gallows’ steps always break at the end.  That the victims cry, or weep, or even scream, doing everything in their power to draw mercy from the hangman.

    I do not tremble. 

    Amidst the noise of the crowd, my ears strain to catch the soft, measured footfalls of the approaching judge.  With a dry cough, she begins to address the usual formalities.

    “Do you now, or have you ever, sympathized with the Church?” 

    “I do.” The crowds hiss at my response.

    “Do you now, or have you ever, worshiped their Mother, or participated in their cannibalistic Communion?”

    “I do not.”  There is a delicate pause before she speaks.  “The court has evidence of you engaging in both activities.  It would do you no honor to deny what is known as truth.”  I lift my chin proudly.  “You ask for the truth?” There is an edge to her voice now.  “The court desires nothing but the truth in its entirety.  If you"”

    “I understand.”  My interruption costs me a quick but heavy beating that incites my audience into a state of roaring excitement.  Once order has once again been reached, the judge continues as if nothing had happened.  “"wish to profess the truth, now is the proper time.” 

    Slowly, I begin, wincing as each word cuts into my bruised throat.  “We believe in God, the Father Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth--”

    “Krize, this is boring.  You sure this is your ancestor’s grave, Skelly?  I don’t know what the eff the words on this rock even mean.”  I elbow him away as he fights for a closer look.  “I think it’s some kind of mantra--you know, like lyrics to a song?  Maybe that’s it.” 

    “Some song.”  Petro snickers.  I roll my eyes at him before turning back to the tombstone.  “These numbers... Petro, are these old annual dates?”  He squints at the carvings.  “I guess.”  Suddenly, my head feels like it’s spinning.  “Petro, look at this!  These dates would put her living during the Third World War!” 

    “Wasn’t that the one where we got rid of that Italian dictator?  Oh, what’s his name--?”

    “‘Pope,’ you fotter.”  He shrugs, untouched by my insult.  “Yeah.  Him.  The one who was convincing everybody to do weird crap like talk to dead people and help the street dregs until we taught him a lesson about--”

    “Spreading propaganda that does not glorify the People’s Government.”  We recite the old phrase together, not bothering to hide our sarcasm in the absence of authority.  That’s one great thing about this location--foggy marshes aren’t places that the Friends of the P.G. like to hang out in.  Petro crouches uncomfortably, not daring to sit on the damp ground for fear of staining his fashionable clothes, while I try to memorize the awkward phrases on the tombstone.  Petro watches me mouth the long phrases to myself.  “And what’s with your old aunt Keeva wanting you to come out here, anyway?  She’s dying--why does she care if she doesn’t get to hear some moldy old lines before she goes?”  I ignore him until I can repeat the grave’s words comfortably.  “If she’s half as weird as you are, Petro, then I don’t even want to know her reasons.”  He just shakes his head, grinning. 

    By the time we reach the city, the sun is gone.  Passing street dregs eye our posh clothes, making me glad for the small hand bomb strapped to my hip.  Finally, we reach the Metro and split, Petro taking a line to the 100-A streets, while I follow the 100-C.  My apartment building is humming as usual, but it's buzz of REALITY COLOSSEUM, mostly, since a new gladiator will be fighting tonight. I bribe the elevator so that it will speed a bit; I’d hate to miss the first battle.  But when the door opens at my floor, my mother is standing by the doorway, her eyes as cold and her outfit as killer as always.  Today, her hair’s a violent shade of magenta--though it looks bloody against her icy skin--and despite the fact that she’s clearly waiting for a compliment, I keep my mouth shut just to set her flaming.  Her glare hardens, but she keeps her voice steady.  “Skellig, you must be so tired from your long walk--” 

    “Just tell me what you want.”  I know I’ll probably pay for interrupting her, but it’s worth it just so that I don’t have to hear her mothering shick.  Her reply is curt.

    “Your aunt wants to see you.”

    “It’ll have to wait--I can’t miss the fights tonight.  What about tomorrow morning?”

    “Is that gad-awful head wrap hampering your hearing?  Your aunt wants to see you now, and she doesn’t care about--”

    “Turbans,” I inform her huffily, “happen to be in.  I can’t help it if you’re so out that you can’t tell red from purple and dye your hair something in betwee--”

    “I’ll cut you off from the Colosseum games for a month if you don’t shut up and get to your aunt’s right now!”  The veins in her neck are sticking out quite nicely. 

    “Fine.”

    “And the next time I see you, I don’t want you hiding your hair.  Lark knows I don’t pay your bills to keep you looking this ugly.”  She flutters her hand impatiently, dismissing me before I can respond.  I stomp back into the elevator, savagely pushing the buttons that code for Aunt Keeva’s floor.  Once I reach her door I impatiently type in my inscription and push my way through before the door is finished opening, which responds with a chatter of angry beeps. 

    "Skellig?”  My aunt’s creaky voice kills my irritation instantly. 

    “Aunt Keeva?  Where are you?”  I call, trying to soften the shout as best I can.  This place reeks of death, and it doesn’t feel safe to draw attention to myself. 

    “In the bedroom.” Her voice cuts off and harsh coughing echoes through the darkened apartment.  I stumble my way over shadowy furniture, silently cursing as I make my way to her bedroom.  In the far corner of the room is a hospital bed, and it’s there that I find her.  She looks terrible.  Her sharp bones stand out against her sagging skin, and she’s hooked up to at least a dozen whirring hospital machines.  “Did you find the grave?” She asks, her voice tiny and weak.

   “Yes, Aunt.” 

    “And the…inscription?  Do you remember it?”

    “Yes, Aunt.”

   “Please come closer.”  I hesitate, and she sighs.  “The dying can’t hurt you, dear.”  Ashamed, I walk over to her bed and kneel so that we are eye-to-eye.  She smiles.  “Much better.”  For a moment she looks younger, the way that I remember her from my childhood--but then her expression changes, and the thought is gone. 

    "Do you want to hear those words now, Aunt?"  She nods in response to my question, wincing with pain.

    “‘We believe in Go--”  In a heartbeat, her bony hand is covering my mouth.  “Hush,” she hisses.  I freeze.  She tugs my head so that it is even closer to her, and I’m too startled by the sudden change in her behavior to do anything.

    “So you memorized the words?  All of them?”  She rasps.  I nod mutely. 

    “Good.  I don’t need you to recite them to me.  I remember them.”  She grips my mouth harder before I can reply.

    “Now listen, girl, and listen well.  The P.G. killed your ancestor for believing in those words.  It was something too great, too powerful--and they didn’t like the competition.  They thought that they could kill what she fought for, too.  They still think that they’ve won.  But they’re wrong.”  She glares at me fiercely.  “There’s an underground movement that was started by her friends to keep those words alive.  It carries on today.  Its goal is to bring The Word to everyone--even to those people like you, who have been brainwashed by the P.G.”  I can’t remember how to breathe.

    “That’s why you have to join them, Skellig.  That’s why I’ve given you The Word, so that they’ll accept you.  You have to find them so that you can help them fight.  Do you understand me?”  I force myself to whimper a “Yes.”  Aunt Keeva’s hand falls from my face. “We look for the resurrection of the dead…” Her whisper trails away as her breath begins to shorten.  I finish it for her.  “…And the life of the world to come.”  Her face, taunt with stress and pain, relaxes, and the cold machines surrounding her gradually fade into silence as her eyes close.  I am frozen into place.  Gradually, my thoughts begin to recover themselves and turn to my mother, who is surely waiting outside my aunt's apartment door to find out what she wanted me for--she's that nosy.  I know I can't face her.  Trying not to think about the dead woman nearby, I curl up on the icy floor, waiting for sleep to find me. 

    I wake to screaming. 

Reviews

[TTBoy28]

You really drew me in to this story! I am so interested in just what she has to carry out.

[Terrestrial.42]

Wow... I can't think of anything to change about this. Maybe the transition between your flashback and your main narration... but that's some serious nitpicking.

You create a really interesting atmosphere through your writing... there's serious potential to publish something like this. :) Keep it up, I look forward to reading more.

[Sam Severn]

Hell is for children in this world you have created, Pareidolia! N' all I can say is: WOW!!! You have written a dizzying doozy of a Prologue, full of eerie graveyards n' ghostly grandmas, n' Big Brother-type brainwashings n' the mysterious underground, n' all the stuff I love, love, love!!!

I'm blown away by this. It's fantastic, n' cool as hell, n' I can't wait to read MORE! ㋡

[AmeliaMae]

Wow, dear, this is very very good! Can't wait for more :)