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Angel Of Death
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Angel Of Death
A corrupted childhood contaminates the present-writing purges, but just slightly...*Caution, could be considered graphic*
Monica L Sprague
46 year old wife and mother who is trying to put her past behind her.
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (13)
Alien Within (Poetry) What comes with self examination. [15 words]
Dark Anger (Short Stories) A follow up, sort of, to Darkest Fairytale, sort of. [815 words]
Darkest Fairytale (Short Stories) A story written out of the depths of confusion so it's a bit confusing to follow. *Could be considered graphic* [1,571 words] [Drama]
Ending (Poetry) Just a few questions I asked once upon a time ago... [21 words]
Escaping Reality (Short Stories) This is an account of a real event that has a fictional ending...the ending that I know she wanted. [981 words]
God's Retribution (Short Stories) A follow on story written in early January. God is displeased and one child suffers the consequence. [425 words] [Spiritual]
Remember...Do You Remember? (Genres) A long prose that asks tough personal questions which require deep internal self-examination to find the answers...if answers can be found. [271 words] [Mind]
Seeking God (Short Stories) This story was written in December when a vision of the god from my childhood came crashing into my present. [767 words] [Spiritual]
Taken Fetus (Non-Fiction) Ripped from within her. [697 words]
Tempest: Calming The Storm (Short Stories) Inner turmoil ... can it be calmed? *Caution, could be graphic* [771 words]
The Frustrating Switch (Short Stories) What happens when stress takes me beyond the breaking point? This is glimpse into my world... [667 words] [Psychology]
Washed In The Blood (Short Stories) During a particularly depressing time and trying to find a way to cleanse myself of shame...well this story came to be. *Caution, could be graphic.* [631 words]
When I Was Eight (Genres) A long three part prose about a dark desert night when a child was scared into submission. [501 words]
Angel Of Death
Monica L Sprague
I get this raging storm, mostly late at night and I don' know what to do with the feelings. I wanna just run away, escape, get away. Cutting works when I can't get away from the feelings. It helps ease the storm, the feelings subside, Iím not overwhelmed. Exactly when I feel the relief? That would be ... not at the first sight of blood because that's not enough blood. It has to be when it drips and pools; when the puddle forms. That's when I feel relief. The blood is how Iím cleansed. Did I not never tell you that story? I thought I did.
It was when we would go to the hospitals or the old folkís homes; it was because I was the angel of death. We would go like to the hospital, I was little-like seven or eight, and he'd check to see which old people were near to death and hadn't had no family come in. Then we'd go up to the room. We'd wait, if they were 'lert enough we'd talk to 'em. Mostly they weren't though, 'lert enough I mean. We'd sit and wait. I could always tell when they're close to the last breath. There was a smell 'bout them. That's when I was to climb on top of 'em and wait for the death rattle, for that last expulsion of breath, to take them into me. That's when Iíd have to put my face close, so close that I was almost touchin' 'em. I'd wait until the death rattle, until the last breath. Then Iíd put my mouth on theirs and take that last breath into me. I always felt so ... bad. I didn' know it then, what contamination was, but now I do. I felt contaminated by 'em. They weren't of the church. They weren't of any church. They were people who were bitter. Angry ol' people who had driven away anybody who'd ever cared 'bout them long before they got so sick. They were evil. I took 'em in. I was evil. I know I told you at least some of this before.
After that, we'd go to the church. god would be there waitin' for me. He'd be ready, with the lamb, to cleanse me, to purify my soul. They never had to tell me by this time, by the time I was seven or eight, I just knew what to do, what was expected. I climbed into the vat under the altar and I waited, my hands over my ears, my eyes shut so tightly that white fire light burned behind my lids. I didn' never like this part. I hated to hear the bleatin' of the sacrificial lamb. I waited like that, small and alone. Then, when I felt the warm blood drip down 'pon me, only then would I uncover my ears and open my eyes. god would then undress me and wash my in the blood of the lamb. He would say words over me, the cleansing ritual. "Washed in the blood of the lamb, for the atonement of sin. You, who were clean, breathed in the sin of another. To you is the cleansing from the defilement. To you is the forgiveness of the unintentional sin of the other. For you, the blood of this lamb is poured out. I wash you clean, cleansed by the blood of the lambĒ.
After he was done, Iíd feel strong arms lift me from the vat but then I can't be sure what happens. I'm lost. I'm cleansed and purified and nothin' else mattered, though the remnants of death still linger--in the back of my throat I taste death, in my nostrils I smell death, in my blood I feel death. Again I wonder if sandblasting would be cleansing, Iím not sure that the blood of the lamb ever truly was. Within me is still the sin, the wickedness, the evil of the many others whose soul I took to the other side. The lost, the lonely, the weak and the aged. All still within. I just wondered if sandblasting would do a better job. I want to cut to ease the feelings, because I want to escape and flee and run away.
|READER'S REVIEWS (5)
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"Super cool story, very unique Laters" -- Matthew [email protected], USA.
"WOW...I don't know what else to say...I found this piece shocking! Guess it leaves me wondering what you were trying to say by this...or are they just random words put to paper?" -- mattie.
"jonny" -- jonny, jonny, jonny, jonny.
"jonny14" -- jonny7, jonny8, jonny10, jonny19.
"I was not impressed by this piece, although I could understand how some young readers would be. Low and behold, I see the words of approval from none other than Matthew Mark, the ultimate kiss of death, irrefutable proof that this is low quality writing. Having Matthew Mark praise your work is like having Yogi Berra doing book reviews for the Wall Street Journal. " -- Richard.
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© 2006 Monica L Sprague
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