for philosophy_20: god
Aug. 8th, 2008 10:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayerHe'd walked past this church a hundred times. He even went to school here, in his younger years, when his mother had gotten religion, like it was something she could hang in the window and expect to catch light. Then, it had been impressive, all narrow windows sans stained glass and sharp angles; the sort of thing that really put the fear of God into you. Nowadays, however, it did little for him. Just another house for a false God. Just another collection of stone and mortar in the shape of a building. And he would have been more than content to walk straight past it, today, if it weren't for one thing.
The ticking.
It was small, barely even a whisper on his sharpened ears, so much so that he shouldn't have even recognized it. He didn't recognize it, too many people in the church yard today, the sound too far away, but his blood did. His heart did, and it sung out a need for violence so loud and so perfect that it would have put the choir in their pristine little robes to shame. And it held that one crystal, high note until he could feel it resonating along every fiber of his being, and he couldn't ignore it even if he'd wanted to.
He snapped his head around, like a house cat trying to catch a beam of light, and stared at the church for a moment in wide-eyed wonder. Then, once the initial burn for death had worn off and he could hear the ticking in earnest, he headed inside. Inside to grays and browns, to the room that held the damp humidity of the August air and the scent of earth and leaves like a mausoleum. Inside to the prize that been promised to him, whispered on his ears like so many prayers.
The sound was closer now, so close, and his feet dragged him towards it of their own accord, ending him in the confessional. He smiled. How ironic that he should be here, a man who had never felt beholden to the idea of God, even as his mother had all but beaten it into him. Even more so that the man - the priest - who would bring him closer to his own ideas on worship would do it not with words but with his mind. And for that, he would let him do his duty to his heavenly master of small things.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been ten years since my last confession."
"Ten years?" the priest echoed, and there was a note of incredulity to his voice that he could just barely pin down around the words. "Have you lost your way, my son?"
"I have." It wasn't a lie, not entirely. It had been so long since he'd sifted through the remains of a person to pick out what was his from the weakness and fear. So long since he'd been able to take what he'd been denied. "But not anymore. I think I've found what I've been looking for. Here. With you, Father."
The priest didn't see the threat for what it was. "I'm glad. Now, tell me your sins."
He raised a hand, and that hand was all he needed, the partition between them crumbling to fine powder as he threw his thoughts against it. The priest gasped, throwing himself against the far side of the confessional as if his God was hiding in that corner, arms open to offer salvation, but it was not so. Instead, all he got was a telekinetic finger pressed to the edges of his hairline, slick and sharp like a razor blade. He slumped without so much as a scream, blood pattering against the insides of the box as steady as raindrops.
His murderer felt cheated. He could neither see the messy, red art he'd created from this side of the booth nor was there sound to savor. He'd get what he wanted, but he wouldn't have what he needed. It was disappointing, but as he poked his head through the dividerless hole that had separated them, he supposed he could live. He did, after all, feel closer to God, and that was the whole point of confession, now wasn't it?
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 714
The ticking.
It was small, barely even a whisper on his sharpened ears, so much so that he shouldn't have even recognized it. He didn't recognize it, too many people in the church yard today, the sound too far away, but his blood did. His heart did, and it sung out a need for violence so loud and so perfect that it would have put the choir in their pristine little robes to shame. And it held that one crystal, high note until he could feel it resonating along every fiber of his being, and he couldn't ignore it even if he'd wanted to.
He snapped his head around, like a house cat trying to catch a beam of light, and stared at the church for a moment in wide-eyed wonder. Then, once the initial burn for death had worn off and he could hear the ticking in earnest, he headed inside. Inside to grays and browns, to the room that held the damp humidity of the August air and the scent of earth and leaves like a mausoleum. Inside to the prize that been promised to him, whispered on his ears like so many prayers.
The sound was closer now, so close, and his feet dragged him towards it of their own accord, ending him in the confessional. He smiled. How ironic that he should be here, a man who had never felt beholden to the idea of God, even as his mother had all but beaten it into him. Even more so that the man - the priest - who would bring him closer to his own ideas on worship would do it not with words but with his mind. And for that, he would let him do his duty to his heavenly master of small things.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been ten years since my last confession."
"Ten years?" the priest echoed, and there was a note of incredulity to his voice that he could just barely pin down around the words. "Have you lost your way, my son?"
"I have." It wasn't a lie, not entirely. It had been so long since he'd sifted through the remains of a person to pick out what was his from the weakness and fear. So long since he'd been able to take what he'd been denied. "But not anymore. I think I've found what I've been looking for. Here. With you, Father."
The priest didn't see the threat for what it was. "I'm glad. Now, tell me your sins."
He raised a hand, and that hand was all he needed, the partition between them crumbling to fine powder as he threw his thoughts against it. The priest gasped, throwing himself against the far side of the confessional as if his God was hiding in that corner, arms open to offer salvation, but it was not so. Instead, all he got was a telekinetic finger pressed to the edges of his hairline, slick and sharp like a razor blade. He slumped without so much as a scream, blood pattering against the insides of the box as steady as raindrops.
His murderer felt cheated. He could neither see the messy, red art he'd created from this side of the booth nor was there sound to savor. He'd get what he wanted, but he wouldn't have what he needed. It was disappointing, but as he poked his head through the dividerless hole that had separated them, he supposed he could live. He did, after all, feel closer to God, and that was the whole point of confession, now wasn't it?
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 714
