Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

“Of course you don’t,” the angel said, holding him aloft with one hand, while the other searched for something in the folds of his filthy vestments.

Francis squirmed in the angel’s grasp, finding it ever harder to breathe as his feet danced in the air just above the ground.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to thank me,” the angel continued, as he pulled out a delicate knife of light and plunged its glowing tip straight through Francis’s forehead.

The former Guardian angel beheld a curtain of darkness, the last of the angel’s words cryptically echoing through the halls of oblivion before the silence.

“You’d be cursing me with your last breath.”

Miles carefully approached the exposed wall, sniffing at the strange, archaic writing.

“Get away from that!” Fernita cried out.

The animal froze, looking at her with wide, fear-filled eyes, before scurrying off to hide.

Fernita wrung her hands nervously as she stared at this newest piece of writing, wondering what it meant and how it got there as her eyes slowly traced the odd shapes.

A strange buzzing started in her brain, as if bees were trapped inside her skull, and it seemed to grow louder the more she looked at the foreign words written in black upon her walls.

How much more is there? she wondered, gazing around at the furniture and boxes that still hid most of her walls.

She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might find.

Her eyes traveled back to the exposed wall, and the humming inside her head continued to build.

Is this what I’ve forgotten? she asked herself.

The buzz became a mechanical whine, and the image of a spinning saw blade cutting through a length of tree, guided by hands encased in thick leather gloves, took shape in her mind. At first she had no idea what the imagery meant, but suddenly she remembered, the recollection floating free, like a child’s balloon released into a blue summer sky.

Her father had worked at the mill . . . where she herself had lived until . . .

The whining of the saw blade was replaced by the discordant thrum of a poorly tuned guitar and the sound of a piano.

Fernita smiled, her tired old eyes filling with hot tears at the memories—for that was what these images were, memories .

But her happiness quickly turned to terror as the pleasant visions were savagely replaced by one of fire. The old woman let out a scream, throwing her hands over her face and falling backward into piles of yarn that spilled from a wicker sewing basket.

The images burned her brain, living fire consuming the piano that only moments before brought tears to her eyes with the song it played.

The sounds of screams drifted hauntingly through the air, screams that drew the living fire like moths to a flame.

Burning. Killing.

Fernita knew not to cry out herself; someone had told her to be quiet as she was dragged through the burning room, someone special, but she couldn’t remember who it was.

Bodies littered the floor, bodies claimed by the living fire as it searched the room . . . searching for . . .

The head of a lion formed from the flames roared and came at her. Fernita could feel the intensity of its breath as it surged. And then it was gone, wisps of smoke drifting past her mind’s eye.

The old woman managed to sit up, her breath coming in short, gulping gasps as she pushed herself backward toward the doorway. She propped herself against its wooden frame, watching the writing on her wall, feeling its mysterious pull on her fragile mind, and anger filled her. She didn’t want it there anymore . . . didn’t want it unlocking secret memories.

And before she even realized what she was doing, Fernita was on her hands and knees, crawling across the cluttered living room floor.

“Go away, damn you!” she cried out, licking her fingers and rubbing at the black markings. She rubbed and licked, and rubbed, and rubbed and licked some more, her lips and chin smeared black as she tried to erase the alien scrawl that had brought such fear into her life.

But the more she rubbed, the louder the buzzing whine inside her skull became, as if somebody—something—was angered by her actions.

How dare you wipe away the words. . . . Don’t you know what this means? Don’t you realize what this will do?

And as the words started to disappear, it was as if a door had been opened, and more memories began to flow.

A deluge of the forgotten.

Adoor opened on the far side of the laboratory and Remy watched as a young man, who might have been one of the two who had accompanied Jon to Boston, entered. He was wearing only a T-shirt and baggy shorts now.

Malachi stood silently, watching with an unwavering eye.

“So he’s going to eat the fruit?” Remy asked, as the young man sat in a leather chair that had been brought from a closet and placed in the center of the room.

“Yes,” Jon answered. He too was watching the man, but his expression told Remy that he was clearly upset. “Nathan . . . excuse me, the volunteer will ingest a piece of the fruit, and we’ll record the results.” Jon cleared his throat and coughed nervously. “Hopefully his sacrifice will not be in vain.”

“The effects of the fruit are that powerful?” Remy asked.

Jon nodded. “We started our research with some of the older seeds, but the results were pretty horrible. It created a psychic link too powerful for a human being . . . even a Son of Adam, to withstand.”

Technicians began to fasten the young man’s wrists and ankles to the chair with thick leather straps.

“Is that really necessary?” Remy asked.

Malachi answered this question. “Even though the effects are diluted by ingesting the meat of the fruit as opposed to the seeds, the result can still be quite . . . violent,” the elder angel explained.

Remy stared at the volunteer, now looking small and defenseless beneath the humming fluorescent lights. “Are you sure this is the only way to get what we need?”

Jon looked to Malachi, but this time the angel remained silent, the human visage that he wore grim.

“It is the only way,” Jon confirmed softly. “We believe he’ll be linking with the actual Tree of Knowledge, in effect with the Garden itself, and in doing so, he’ll know what the Garden knows, and be able to tell us where the other half of the key is located.”

“Let us begin,” Malachi said, waving Jon on with his hand.

Remy watched the man’s features tighten as he steeled himself; then Jon picked up the tray of fruit and walked over to the volunteer restrained in the chair. The two looked at each other for a moment.

“Are you ready?” Jon asked, setting the tray down on a small table beside the chair.

“I am,” the man who Jon said was named Nathan replied.

Jon nodded, accepting his friend’s words, and stood, staring . . . waiting.

“You’re going to have to help me,” Nathan said finally, looking down to his bound hands and feet.

Jon laughed nervously as he reached for a pair of tongs. He used the tongs to pick up a slice of fruit and brought it toward Nathan’s mouth.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked again.

“Just get on with it,” Malachi growled impatiently.

Nathan closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly.

Carefully Jon placed the fruit on his friend’s tongue and stepped back, his shoulders slumped. He tossed the tongs on the table and gestured for the techs. “Take this away,” he ordered.

Nathan’s expression had been almost trancelike as he began to slowly chew the piece of fruit in his mouth.

But that suddenly changed.

In the blink of an eye, it went from dreamy to nightmarish, his body going rigid, straining against his bonds.