Wrath White - Orgy of Souls

The sputter of the showerhead caused him to turn around. His routine was to hold his mouth ajar to rinse it out, but he was met with the taste of rusty nails. Opening his eyes, pink splotches spotted the floor. His skin blistered under the pelting water. Sores scored his flesh; his budding melanomas swelled like overripe fruit. The cratered flesh of his arm, riddled with spent pustules, issued thin trickles of blood like poxed stigmata. The wounds cracked, drowsy eyes filling with tears of mucous-like pus, before bursting in splays of blood.

A startled scream escaped his throat as he tumbled out of the stall. Samuel patted at his skin as if he were on fire. Only his now all-too-usual discolorations marbled him. Scarlet streams, a blood frieze, streaked the shower. He grabbed a towel to sop up the mess, but after a few unsuccessful swipes he unfolded it to make out the words “Blood Must Be Paid.” He dropped the towel into the remaining pool of blood. When he found the courage to pick it back up, it was no more than a crime scene inspired Rorschach.

“Vodka. To one of your better creations.” Samuel filled his glass most of the way then added a splash of cranberry juice—something to calm him down—and toasted his Savior. Surely the blood spatter was from an animal caught in the pipes; he made a mental note to call the plumbers out. The hemography had to have been a trick of his eyes. That was the easy explanation. He swallowed a large gulp. “You just don’t let up, do You?”

With only the press of the empty spot in his all-too-lonely bed waiting for him, Samuel chose to wander the rectory. Ghosts and spirits filled the sanctuary, echoes of the past. His parishioners had long shuffled off with each lit candle, with each recitation of the ancient ritual. A formless, nameless dread kept him awake more nights that he cared to remember; a spiritual blind spot of ache and discontent. No joy, no terror, just the endless numbing that faith provided until the candles were lit in his shadowless home. Samuel, content with his role as a cog, never questioned, and always did what he was told; trusting that God knew what was best. Some people were just like that. Not everyone was cut out to be a leader of men. Some had to do the work, carry out the vision of others. The truly best were those who knew their role, their place in the greater scheme of things, and settled into it.

“The ironic thing about choice,” he said out loud to no one, “is that usually when you make the wrong decision, the right one is there in front of us, also. Some people love the drama, the stirred pot of making the wrong decisions. Or they’re addicted to it or something ‘cause they keep making the wrong decision. Playing the odds, you’d think they’d accidentally fall into a right decision every now and then. But no, they keep going their own way, screwing up their lives and taking those who love them along for the ride.”

There was something hard-wired into people that made them content when they believed in something bigger than themselves. All the expectations were like a false hope that God kept yanking out from under him.

“You like messing with people, don’t You?” Samuel took another swig of his juice. “We’re like Lucy and Charlie Brown, You and I…and I don’t look good in yellow.”

When it came to being in control, Samuel didn’t know who was worse, Samson or himself. Maybe that was why religious belief annoyed Samson. If a supreme being existed, He held the ultimate control, not Samson. If the universe followed any sort of order, he could learn the rules, no matter how abstract. That was what Samson did best—adapt. Don’t give him any bullshit excuses for your life. You were responsible, you were in control of your own destiny, no matter the hand you were dealt. But Samuel couldn’t live like that. Things, life, had to have meaning. Things had to come together in a way that made sense, even if he couldn’t see the whole picture.

Right now, he was content to search for meaning within the rest of the bottle of vodka.

Samson knew he was dreaming as soon as he walked through the sanctuary doors to find a bed among the pews. The parishioners scattered at his approach. A body writhed on the bed—a two-backed beast tucked beneath the tender mercies of a neglected Christ on a cross. Paint flaked from his brow and face as he peered over the unfolding scene. Rat-chewed feet hovered just over the bed. The moans from the sheet subsided.

A malefic odor assaulted Samson, the air redolent with the stench of infection and decay. His brother lay too still on the bed, the tattered covers pulled up to his neck. Samson couldn’t help but note how ugly and unflattering the bedspreads were; knit fabric that someone gave up on. Samuel’s emaciated body dangled from them. Splotches, like a serpentine tattoo, ran along his frail arm. Red pustules bubbled up as if his skin were subject to unseen flames. A slow gasp escaped his barely open mouth. Samuel’s sunken skull turned toward him, a black wax oozing from his ears. His eyes flushed red, vessels rupturing with his body’s betrayal, turned upward, staring beyond him.

“Save me.”

Samson awoke. Still in his dressing room, he heard the crew outside breaking down the set; the whining, lisping voice of Jacque Willet punctuated every movement, micro-managing the entire process. He must have only been asleep for a few minutes. The night was still young.

Samson showered quickly and slid back into his Armani shirt and pants. He ran a hand slicked with mousse through his hair and stepped out of his dressing room, trying to slip out of the building quickly. Jacque waited nearby, next to a table stacked with hors d’oeuvres and Perrier water, pretending to not stare at Samson’s dressing room. Samson ignored him and turned to his friend Amon, who’d just come from the elevator.

Amon was a stunning mixture of Middle Eastern, Spanish, and something Asian. He was the model they called on when they needed someone exotic to round out a shoot. Samson would never admit it to anyone but Amon himself, but he actually thought the man was much more beautiful than him. He didn’t understand why Amon wasn’t more sought after. Not that the man was starving, but with his extravagant tastes, he still moonlit to make ends meet. If they hadn’t been friends they probably would have been rivals. The man’s looks would have made any other man jealous.

“Hey, honey!”

Amon was gay, but not a mincing stereotype like Jacque whose theatrics Amon found every bit as annoying as Samson did. Amon simply preferred the affections of other men. Once or twice he’d enjoyed Samson’s affections when Samson had been younger and more curious. Now, they were just friends.

“Hello, Amon.”

“Honey, you don’t look well at all. You aren’t getting sick are you?” Amon stared at Samson with genuine concern, cupping a hand against his cheek as much to offer comfort as to check for a fever.

“I’ll be okay. I just can’t stand dealing with that asshole.”

Amon didn’t need to ask who he was referring to, turning to look right at Jacque, who stood mere yards away trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Don’t let that little faggot get to you,” Amon stage-whispered loud enough to be certain that Jacque could hear them. “He’s just mad because he hasn’t fucked you and I have.”

Amon and Samson both laughed.

“I’d better go. You take care of yourself.”

“You too, honey.”

They hugged and Amon planted a light kiss on Samson’s lips then winked at Jacque, who jealously studied them. He turned his head but remained rooted to his spot.

“You’re a bad man, Amon.” Samson laughed.