Artyom Dereschuk - Hate the Sin

“Tsetse, stop!” the younger boy cried out. Tears were streaming down his face, and he was struggling and squirming to break free from the captain’s grasp, but his efforts accounted to nothing; despite the boy’s struggles the gun remained almost motionless.

“And then pull,” Captain cooed in his ear, grabbing the boy’s index finger and putting it on the trigger. With the last bit of willpower, the boy resisted for a few seconds, and Homewrecker was almost impressed that the kid managed to keep his finger straight for so long. But, ultimately, that was not a fight he could win. Little by little, the captain was pushing the kid’s finger onto the trigger, pulling it further and further, until it finally clicked and the gun threw up its lead charge.

Everybody around them cheered as the woman fell to the ground. The shot went right through her heart—not the most painless death, but still a relatively quick one, and she silently collapsed into a quickly expanding puddle of her blood. She wasn’t moving or twitching: it was as if, in her final moments, she finally found some bizarre peace.

Puppy Slayer fell to his knees as well. His shoulders were quaking in a silent cry. Seeing how there was nothing else to witness, the adults started leaving, seeking something else to thrill them, and Tsetse crouched near the crying boy. He whispered something to him, something that Homewrecker, yet again, could not make out, and Puppy Slayer gazed at his captain with eyes full of bewilderment that quickly changed to powerless fury.

“We’ll have to make up a new name for you.” One of the last adults to leave smirked before turning around and walking away.

Homewrecker and Tsetse exchanged glances. The captain’s eyes were as indifferent as ever, but then, Homewrecker wondered, was he really like that? Why had he intruded into that situation? To suck up to the General?

“You got a problem?” Tsetse wondered, and Homewrecker suddenly found himself scared. Was his face betraying his thoughts?

He shook his head and quickly headed away; quite conveniently for him, there was a commotion and cheering on the other side of the village. Judging by the loudness, whatever was happening there managed to gather many more people than Puppy Slayer’s execution. Homewrecker was sure that no less than a half of the Brigade had gathered there, so whatever was going on there was probably important.

The crowd of soldiers had gathered in front of the village’s largest house. Homewrecker carefully squeezed through the ranks of adults, trying very hard not to step on anyone’s toes, before he got to the front of the crowd, where he could see better. Only then did he see what all the ruckus was about.

The house that everyone had gathered around was not just the biggest—it was also the most decorated one. The walls were covered in curious paintings, and the skull of an unknown creature was hanging above the main door. Looking at it made Homewrecker’s head spin; he didn’t know whether it was drugs or something else, but the skull’s spiraling horns and numerous eye sockets were making him dizzy.

In front of the building stood their General. He was pumping his right hand into the air while holding a machete, and in the iron grip of his left hand was the throat of an elderly woman. She was impossibly old—at least twice as old as the next oldest person the boy had seen in his life. When the boy saw the ritualistic drawings on her hands and face, her colorful robes and the intricate necklace on her neck, it clicked for him: she was that village’s shaman, and the colorful house behind her belonged to her. It seemed that when the General joined the hunt, he went after the most prestigious prey.

Plus, he wouldn’t tolerate any competitors.

“These lands have only one priest!” the General shouted, and the crowd answered with an angry roar. “This woman”—he pointed the machete at her face as she was gasping for air—“has planted selfishness and ignorance into the hearts of these people! This woman that was supposed to lead them had turned their souls dark and their hearts callous! Because of her, they suffer! Because of her, WE suffer!”

The crowd furiously shouted, and some of the people started calling out to their leader.

“Kill her!”

“Long live the General Malaria!”

“Cut her head off!”

“Cut her heart out!”

“My warriors!” the General shouted again, and the crowd got quieter to hear what was he going to say. “I know what must be done to stop this evil here! Her crooked power will not harm our Brigade anymore!”

With one swing, the General tore her colorful robe off, exposing her wrinkly, elderly body to everyone around. Some men looked away in feigned disgust, raising their hands to cover their eyes, while others started making inappropriate sounds and gestures, suggesting that they did not see her as too old to partake in their activities.

Throwing the woman to the ground, the general climbed on top of her and, taking his machete into both hands, raised it high above his head, before plunging it right into the middle of the woman’s chest.

Her old brittle bones were no obstacle for his explosive, youthful power. The blade pierced her wrinkly skin and most likely went clean through. The woman wheezed and groaned, her punctured lungs struggling to have another breath.

Quickly, trying to do as much damage as possible while she was clinging to life, the General started making more cuts. Like a skilled butcher, he was swinging his blade with no rest, no pause between the strikes, carving her chest cavity open, until he cut it up enough to squeeze his fingers inside her wound and pull her ribs aside like the lid of an intricate casket, exposing her organs and, most importantly, her convulsing, still beating heart.

Throwing the machete aside, the General grabbed the woman’s heart with his bare hands and everyone cheered; they all knew what was coming next.

There was only one way to claim someone’s power—to eat their heart raw. Ripping the heart out, the General raised it to his mouth—a heart that was at least ninety years old. Dark blood flowed out of it, making the old worn-out organ lose its shape, collapsing from a symbol of life into a mere fleshy bag—as wrinkly as its owner. Homewrecker winced and looked away, but the sound of chewing was still reaching his ears, making his mind involuntarily recreate what was happening in front of him in gruesome details.

“Hey, over there! There’s a bitch running!” Homewrecker opened his eyes when he heard that. Indeed, some girl—twenty years old at most—was running into the darkness beyond the village. Judging from the direction she was running from, she must have snuck out through the window of the old shaman’s house. The General must’ve missed her when he was ravaging the house.

Bad idea, Homewrecker thought, watching her white, flashing heels. She should have stayed hidden if she hadn’t been found .

A few men raised their weapons, but the General stopped them with a gesture: “Don’t! Give me the gun! Give me the gun, now!”

The man standing closest to him obeyed, handing over his AK-47, and the General crouched on one knee to take aim. A lion before taking his leap. After a second or two of aiming, he pulled the trigger.

His aim was good—the bullet didn’t hurt her too much, going clean through the muscle of her left calf—making her tumble and fall down. Despite her injury, she was still trying to escape, desperately clawing at the ground. The men cheered, and the General laughed, his wide smile exposing blood covered teeth to the light of the flames.

“Bring me the bitch!” the General commanded, and two men ran off to grab her. When she saw them approach she turned on her back and started kicking at them with her healthy leg, screeching and crying but, with a well-aimed kick to the gut, one of the soldiers stopped her struggling.