Page 51 of Unholy

I pull him up from his side, to his knees, and on the step of the church, and like the little bitch that he is, he shouts, “You can’t kill me. I’ll never die.” Okay, champ, someone is delusional.

“You are crazy. Do you not see your friends above us?” He ignores me, so I move my focus over to my pet. “Thomas, cut down the spine, and don’t you even think about stopping before then,” I command. The only way to get over the first kill is to keep killing.

The tip of the machete tucks under Dalton’s chin. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “I hear if you make it through this, without a single word or scream, the gates of Valhalla will open to you, but I don’t think Odin likes misogynistic assholes either. I also heard something about a million virgins waiting for you on the other side, but who fucking knows.”

Nodding, I signal for Thomas to take my spot behind our soon-to-be departed. My leg is pressed tightly against Dalton’s chest to ensure he stays upright while Thomas starts to cut. Pushing the blade into Dalton’s skin, I hear the first slice, and my mouth waters. Using the weight of his body, he applies every bit of force he can behind the one continuous cut. Dalton screams, but I barely register it. Suppose he didn’t want a million virgins after all, oh well.

I continue watching over Dalton’s shoulder. Blood drips down the blade so beautifully onto the stone step. Each drip sends my body into a frenzy, wanting to make him bleed myself. But I show restraint, letting Thomas have his moment. His face begins to redden, and those puppy dog eyes bug out of his facewhile his mouth hangs open, yelling, giving him the momentum that he needs to continue on.

Cutting through someone’s torso isn’t easy. You have bones, organs, and muscle to work through, but once you get to the end, the results are so fucking satisfying. We are almost at the kidneys when I notice Thomas’s arms are shaking, but he doesn’t stop because he doesn’t want to disappoint me. Skin continues to tear and separate, exposing Dalton’s spine, and my fingers itch even more.

As Thomas reaches the end, his breathing is heavy as he looks up to me for approval. He yearns for it, and it’s not something I give out easily. Looking down at his work, I nod. He’s done well.

Stepping around Dalton’s side, I glance at my pet, “Hold him up.” Thomas is still shaking, holding his machete with one hand, but he takes the rope in the other so I can finish our friend off. Rubbing my hands together, I’m excited. This is something I’ve always wanted to try but never had the prime opportunity to do. The blood eagle.

“Hold him tight,” I snark. My pet nods rapidly, pulling a slowly-dying Dalton into him.

Casually, I advise adding more salt to the wound. “The blood of your men, the same ones who betrayed you, lines his shirt. I promise, you can and will die. And the rest of your crew, we will get to them one by one, snatch them out of their warm beds, the safety of their homes, then slit their throats.” A loud roar of laughter follows. I fucking love my life. Then I add,, “Oh, and she,” I pull his head up by his hair, so he can see to whom I am referring too, “is your half-sister, and by blood right, our Queen.” Dropping Dalton’s head back down, he makes no effort to keep it up or even speak. The clock is ticking on his life.

Gripping his ribs, one by one, I pull them back from his spine and out with skin and tissue still attached. Loud cracks can beheard as I break each bone. I need these fuckers to look like wings. At one point I find myself standing on his legs to keep his lower body stable as I yank and arrange him. Once satisfied with both wings protruding off his back, I find his lungs next. They were once filled with air, but now they barely expand.

Taking them tightly in my hand, I squeeze hard, then toss each over his shoulders. Dalton’s body trembles; shock is kicking in along with the lack of blood and oxygen. Looking down, my boots are lathered in crimson.

I can’t wait to fuck my little bat after this.

Lastly, I swipe the machete from Thomas and slice the rope that's keeping Dalton’s hands secure. As they drop to his sides, I allow the machete to do the same. Reaching down, I lift one arm up and rotate it until I hear another crack. I then jam it into his socket, followed by breaking his wrist with one quick flick. I do the same to the other side before stepping in front of him to get a view of my final masterpiece.

Rubbing the back of my hand against my forehead, I can feel the warm blood against my skin. I push my fingers through my hair, it’s euphoric. The blood of my enemy is coating my body.

Thomas is still bracing Dalton, who I suspect is well past his expiration now. With his arms raised and his ribs and skin underneath, it does look like fucking wings. The internet was not lying. I’m not sure of the significance of the lungs being thrown over his shoulders, but it looks fucking cool.

“Just call me Picasso,” I whisper to myself before hearing Dad laughing behind me. Looking up to the church peaks, I shout, “Preacher, lower the rope!”

Dad steps next to me. “What else do you have planned?”

Crossing my arms over my chest, with blood coating my skin, I don’t respond. He can see when everyone else does.

The rope slowly slides down. It is securely tied around the chimney, waiting for the cargo to be loaded.

Smirking, I say, “Yes, you heard that right. Not only did I claim this church, but the priest has a gun to his head and will do what I say unless he wants to join the party.” Dad pats me on the back, proud and impressed. I can tell because he isn’t giving me shit.

Thomas reaches up and takes the rope, tying it tightly around Dalton’s throat. After knotting it a few times, he yanks on it twice, signaling the good preacher to hoist our mascot. It’s slow moving but oh-so satisfying. Blood continues to pool, dripping down Dalton’s back. Seriously, the coolest shit I’ve ever seen. He looks more like an angel than an eagle, and I decide it’s even more fitting this way.

The preacher ties the rope off, then Dalton is raised slightly higher than the others as his body sways with his ankles still tied. Thomas joins me in taking in the sight.

I can’t wait for the town to see our hard work.

Fucking beautiful.

NATHANIEL

The pride I feel from my son’s actions is contagious. This has to be his finest work yet, truly.

Behind me, I hear a flick of a match being lit, and turning my body, I see it’s Rain. She is standing at one of the metal garbage bins on the sidewalk, starting a fire. Under her arm I see black and gold masks with the familiar dead rose dripping blood logo. I nod at her in approval before she throws them into the dancing red and orange flames.

Taking my white silk pocket square out, I wrap it tightly around my fingers and kneel onto the church step. Carefully, I draw a large circle in the river of blood around us, followed by an upside-down triangle. Lastly, I find the center of the star and make one line down, then another across. In honor of thoselost recently and years ago, for Greta and her organization, the Antichrist.

My eyes absorb what I have just done. There is no going back now.

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