Page 48 of Babalon

He sits silently for a few moments, likely trying to reel in his anger. He is fresh out of therapy himself; anger management problems and has an issue with not feeling like he is good enough.

Nonetheless, humans are imperfect, and I have come to learn that the most imperfect ones are those who seek salvation from the Lord. I do the same thing, sometimes. I don’t do it here though, my relationship with God is much different. He doesn’t speak to me about forgiveness or helping those less fortunate than myself. He whispers all the wickedness in my ear, pointing out the faults of others and shedding light on the wolves who hide in sheep’s’ clothing.

God is preparing me for something greater than sitting in a building that smells like moth balls and reeks of old lady perfume. He has been training me, teaching my body to accept more pain than I ever endured as a child.

“Yes, the church will provide transportation as long as you remain in treatment for the next year.”

“And that looks like what? Twelve Hail Mary’s and twenty lashings? You know I don’t feel them anymore.”

“No, Lucien, you attend your sessions weekly for the next year. The church will even cover the costs. We need to control your behavior and get you back on the path of righteousness.”

What a moron—I never left, I only transformed into something worse.

“Alright,” I huff, stuffing my hands into my pockets, dragging out my remaining cigarette. It is a coping mechanism I developed over the past few months. I don’t particularly like it, but the nicotine helps calm my nerves.

“No smoking in here, Lucien.”

“Let me guess, it’s a sin.”

“No, it’s a violation of city ordinances actually. Don’t allow your juvenile choices to get you in greater trouble, my son.”

“Don’t ‘my son’ me, you’re not the head of this congregation. My dad doesn’t even call me son.”

“That’s because, to him, you’re an abomination who should be cast out.”

That stings like hell, even if I already see it as a fact. He hated me when I was five, why wouldn’t he hate me now?

I continued pulling the cigarette out and placed it between my lips. It trembles somewhat as I strike my lighter and apply it to the end. Drawing in a breath, I savor the burn deep in my lungs. The church is preparing me for the world, and God is preparing me for damnation.

23 years old

My muscles are on fire, but it feels so good to be standing here in this moment with a man on his knees before me. Begging and pleading, promising to change his ways and asking God for forgiveness.

I went to my therapy sessions when I was younger, but I’ll have you know, they didn’t have the desired effect. I don’t think I got worse per se, but I did refine myself. Now, I straddle the line of the perfect Preacher’s Son. I attend the functions, help feed the homeless, and care for the broken. Putting on a mask of complacency and devotion.

On the other side of that perfected coin, I am the very thing Father preaches against. The dark, the damned, and the wicked. I have grown into my craft, tailoring it over the past years, and now I can feel God reaching through me as I drag a blade across the throat of a city politician who has an affinity for sodomizing young boys.

It’s one thing to punish the dregs of society but those who harm children are at the top of my list.

Now that I have come to see the abuse and neglect, I endured, I channel God’s wrath and pluck their souls right from their bodies, just as the Lord intended.

When the child molesters whining turns to gurgles and dual-opening gasps for air, I shove him forward where he crashes against the cream-colored carpet of his son’s bedroom. It’s fitting to be murdered in the very room where the original sin took place.

I’m no anti-hero but his son deserves a better life than the one he has been dealt, and I know God will now lead him down a more promising path and into a life without the horrors of his father. The irony is, I begged the night sky for someone who would have done the same for me and when I didn’t receive it, I turned into the very monster I needed.

Standing over the rapist before me, I run my fingers along the blood covering my knife, knowing that his wife is next. But first, I want to make sure he stops breathing, and then watch the life drain from his eyes. Thankfully, that doesn’t take long. When he stills, I roll the man over onto his back and see that his already dark brown eyes have blown wide, appearing even darker.

Good.

Flipping my knife around, I crouch and use the bulk of my body weight to drive the blade through the gaps in his ribs, directly into his heart. I must make sure he doesn’t bounce back from being sliced from ear to ear, and the best way to do that is to damage the one organ that keeps the rest of the body alive.

Goosebumps erupt all over my body when I hear, and feel, the blade scrape against his bones. It’s a dull, grinding sound, almost like I put on several pairs of ear plugs and all I can hear is how the sound feels vibrating through the air. Not only does it silence God’s voices in my head, but it calms me from head to toe, feeding me a level of tranquility cigarettes have yet to bring me.

It’s strange, murdering, but if the Lord demands it then that is what he gets.

Shoving away from the man, I stalk over to the door and exit. My boots carry me down the hallway towards the bathroom where I have managed to confine his wife after subduing her. She’s going to receive the same punishment—death, that is—but hers will be different. There will be no begging and pleading, of course, but she will feel pain.

How could a mother stand by and allow her son to be raped by her husband, his dad, and then go sit in the pews at church every Sunday? There is a special place in hell for her, and she is about to cash in her one-way ticket. If I had the capacity to smile, that would do it for me, but yet, I maintain the level of coldness I need to make it through this kill.

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