Page 70 of Babalon

When I was getting a lay of the land and doing the research necessary to sneak in and get my chore taken care of, I discovered that the company who provides security services does not employ armed officers, which only made it better for me—all bark and no bite.

Beginning to slow, now that I didn’t hear the heavier man running behind me. Either I’m too fast for him or he went back to his post to start reporting the breach of security. The cops will have my photo and all the camera footage before morning and my face will be plastered all over the local news channels. I can see it now “last night, a man broke into the homes of four prominent families and murdered all the heirs and heiresses. If you see this individual, consider him armed and extremely dangerous. Please report any sightings or tips to the authorities.”

I should probably repent when I get back to my hide out, the factory I have been staying at for a while. It is a sin to gloat, to envy, and to boast after all. I would be a liar if I said I don’t feel a certain way when thinking about seeing my face and crimes on TV. I already need to be punished for three sins, let’s not make it four.

It didn’t take me long to get back to where I am currently staying—an abandoned building. My father says I can come home, when he sends me text messages, that is. Trying to convince me to return so we can continue God's work together. Him preaching to the congregation while I try to reach the younger flock. He still doesn’t understand that our Lord has called me elsewhere, even if I try to explain it to him, we just end up getting into heated discussions for which I punish myself for later.

Every time I move into a new abandoned space, I bring the necessities—a backpack with a few pieces of clothing, charger for my phone, my flogger—a knotted series of ropes with spikes on the end; the only items that matter to me.

Trudging up to the gate that clearly has been hanging off one of the hinges for years, I squeeze through the narrow opening, then jog over to the single window that I busted out. Kicking away more broken glass, I drop down to my knees and swing my legs around until I am sitting on my backside. Feeding myself feet first into the blackened space beyond the window. I then sink inside and slip out of sight.

Inside, I rummage around until I find the door that leads out of an old storage unit for this building. Opening it to a hallway with another door sitting directly across from the one I hold open now. Swapping one for the other, I close the first and open the second, stepping inside.

This one, I know, used to be an office since I was able to find items that deemed it so. Old beige keyboards and monitors that have since shattered. Bookcases with vintage business and manufacturing titles still littering the shelves, and there is even a desk. That is what I consider home amongst everything else.

Along the back wall was a twelve-inch-tall window that spans the entire length of the wall— allowing moonlight to spill in and illuminate the old office. The whole building provides shelterfrom the elements, and it is quiet and secure, the perfect place to hide out for a bit.

Walking over to the desk, I pull out my backpack and toss it down where I can, using the space under it as additional shelter. Dropping to my knees, I fluff the backpack somewhat then maneuver myself until I am able to lay back against it, using it as a pillow. My legs stretch out until they threaten to touch the wall where the windows stretch.

I haven’t decided how long I am going to run before I let someone find me and turn me over to the police. But what I do know is that I am going to cause panic. Take out a few more people, raise more concerns, have people believing that they can’t go anywhere without the thoughts of getting snatched up and brutally murdered.

You did a good job out there today, my son.

A smile pulls across my mouth when I hear the Lord's voice. He is always comforting. Instead of responding, as not to disrespect him, I give him the space he needs to speak to me further.

You are my greatest disciple; the world will learn to fear you, and me in turn. Go, my child, rest. When the day brings anew, I shall send for you. I have another task for you to complete.

“Yes, my Lord,” I respond.

Turning, I curl up on my left side, drawing my knees up to get comfortable. I have grown accustomed to sleeping on surfaces such as dingy floors, having lost a true bed when I left the congregation at eighteen. It’s been hard floors, cold meals, and bitter seasons since.

The Lord keeps you company though, Lucien.

Another voice adds.

Yes, all you need is shelter and purpose.

Another one.

Close your eyes, Lulu, and go to sleep for me like a good boy.

The last one, a softer, more feminine one says.

The woman’s voice, as I like to believe, though she has never confessed who she is to me, is my mom.

I miss her with everything in me but God assures me that her job on this Earth is complete. She gave me life, gave me a home to survive, and taught me how to be a stronger man. She gave me eyes to see wickedness, the patience to observe, and the cunning to bring evil to its knees.

Months later, I am exactly where I want to be—sitting in a cell at county awaiting my trial. Of course, I took a not guilty plea so the prosecutor would force me to go to court, and I could face the maximum sentence the state of Michigan could award. With the money of four families buying out the law offices in the city, I wasn’t getting out of here at all.

Not that I wanted to be released. Someone is waiting for me.

I have my other hearing later today, and since I chose to represent myself, rather than having a public defender, this trial was not leaning in my favor. I refused to provide a true defense or argument; the televisors ran with the story and were astonished that someone would give up their right to a fair trial. I think after today we will move into deliberations then sentencing. I may even motion for them to provide sentencing today because I’m getting fed up with the pomp and stance.

I’m bored.

“Bardot, on your feet,” the jailer orders when he rounds the corner. His keys clink against the metal of the cell lock as he shoves the key in and turns it. The mechanism holding the bars secure giving way.

Fluidly, I lift up from the still made bed I have had the luxury of sleeping on. I was turned in by a concerned citizenafter walking into an arcade where children were playing. I was looking for someone to keep me occupied while waiting to be picked up. But before I could descend upon a woman that was sliding her hand along the legs of a child that was not hers, SWAT stormed in and the arcade erupted into chaos.

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