Sacrifice

 

Sacrifice

 

A cold rain lashed wind driven against her bedroom windows. Candle light flickered as she prepared herself. Black was her color of choice. The fabric gauzy and clingy, accentuated her every curve, her shape, with a near lurid quality. It was a quality she endeavored to use as often as possible. She lined her eyes and painted her lips. A black cat purred and groomed itself on the window ledge, its silhouette flashed with each lightning strike. The mood of the room was dark.

 

“The child must be sacrificed.” She repeated to herself as she brushed her hair. He who possesses her soul demands it. When the length of her hair was free of any tangle and smooth, she twists it, wraps it and fastens it in place atop her head with an ebony hair stick, tipped with a pointed gold end. She grabs her keys and the map, and with child leaves the house.

 

Leaves litter the ground, a testament to the change of season, the cycle of life and death, sacrifice and rebirth, surrendering their essence to the earth to nourish the life of spring to come. She is unaffected by the irony. It doesn’t take her long to reach the old brownstone at the end of her map. It stands oppressive, harsh and foreboding, framed in dark clouds and bare oaks. The headlights reflect off the eye like windows above the arched maw like entry doors, flanked by innocent looking benches with ashtrays, existing for the wellbeing of the non-smokers that come to this place.

 

After parking the car, she walks to the door, lighting a Winston reducing it to a stump with a single draw. She releases the smoke from her lungs in a steady slow stream of gray that lingers long in the heavy damp air. Depositing the butt in its repository on the end of the left side bench beside its spent brethren, she smoothes her blouse and enters the building.

 

She is expected and dozens of pairs of eyes assess her as she parades past seated like minded participants in the business of the day. She is hurried to a room of privacy by two white robed women in masks. There she disrobes, is washed, and dons a gown specific to the rite to be performed. Her bare feet pat the cold floors, her heart races in anticipation of the coming sacrifice.

 

He stands under lighting appropriate the rite. The air in the room is cold and crisp, akin to the season. She takes her place in front of him on her back. Her escorts take their places at her sides, comforting her, reassuring her. With practiced, precise movements, he begins the rite. The quiet of the room is replaced by wet sucking sounds, the light intensifies and blood begins to flow to the designated receptacle.

 

 A silent scream vaults heavenward as bone, tissue, blood and life are presented to the god of Choice.