Patrons-Legacy of the Gods

Δεκατρία (13)

     I couldn't stop staring at the dried, drooped blood. He walked over to a hatch sealed shut across the other side of the dimness. My hands still covered my face, figured a rude gesture. Slowly, I lowered them, holding yet closely and carefully.

     Neither he nor I talked. He edged and gripped to a handled lever built to the right, taking a brief pause. I took to the pillar, wary of the iron-gated hatch.

     He stood close to the wall, eyeing near one of the beds. I followed his gaze, finding a splotch of metal layering peeping under the side. Each piece connected into five separate, thin cylinders...

     I focused back to his encased hands, duplicates of the steel color. Iron, metal, murder-

     Wait. Our god never killed anyone. He only took in the leftovers. Deceased souls.

     Eventually, a few of those translucent figures transpired from thin air, their wriggly and shredded "skin" materializing them into mindless zombies. They somehow weren't as bothersome as the distorted ones of the grand feast. I still trudged away from them.

     He pulled up the hooded cloth still hanging on his shoulders, covering his face. He barely opened his left hand, holding three fingers and curling them back in from a span of a few seconds. Not knowing what will happen, I followed, covering and hiding my condensed face. The visible cloth portrayed the perturbation. I have to look.

     Three...two...one.

     Down he pulled with little effort, unlatching numerous counts of...

     No. No. No. Various forms of guts, brains, and organs threw up onto the floor. I settled near the supposed walls, unsure of their bleak, gleaming shine. Bodies of adults, women and men alike rolled out. Even a child. Their crooked, twig-like arms distorted among possible families behind their black garbs. Mass murders, accidents, disasters, numerous ways they ended up in this hell. The floating ghosts hovered over, replicating the butchered faces of these still individuals.

     One, two, five...six corpses laid on the floor. None of them spoke. A few bones escaped into broken pieces with trails of dark blood. They were not stupid, fake mannequins with red, prefilled liquid from those horror movies. Not even exploded, sliced minces of artificial human meat. They're right in front of you, watching you. Watching you continue to live, to reside in a stranger's derangements.

     I discontinued looking at the repulsive bodies of rot. I turned towards the side, downright disgusted by the unsightly view and scent they gave. Below, near the only other living man, assorted tools were stationed neatly on a tray. Knifes, screws, needles, comparatively doctor materials sharp and ready for use. Oh god.

     At that time, I knew someone or something required me to assist whoever Haemon was. He had the same, black vestment, an unidentifiable tattoo implying criminality, and dark, long hair. An uncanny reflection.

     Quietude filled the ambience. A game of silence went on for the past few minutes. Hours. It was easy to lose time. The ghosts trailed against the walls, standing emotionless. However, Haemon featured a greater lack of expressivity. He nonchalantly scooped a dead man up, unconcerned of the horrific, squishing organs of the grown cadaver. Placing it mildly onto one of the bloody slabs, he adjusted it to lay straight. He walked around to obtain the tray on the floor. Why else were there two prisms of concrete stone? Why else were there two patrons for each god? It's always two, not one.

     This was a test. As awful as my curiosity left, I knew this was a two-person job. I carefully avoided the bodies as he left, dragging the pair of polished gloves outside with my shoe. Thud. I shot up my head, finding the honed instruments right next to the dead man. I looked at Haemon, his hand clutching a blade. It was hard to read his gaze, yet I figured he started to look at me during a momentary pause. He slowly tapped his left glove with the stick, figuring the necessity to protect my hands. Preparing this surgical task, I lifted the gloves, envisioning the aftermath of blood and guilt. He's hiding the guilt and truth.