✞ Matthew 6:15 ✞
✞ "But if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." ✞
✞ Sister Jude, or rather, Judy Martin, the former head nun of one of the most infamous mental hospitals in the small city of...
✝Trigger Warning for Masturbation, Strong Language and Necrophilia✝
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--- *** --- --- A Few Hours Later or So ---
Within the advancing daily evolution from midnight up to the wee hours of the very early morning at snail's pace, the possessed doctor teleported himself along with Jude's devilishly motionless corpse to the nigh Boston hospital and surreptitiously conveying her to the private clinic to do an autopsy of her very fleshily immobile muscles.
Even though the British compatriot surreptitiously, inwardly mourned over the inhumane demise of his rare bird with his own mammoth, cold-blooded hands and supernaturally invincible power, Demogorgon's vile plans didn't cease from existence after commanding his imminent nemesis. Demogorgon would despise beholding his own victim of spiritual possession mourning over anybody's demise, especially the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer, which truly meant anything to Timothy.
The most potent, lethal demon, whose possession is divinely crying for a conjuration by the most cautious priests and nuns in the diocese to bash out its vile essence from his new home. Somebody's vulnerable, flimsy façade. Way too vulnerable for a daredevil assault that affected its prey mentally and physically ruthlessly. The damage was inexorable.
Although the British compatriot's stealthily, ruefully sorrow plundered the stark ecstasy and coldhearted, sadistic smugness that once roughly grained his facial attributes during his accomplishment of the quest to reunite with Jude and have revenge on her for her broken promises, it wasn't unnoticed by his master, apt to superintend his impending intentions, in order to play his own cards right.
Demogorgon wasn't satisfied, even when monitoring his recent prey to shed the unhallowed, translucently uneven tears, darkened by his real despondency of murdering nobody other than his own rare bird. He wanted Timothy to abide as cold-bloodedly sadistic and barbaric towards his victims as possible to outlast what he's actually capable of. The patchy sanctum of mercy and hopes were the worst foes of his master to contemplate glassily, jadedly into the possessed doctor.
Luster medley of unconditional despondency, somewhat pangs of conscience and agitation were exquisitely masked with the sadistically ruthless mask of the real demon's façade, obscuring, even a modicum of sacred light and benevolence to curtain his strands.
In the meanwhile, the immobile petite frame was frostily convenient swaddled in a sheerly oyster-white blanket, obscuring the brightly artificial illumination by its electric bulb filtering her from head to toe. The private clinic for the performance of the autopsy was unevenly, peculiarly quiet and gruesomely bestowing bountiful comfort to the former ambitious Monsignor.
The pure loneliness criminally cured his frequently throbbing headaches of listening to the rich soundtrack of mortals' chatters as usual. The loneliness wasn't for everybody else except the keen fans of the passionately curing, addictive solitude either for good or dreadful reasons especially better, due to their daily clashes with the frequency of blow-minding people's chatters and babbles, outnumbering their inner voices and the separated pearly golden time to ponder over their remarkable activities.
