Past Wrath

Sitting at the table, the man wept. In his right hand, he held a large bottle of Jack Daniels, and in his left was a single picture. A picture of the past, he often thought. Taking a swig of the alcohol, he stared at the picture. Putting himself into the photo. Then a single droplet, a tear, fell from his red eyes. The drugs were kicking in, numb the pain.....let them consume me, the man thought. Laying his head down on the table, he stared face to face to the girl. She was his sign, his only worldly attempt, of love. The picture held a small girl, maybe five feet tall, and her smile helped eat the pain away. Behind her a small tree stood, and buried under that tree was where the man's first victim was buried. Staring deeper into the photo, the man heard the coming. It was now only a small beat in his temples, but soon it would change volume and roar through his mind like a screaming ghost. A ghost of the past self. The coming was almost here. The wrath of the beast. Not the usual suspect, the devil. John knew better to believe in that heaven and hell bullshit. But this thing was no bullshit. His past had been a bad decision, and that in itself lead up to his.......own coming. The wrath.....of uncommon proportions was to take place in John's head soon. Not mentally either, but in a physical manner. John had experienced the wrath before, and walked away, leaving a few dead people in his wake, but he himself....had lived. Now he didn't think that was going to be so. The picture crumbled in his sweaty palm, and soon the tears came. He wiped them away carefully, and thought of the coming, the wrath, and the pain that would soon take place. The transformation of all good and evil take place at least once in each of us, the time our lives are decided and dealt out. The roaring train, blaring down the lane....the wrath, was coming. He would let it come, he decided finally. He looked up off the table, and stared at the faucet. "Let it come," He said to himself and leaned back in his chair, and shut his darkened eyelids. And came it did. The pounding had increased now, keeping a steady rhythm.

Knock, knock, knocking on your doorstep the demon comes and open wide proud son, for the one it seeks is doomed as the demon itself. For the lost lover in the dark was spoke true love, and now I can only speak, true, brutal hate. The language of wrath, and of the consumption of souls.

The police found John v. Escaps dead body at 6:00 o clock on a June morning. The man's skull had been blown open, by what had looked like a weapon wound, even though there was no weapon to be found. The papers would ponder his death in the tabloids for months to come, but some just shrugged and let it go. Something had effected the investigators at the scene of the crime though. Causing them to go into a nightmarish state, night after night. Many of them, pushed it, shoved it more like it out of there minds. When the brain to John v. Escaps had shown through it broken and bloodied skull, there seemed to be something imprinted there. A number.666. Everyone had shunted this as crazy, but the ones who saw it, never forgot it. As for the girl in the picture, she knew better. She had known It had finally sought its revenge....and It had Came. The Wrath. Often she thought about this, and she herself held a picture close to her heart. And no one could take that. Not even It. Not even blatant hate itself, which was, the wrath.