The Sacrifice

922 words


The candles burned in rows. I mean, of course they would. They also burned in a circle all around me. But that was the nature of where I was. I looked down at my feet and saw that the candles had burned out. They were lit when I was dragged into the chamber against my will, but I was there for so long they flickered out. Much like my patience.
And that was the thing, you see. I was more annoyed than anything else. Here I was, strapped to a stone slab waiting for something to happen and all I did was wait! You'd think the jerks upstairs would remember the importance I posed. By the end, I just wanted it over and done with.
Instead, I got placed on hold. Like tech support for a land line. I remember when those were a thing. Home phones.
So I lay there. Oh, at first I did try to get free. They only used rope, after all. However, after a few attempts and a red burn on my wrists, I realized these guys must have been sailors. The knots just wouldn't budge. Even if I got loose and they captured me again. Even that would be preferable to all the waiting.
I sighed. A long, drawn out sigh that ended in a growl of frustration. The nerve of these guys! And it wasn't like it was my first time breaking into a cultists' commune. Yet, here I was, trapped like an amateur. Struggling against the tightly woven brown threads of fate. Or consequence. I never did make up my mind on such schools of thought. With all the waiting, though, my mind became clearer and clearer.
The robe they threw me in was uncomfortable also, making the whole ordeal even more intolerable. It was sackcloth. Who uses sackcloth anymore. I mean, given that I was to be their sovereign sacrifice, couldn't they have splurged on something a little less abrasive? Even a cotton/poly blend would have been better than this!
There was an itch right above my naval. Imagine how aggravating! And with my arms tied up above my head with no way of itching! I tell you, some lunatic cultists have no respect for their sacrifices.
I stared at the ceiling of the basement. It was difficult to memorize the brown two by fours though with a stinging nag on your stomach.
Finally, they came in and things just got more intolerable. Down the steps leading from the kitchen of the shoddy trailer they came two by two. Of course they were wearing masks. Of course they were wearing black cloaks. Could they get any more cliche? I was pretty sure the material for their robes was a nicer quality than I was in.
The nerve.
As they came down the aisle of unlit candles, they stopped to light them. I didn't even squirm, instead craning my head up to watch the imbeciles slowly lumber toward me. Twelve in all. Each lighting a single candle and surrounding me.
"What, no cake?" I quipped as they joined hands. No one answered. Voicelessness is a requirement of anonymity. Except on the internet. That's well known.
Naturally, they began chanting something in a strange language. I rolled my eyes and groaned outwardly. The whole ordeal was becoming more disappointing by the minute. I mean, if I was going to be captured by raving morons for some moronic cult, I was hoping they would at least be original in their approach.
That was when I saw the knife. My meandering thoughts stopped short. In fact, I admit I was a little impressed. Not by the size of the knife, mind you. It was quite large. Like a sharp triangle of death. No, actually by the brevity of the ritual. Here I was, strapped to a stone slap with an itchy belly for hours, expecting the actual ceremony to go on even longer- these types like to drone on forever before killing their victims- and lo and behold, they finish promptly. No speaking, no raving about god, no communal blood drinking. Short and to the point. Literally.
Then, the knife plunged down into my chest.
Indeed, my life flashed before my eyes. They aren't kidding when they say that happens. I could bore you with the details like how it all played backwards in reverse so I couldn't actually coherently tell what was happening or how it brought back such insignificant memories of past pets and missed opportunities. Suffice to say, it's much more disappointing than the experts make out. If I were at the cinema, I would ask for my money back.
Instead, I'll just jump to the end.
You see, the itch above my belly button was replaced by a sharp, empty feeling in my chest. As I stared up at the ceiling, voices of the cultists muffled for some odd, unearthly reason, I noticed lights swimming in the air. They flickered at first, but then grew brighter and brighter until I'm pretty sure my eyes were closed, but they were still burning. They were warm and scattered in the void above me dancing to an ethereal beat.
I smiled and at first figured they were nothing but the candles placed around me in the basement rising out of grief or resolution or some fiery pathway to the next realm. But I knew better. I knew these lights were had to be something else. They couldn't be the same candles. Those candles burned in rows.