Sins of the Father

Sins of the Father


Why did I agree to this? Stifling a yawn, Father “Bill” Jenkins stared into the mirror, trying to adjust his vestments. For some reason, he couldn’t get the stole to lie properly. The Arch Diocese of Boston had ordered a special midnight mass in remembrance of those who had been lost in the Marathon bombings the year before. He finally gave up. “Hell, no one’s going to show up any way,” he muttered.

“Sorry, Father. Did you say something?”

Father Bill glanced in the mirror, becoming aware of the young altar boy standing by the sanctuary door. The boy seemed familiar but he couldn’t be sure. Must be one of the new ones. He was young, probably no more than thirteen. “No, lad. Just saying a prayer in preparation for the service.”

“Yes, Father. Well, if you need anything …” He left the sentence hanging.

If I need anything. Father Bill felt his pulse quicken. Maybe after the service. He grinned but quickly softened it to a friendly smile. “Do I know you?” he asked, turning, but the boy had disappeared.

Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he pulled out his notes for the homily and reviewed them once more as he walked to the vestibule for the entrance procession.

Taking his place, he began the walk toward the altar. The sanctuary was quiet but he was surprised to see that all the pews seemed filled. As he rounded the dais, he looked out over the gathering. Without thinking, he began the traditional greeting. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son,
And of the Holy Spirit.” Only silence greeted him.

“We’re going to deviate from the traditional ritual tonight, Father” a young voice said.

Confused, Father Bill looked around. The entire congregation was staring at him intently. The feeling of hostility was palpable in the air. “What …” he began when it struck him. The faces were pale … and young.

“Starting to remember?” the voice said again.

Several of the faces were familiar. He felt his face flush as they came into focus. He remembered; he remembered their touch, their taste. He remembered the shame he had felt but denied as he violated them, as he violated their trust, as he allowed Satan to guide his actions.

Oh God, what have I done? Only a moment passed before he felt a surge of anger sweep over him. “What is this? This is God’s house. Why are you here?”

The sweet voice seemed to whisper, “No, Father. This isn’t God’s house – not tonight.”

He felt hands grip his wrists with an inhuman strength, pulling him to the front of the altar and throwing him to his knees. He watched in horror as the crucifix seemed to float to the floor, coming to rest with the statue of Jesus face down.

“You turned your back on God. Tonight, he has turned His back on you.”

Panic flooded through him and he felt a scream rise in his throat. It was cut off as the ritual cloth was stuffed into his mouth. He felt himself dragged and placed on the backside of the cross, held in place by dozens of small hands.

The sound of hammering hit his ears moments before the burning pain registered in his mind. Chants of “crucify him, crucify him” hung in the air as the large nails were driven through his wrists and ankles. The sounds of bone shattering seemed to reverberate through his being.

The eyes of his victims seemed to bore into him as he felt the cross being raised until he found himself hanging in space. “This is wrong,” he managed to croak. “I didn’t mean …”

“Wasn’t it you who said that the road to hell is paved with good intention?” one slight blonde boy said, his face twisted in mirthless smile. “You’re on that road right now, Father,” he spat.

His head sagged and he could see blood dripping onto the altar below. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, the pain clouding his thinking.

“You’ve made us suffer for years while you piously used God’s name to justify your evil. That ends tonight.”

He knew that voice! Lifting his head, he watched as a teenage boy approached carrying a stanchion that had been used for the Christian flag. The flag had been removed and the end had been sharpened.

“Tommy? Tommy Long?” The connection suddenly hit him. Longinus was the name of the Roman soldier who had pierced the side of Jesus at the Crucifixion.

As though reading his mind, Tommy’s face twisted into a malevolent grin. “No Bill. You’re not Jesus. You’re not innocent.” With deliberation, Father Bill watched as the point of the spear was hoisted, not at his side, but at his rectum. He screamed as he felt himself violated, his insides torn, his organs pierced and ripped.

Through eyes swollen by pain, he watched as the group seemed to dissipate leaving him to slowly suffocate.

Their fading words were the last thing he heard: “Amen.”


An entry for {item: 2020439}
Prompt: THE AUDIENCE IS GROWING HOSTILE.
Word Limit: 1000
Word Count: 839