At the Hands of the Father
By Alan V Legis

How often would I lie awake at night, alone, and tremble, tremble in fear of the moment when the stair would creak as a heavy foot fell upon it? Alone in my bed, that tranquil abyss of dreams for so many, which had become, for me at least, a place of nightmares and nightmares yet to be, I waited. Each and every night would I cower in dread anticipation, listening for the sound of that stair, the sound which would signal the coming of a new, waking nightmare.

Not always would it come, and sometimes I would pass into a troubled sleep, perhaps listening as I slept for I would wake at the slightest sound, my skin wet and my sheets damp with sweat. But ever was that fear with me, that heart wrenching terror, that the creaking of an age old step would herald the coming of my tormentor. At the sound of that step I would know he was coming, but still my heart would hope against hope that he would pass by my door and leave me safe for another night.

Sometimes it would indeed be so but these times were few, for most often the footsteps would pause outside my door and seconds later the door handle would begin to turn. In that moment would I know that the hour of my suffering had come. The door would be swung silently open and he would be with me, leering his terrible, dripping grin as he closed the door, his eyes never leaving me for an instant.

How I would cower and tremble before him, holding my blankets tight as if they were a shield against his evil, but always would he draw them aside. His hands would fall upon me, not the loving hands of a father, for that is what he was to me and his flock, but the hands of some lusty, evil terror. Terrible indeed was his touch, but worse still was the feel of his lips against mine and the smell, nay not just the smell but taste also, of the wine upon his breath.

For how many minutes or hours my ordeal would last I cannot say, but he would not stop until his lust was spent. Then would he leave me, giving me a single kiss upon the forehead and speaking not a single word. Once his desire had be satisfied I saw only shame in his eyes.

Strange as it may seem, I came to long for that kiss upon the forehead with an intensity bordering upon obsession. That single kiss would signal me that it was safe to sleep the night, that I had endured and only my sobs and fitful dreams would trouble me further. Until the next night, my torment was over.

Ever and ever this nightmare went on, night after night, yet never did my terror diminish and never could I sleep without listening for the sound of that step.

What sin had I that I might deserve this torment? Could it not be that my misdeeds had led the father to fall from his holy calling? Oh, the doubts would assail me that the father was good and twas I who had fallen, that all blame was mine. Many tears of mine did there fall to soft and silent pillow, so many tears as I lay awake and wondered. Perhaps I was, as the father had once told me, some evil Jezebel with whom the devil sought to tempt him. Perhaps my flesh was his temptation and how quick was he to yield to lust. Always when I would see him on the morn after his visits would he look upon me with eyes of hate, the eyes with which the disciples must have looked ‘pon Judas.

Odd though it may seem to you, even though my torture came at the hands of a servant of god, I could not yet turn my eyes and hopes from the almighty. Often would I pray, but my prayers went without answer for it seemed to me that god and him were in league, partners in my torture. How could this god to whom I cried aloud my anguish remain impotent? Did he intend for my suffering to continue, unending, for an eternity?

But one night there came a time when I could bear the torment no longer and upon that night I resolved that if god would not help me then I must look to myself for salvation.

That night he indeed came to me, drunken and full of lust, and I was ready for him. Earlier I had taken a knife from the kitchen, and as he came to me I plunged it into him. The look upon his face! Such surprise that he, who had so long abused me, should be the victim of this obscene penetration. He did not speak a word, simply stared at me before falling upon the floor.

At last I was free. With his body buried he would at least be banished from my waking life even if his death could not prevent him from haunting my memories and dreams. No longer would he come drunken to me in the night to indulge his perversions upon me, no longer would I have to lie awake and tremble for the sound of that step which would cut into my soul like a razor.

Or so I thought.

Many weeks passed. I grew to listen no more and sleep would welcome me with loving arms instead of always hovering ethereal and just beyond reach. And then, as I lay within my bed, then came that sound which I so dreaded, the sound of a foot upon that stair.

My heart leapt and pounded as it had never before and I feared it would burst within my breast. Alas that it did not. Alas that but for stubborn flesh I might have been spared the ordeal yet to come.

On and on the footsteps came as someone mounted the stairs. It’s a dream thought I, it cannot be him for he is dead. I killed him, my own hands laying his cold flesh in the dirt with no epitaph to mark his passing.

The handle of my door was turned and before me stood a fiend more terrible than my darkest imaginings. It was him, who weeks before I had killed. His face was pale and pallid with heavy rings about his eyes, insects writhed and crawled in the yawning pit of his mouth. His clothes were filthy and from his stomach still protruded the knife with which I had taken his life. About his neck was his white collar but it hung askew and twisted as had been his nature in life.

This was no dream. I could smell the earth upon him, could taste decay upon the air.

He came to me then as he had came many times before, heedless as ever of my terrified sobs, only now his touch was cold and dead instead of warm with the fire of lust. No longer was wine upon his breath, only the stench of the grave. After an ordeal beyond words, an eternity shivering beneath his dead flesh, he had apparently taken his fill of me for he kissed me upon the forehead and left.

For hours I cried, my mind unable to cope with the terror which I had faced. Surely it could not have been real?

But real it was and, as before, he began to come to me once again whenever the fancy took him. Though he was dead and that lust was gone from his eyes, the cold of the grave was a thousand times worse. Every moment beneath that dead flesh would my sanity fade and madness threaten.

What terrible god could have inflicted this upon me? Does god take delight in watching my torment at the hands of the father, delight so much that he will take action to save me? It seems to me that he is not a loving god as the father used to preach but an evil and perverse fiend. The world cries out for his help yet he uses his miracles only to indulge his degradation and that of his servant.

Will I ever be free? God seems determined that my life should be a hell, an abomination in honour of him who so many worship with bright songs whilst their bellies are empty and their children lie dying. Prostrate they grovel and beseech his mercy, and he sendeth naught but drought and famine, further torments for those born damned.

But perhaps I will cheat him yet of his foul pleasure. As I write this my lifes blood flows from the wounds at my wrists and I eagerly wait the onset of the eternal sleep called death. I can only hope that in death I will find release and for my life has been but one long torment. I can only hope that god has not one perverse miracle to inflict upon me at the last, some dark and twisted magic that might make my torture endless.

Pray for me, but pray not to him for he delights only in pain.

Pray that in death I will find a greater pleasure than I ever did in life.

Ah, I begin to grow faint as my blood flows. I can feel the welcome arms of oblivion reaching out to embrace me. Such sweet embrace, sleep without end in the tender clasp of nothingness. Now has no meaning.

I can feel my doubts slipping from me like dust, blown away by the breeze of freedom. Fear is gone, the darkness of an unknown death now holding no power over me.

So my life ends.