Father Morten

Father Morten

Oh how the coldness of the sweet winter breeze comforted me more than ever on a night such as this. The whispers of the hustling, bustling sounds of society seductively soothed me, although reluctantly, teasing me with the taste of freedom again. Only a thin bed, sullen floor, essential utilities and the tear-inducing howls of inmates desperate for life were my friends tonight. I can’t be pitied that much for such heinous crimes that violated so many an individual of innocence and life, death by electrocution seemed fair. I have only been vaguely reassured by a blind Priest who goes by the name of Father Morten, and merely because of his presence only. The man doesn’t speak much, but rumor has it that he is a direct liaison of God, some even say he became blinded for casting his human eyes upon the unfathomable brightness of God’s golden throne for too long; I doubted that. More compelling stories of men falling to their knees crying in God-driven passion in his presence, speaking in secret tongue and some even becoming paralyzed in peaceful euphoria before their execution are what really excite me: I had even heard of people seeing heaven directly in his eyes. This all has compelled me greatly to meet this man. Now I can safely say that I’m a firm believer in God after being an atheist my whole life, giving me myriad comfort. I haven’t read the bible, but I’m assured by my fellow prisoners that good works and faith are enough.
Yet, I still can’t help but fear. I feared uncertainty, I feared pain, I feared sometimes in feverish dementia on particularly troublesome nights. Death by electricity was surely an agonizingly painful way to die, with my organs being seared into acrid bits, and fire running through the deepest vestiges of my body, all that has been created will be turned into waste. Once dead, I would be just as equal to slaughtered animal: both deceased pieces of matter that go through same process of decay and carry the same blank, soulless stare in decay. Oh what morbid thoughts! Although troubled by these contemplations there should be no worries of course, my execution is justified and death will be my stepping stone to a more pleasant after life.
Still, something also worried me; a man by the name of Ashby Willis. He was an old, beyond senile, 78 year old lunatic who blasted egregiously absurd and non-sequitur sayings that annoyed all around him persistently. He slept under a blanket in a dirty, feces covered corner during the daylight and roamed his cell in spectral glides at night. Only after a while did his words cut me little by little. He was imprisoned for murdering his wife of 48 years by snuffing her with a pillow and was ruled insane and kept for the remainder of his life in this institution. Ashby always screamed “Castrate the wicked!” or “Let me eat the Cassocked beast. He is unholy!” All of these sayings didn’t bother me up until very recent observations where as Father Morten would talk to Ashby in such whispers only to be returned with the repetitive bombardment of, “Oh Father, Oh Fathers save me from that Father! He eats my insides clean!” and fall into a shocked stupor. His madness deeply disturbed me; especially in the presence of a man of God.
While reminiscing these observations in my cage, a shape moved assiduously in the dark with an ardent stride that partially blocked a bit of the moonlight in my cage. The shape stopped, and I could make it out to be a man wearing a cassock and holding a rosary with an ivory cane at his side. It had to of been Father Morten.
The Father looked different up close, although I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. He was abnormally tall, head shaven and noticeably gaunt even in the cassock. His pallid skin in the moonlight hugged his cheeks and his nose was shaped like a beak, although ostensibly ghastly, he was still a man of God and that gave me comfort. He stared absently into space waved me forward with his claw-like appendages and smiled jubilantly, showing perfectly straight yet grossly yellowed teeth, making me hesitate for a second regrettably. I said “Hello Father.”
He said, “Hello brother Richard, I am Father Morten as you probably now, I hear you are to be put to death tomorrow, I wanted to give spiritual peace and knowledge. I cannot find peace until hear the Word. Are you familiar with the Word my son?” I immediately answered, “Yes, I am somewhat familiar with God’s word, Father” making him grin with delight. He then stuck his bird-like nose through the bars and whispered “Not that, you idiot, have you heard my word? Does no one instill my legendary sermons in this institution anymore? Ugh, ignorant, ignorant man” How odd, I thought, maybe he was falling into an early degenerative brain disease or perhaps he was leading me onto an esoteric sermon. After all, this was man was magical, I said nothing and hoped for him to connect to something spiritually comforting.
He spoke with a resolute firmness, still staring into space and not at me. “I am blind, as you can see.” He tapped his guiding stick on the bars. He continued and seemed to lose track of his thoughts for a moment. “Ah, yes, I am blind therefore I can’t see and therefore I’m presumably weak. Oh how prone I am to kissing walls, stumbling clumsily and carelessly living. You’re a lucky man to have sight, and especially lucky that you live in such ignorant bliss in God.” I gasped and exclaimed “What do you mean Father, you of all people are supposed to be the medium of truth between God and our world?!” He smiled and said, “I am the medium for truth, not God, and therefore I weep for you my son. I weep.”
The father’s eyes met the beam of moonlight squeezing through the thick steel bars and accentuated his gray, cat-like eyes covered with a thin film of white. Staring into my eyes now, he spoke with confidence. “God is dead, and so are you. I am logic, and not just a blind old thing. Trust me, I am yours and you are mine forever.”
Fear and anger tore through my insides and I spoke with haste to the blasphemous man. “You dare announce yourself as man of God, yet you spill with such acrid talk of ‘oblivion.’ Fool, God did you well by making you blind, faith is strong in me, and you speak with such bold falseness!” His mere demeanor intimidated me, but such derogatory marks towards God, struck an unsolicited fear in me that produced anger. He shoved his hands through the bar and grabbed my hand with a weak yet ironically unbreakable grip.
His eyes yellowed and with a mellow tone he said “See what I see, these aren’t mere musings on behalf of some iconoclastic philosopher that can only guess between oblivion and consciousness after death on blind grounds of speculative theory. I hear everyone whisper into my ears for a light to see, their outlines are faint, and they roam around in darkness hoping for a light to see fruitlessly. I hear their pleas, they plea until they are exhausted and rest fitfully for eternity. Sometimes they wake, forgetting what happened, but they return to their slumber. Slumber is the only thing to do in this world after ours. This isn’t oblivion that you speak of, but a repository for consciousness to flow into and then fizzle accordingly after time. On my own time.”
This man seemed so asinine, yet his words held heavy to me. His countenance expressed something formidable, not physically but spiritually in his demeanor. I was speechless, and just then, he grabbed my hand with a light grip that stuck like ink to paper. I couldn’t tear off his branch-like fingers. He whispered, “See what I see.” And at the end of the last vowel, it was as if a cape was thrown over my eyes; I was then submerged in a dark world.
A cold, constant breeze tickled my cheeks, and I only saw vague lights dance in an otherwise pitch-black atmosphere. I smelled no longer the stale, stagnant, and saturated stench of the jail sail through my nose, but now only odorous wave of incense that brought me back to the comfortable familiarity of a Catholic Church ritual of some sort, that I couldn’t recall. I saw two yellow lights in the distance and instinctively ran towards it, for it was the only reassuring signal of light wherever I was. I hoped I was entranced into a dream for if this was reality, I would trade it a thousand times over for the prospect of being electrified death tomorrow.
As I ran closer, I saw vague alabaster outlines of people roaming around. They were faceless, emaciated, their skin was ripped into bloody flaps upon closer examination. They all looked lost. One of them grabbed me with lively strength and latched onto my mortified self. It was a male, and he said “Help me, he won’t stop bothering me.The darkness is becoming nauseating to me. Show me the way out! Show me the way out, for the love of GOD! SAVE ME!” He sounded familiar, like the only fellow prisoner, Herbert Sherman, I had conversed with, a few days previously before he committed suicide in his cell, the night before his execution. I asked where we were and he said “In the cassocked beast’s lair, he won’t stop following me and won’t let me out. I don’t know how I got here, please save me, I can’t bear to stay in here any longer. You must know a way out, PLEASE RICHARD!” His grip became stronger and so did my fear. I began to cry callously, and a calamity beseeched me. A horde of these sentient, uncanny and human-like beings appeared and glided toward me. Their cries tore my insides to pieces, almost paralyzing me with fear: I needed to find that light.
When I reached the yellowed light, eyes formed before me and laughter emanated from it in the same familiar voice of that priest which somehow filled my ears with unpleasant comfort. This was the only familiarity of the living I knew in this dream, but coldness beset me. The thing that sounded like priest moved towards me and took a dark shape absent of light like the others but was a slightly lighter shade than the otherwise black setting. Blinding bright, white eyes formed from yellow and only miniscule pupils filled them. I could then see pearly white canines appear and form an ironically endearing smile that made my skin shiver.
I now knew it was Father Morten for sure, the stick-like countenance and eerie smile (minus the yellowed teeth) assured me of it along with the laugh. He spoke in a monstrous, guttural tone. “Ah, don’t you see now? This will be your home for a nice while. The spirits lie here to cry for my help, but they are undeserving of it. This is my world, and God is dead here always. God is dead.” I was mortified, he carried a new vitality and his eyesight was restored. This was an awesomely terrible dream. I answered back with pure fear. “What are you?” Silence. Silence. Silence plagued me, yet the sly white slits of eyed me with inquisitive delight. He finally spoke, “I am what lies ahead, when you close eyes and leave this world behind to join the dead. I’m a guarantor of suffering, let’s just say. I punish the punitive specks of life that inflict pain in the others upon Earth. Whilst others enjoy immediate oblivion, I elongate consciousness after leave. I am not what you call human, I am unfathomable amidst human knowledge.” He spoke every in an almost poetic manner that struck and charmed me with the gravity he portrayed in every words.
“Why are you a priest, this all strikes me as odd, even blasphemous.” I said finally but he only gave that uncomfortable yet comfortable smile that emitted formidable evil and said “It’s my duty, and my hunger for you. Everyone has sympathy for a blind priest, and there’s no such thing as blasphemy I can assure you. It’s perfect, I live in peace and play with the dead whenever I want. Let me reiterate once again: God is dead. You will die. If anything, you and God are equals HA!” The wind picked up and I steadily withdrew from his unbearably terrible presence.
“You don’t leave until I permit. I am your God, I am your torturer and I ensure that your pain ends when my desire is satisfied. Do not be scared of me for we will be friends for a very long time.” I couldn’t leave his grip, and I screamed for what seemed like an eternity which grabbed the attention of the wanderers. They fell upon me and smothered me with dead, airless weight. I gasped, and woke up in a chair.
A small crowd comprised of feathered hats, extravagantly luminescent, to eagerly watch me fade away, all whispering with excitement about what I was soon to be. Jubilant murmurs of how long it would take for me to die went through the air. Amnesia had struck me up until this point, my last moment. The Father had conned me into forfeiting the last precious hours of my life. I was damned to his mercy and as they readied the circuits, I saw Father Morten reading the Bible and smiling malevolently in the crowd without looking up once.
God was dead, and so was I.