The grave tones of the bell sounded.
The first chime was gentle, it was harmless.
Perhaps this was his holy redemption, his cleansing of all the sins that manifested within – he did not know why he was here, of all places. He could not run anymore. Towering over multiple rows of wooden pews, Mr Volkov was enunciating, gesturing toward nothing in particular to express his passion for a vacant chapel. Who was he performing for? For him? He was beyond salvation, he could no longer entertain this fallacy.
The second chime.
He did what he had to do. This affirmation was practised like own faith, his four walls behaving as his church. His head lowered and his gaze fell to his worn palms. The candlelight illuminated his threadbare calluses. Each time he closed his eyes they were seeping with a crimson only found within the human infrastructure. There was blood, so much of it that those red rivers swept him up in their tempestuous currents and suffocated him — he digressed, insistent — he did what he had to do. He nodded in agreement with himself, droplets of sweat shedding upon his wretched forehead.
Something echoed in the furthest chambers of his cranium. An imprecise ache. Mercy! Mercy, good fellow! He shook his head profusely – he could not bear to listen, those shrill intonations haunting his waking moments. ‘I must forget… I did what I had to do.’ With a deep breath, he shifted uncomfortably, his bodily functions suddenly beginning to fluctuate. Beating like the hooves of a stallion, his heart distorted within his chest – the red stallion craved release from its narrow stable, frustrated and eager, kicking at its confinement. He was confident that he would be the death of himself.
The third chime.
He ogled the only other entity he could see. Mr Volkov was bellowing but not a single word could be deciphered. Squinting, he spectated the movement of the preacher’s lips. What was he saying? Mercy! He snapped his head around, a frightful snivel contorting his expression. The voice was closer, by his ear, he swore it! ‘I did what I had to do’. To protect himself, to fortify his reputation as a sane, functional man, nothing was out of the question. No one was safe. Gathering his frail posture, he regressed into the corner of the pew with his shaking disposition. This was not the sanctuary he was promised. His hands pressed together in urgent prayer – maybe he was doing it wrong, that he had not called upon the Beloved in the proper candour. Mutters and whispers fled his quivering mouth – pleads of forgiveness, the desire to be freed, a promise of his eternal devotion. The chiming was endless. Consumed by noise, his face buried into his tucked knees.
‘My son…Are you listening?’
Mr Volkov stood before him, his hands at his abdomen. Gusts of ferocious wind rustled the slender conifers outside. The preacher knelt at the side of him with a perplexed expression, his stone features softening at the sight of this inconsolable creature.
‘Child, I implore you – confess what is on your mind, to a messenger of our Beloved. Why are you here?’
The man looked at the preacher. He analysed his sympathetic gaze and smiled, reassured; he was going to be saved, he said so himself. How comforting was this notion! – the shaking had subsided, his heart decelerating steadily. With deliverance in sight, his eyes ablaze with a sinister fire, he unravelled at his withering seams.
‘I did what I had to do.’
