Life Left

LIFE LEFT #1 (of 5)


Chika Phylix Ptrs

The ‘Good’ Pastor

Breathe in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I did. I finally did it. The bastard responsible for the death of my family has finally been cornered. His blood drips from the serrated blade clutched in my left hand. His whimpers crawl through the air and reach my ears as I take in deep breathes laced with the tinge of copper. I enjoy the feel of it in my lungs, and I lick off some of the dripping blood from my blade. The taste spikes my senses as my taste buds explode in glory. My heart beats a steady rhythm like I have done this a hundred times, but this is indeed my first time.

This is the first time I will kill, and it feels all so natural to me. I may never do this again, but right now, this very moment, I was born to live it.

I take steady steps towards the whimpering body wedged between the pews of his own church. My pastor tries to impede my progress with a feeble hand, but I easily swat it away and feel no remorse as it lands hard against the wall. My pastor yelps in pain, and the sound sickens me. I thought he was supposed to be a man to lead lost sheep back to the master. And yet here he is, in what I’m sure is his own blood and piss.

The urine smell mixes itself into the pleasure of the copper and the metallic tang is ruined. I’m currently walking in little pools of the pastor’s blood, and the squelching of my shoes sends a message of impeding doom. Pastor is fidgeting and trying to say words, and I am feeling patient to hear him out.

“B-b-b-b-b-b… Bimpe please… don’t…” he tries to plead.

“Don’t what, pastor sir?” I can’t help the mockery in my voice. I’m putting this man in his place.

“Don’t kill me please,” pastor cries out, tears and mucus rolling down his face, “I beg of you Bimpe.”

“My mother and my brother begged for their lives, I’m sure,” I say casually as I bend on my haunches to stare pastor eye to eye, “And yet… they’re dead.”

My mother and brother were unfortunate to walk in on the pastor and the elders shifting church money into their pocket linings. Apparently, from the conversation I overhead my dear pastor have with one of the elders weeks later, it seemed my mother may not have even known what they were talking about. But, in their moments of amateurish professionalism, they decided to gut her and my brother.

What was the worst part about it? They claimed my beautiful, sweet mother had been possessed and grabbed a knife to slash at all of them, then when the ‘power’ of the Lord was winning, she gutted her son and then herself. The congregation ate up the story, and I can never forget the whispers that follow me everywhere. I was treated like a plague because the ‘demon’ was coming for me next.

Seems the demon came back, and vengeance is its desire.

“Bimpe… I-I-I swear! I did not want to… to do it! I swear in the name of Go—” the pastor cries out as I stabbed his arm.

“Don’t say that name, you wretched waste of space,” I spit out. “You want to swear on the name on God? I’ll send him to you soon enough so you can do it in person.”

Pastor tries to talk but I take my shawl and gag him with it. I’d rather the sweet serenade of his muffled screams tickle my eardrums than the wretched sayings of his vile mouth. With time to spare, I carefully carve the pastor in different places, enjoying the way the serrated blade feels as I puncture flesh and tear through muscle. The rush is exhilarating, and soon I come to realize pastor is hanging by a thread for dear life.

With some compassion, I remove the shawl and ask, “Any final words?”

Pastor chokes and wheezes as his lungs fill up with blood, courtesy of my handiwork. “The elders… they plan… to… kill you… too.”

I smile at this revelation. “Let them try. I invite them to my abode.”

“Please…” pastor coughs up blood, “forgive… me Bimpe…”

I consider this, and I kneel down to whisper in pastor’s ear, “May your sins never leave you and forgiveness never find you.” His eyes bulge out as he realizes he dies a man with a rejected dying wish. In pain he wheezes and coughs before he breathes his last. I watch as his eyes go vacant, and I know my work here is done.

I clean my blade on his clothes and stand, wrapping my shawl around my head. My gown is black, so blood stains don’t show up. I can find some water and splash around to get some of the copper smell off me. I walk up to the front of the church and bow my head in a small prayer, the futility and irony evident to me. With that done, I gracefully walk out of the church, preparing myself for the vicious deaths I am to inflict on the elders.

“Forgive me Lord, but I will sin some more.”







Phylix Chika
Writer, Editor,

"Lover of fiction, creator of stories, avid gamer, profound web developer."


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