The following is an excerpt from a short story in my Cathedral Dust collection.
Sludge oozes from the cracks where the low ceiling meets the thick stone walls. Moments of silence pockmarked with the groans of men. Death lingers in the stale air. The prisoners are immune to its stench, but involuntary shudders follow the worst of the cries. For there is a pain that even the most seasoned of sufferers cannot bear to hear. Only the callous and the cruel can, and they still need practice.
With a primal look in his eye, the old man unfolds the page still clenched between his tattered fingers. Looking down, he traces the words he was given the week before, gripping the well-worn parchment so tightly the edge begins to tear. The sound pulls him from his trance. Softening his hold with a sniff, he stands up slowly and surveys his companions for the first time in weeks.
“For Jesus Christ I am prepared to suffer still more.”
– St. Maximilian Kolbe
Huddled together for warmth, dozens of prisoners line the single-room cage. One man scratches nervously at the wall, ignoring the trickle of blood coursing down his arm. Others gaze longingly at the sliver of light at the end of the long corridor. Another rocks back and forth, hyperventilating between sobs.
The old man gathers his resolve and approaches the condemned prisoner, whose eyes drift between vacant stare and frenzied dance as he continues to rock.
“Can I pray with you?”
[to be continued]
Thank you for reading.