Kicking Sand In The Face Of Jehovah
It is his wedding day, but the stress and pressure of commitment sends what should be a happy event into a spiraling chaos. Not only does the underworld reach up to grab the wedding party from the face of the earth, but the arrival of Mephistophelene herself threatens to tear Dexter’s holy union with bride-to-be Belle, asunder. Will he succumb to temptation as the unwanted guest brazenly taunts him in the sacred sanctuary of the Churchyard, throwing sand in the face of Jehovah?
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The ground itself is swallowing them. It’s not supposed to be like this. Sprinting across the gravel yard, I lunge into a sliding dive, an ungraceful pebble skimming over a sea of stone. I feel each individual stone cutting into me as I scrape the surface. My hands, knees elbows are all bleeding raw, the skin having succumbed to the razor-sharp gravel beneath me. ‘Forget the pain,’ I tell myself, ‘forget the pain.’ My outstretched hands reach for the flailing arms of mother. I grab her around her wrist. She is descending, slipping away into the belly of Hell.
How to describe such frantic malaise, other than that they are sinking? The ground, the sacred grounds of the Church just opened up and started swallowing people one by one. People. My friends, my family. My wedding party.
I’ve just seen my father disappear completely. Sucked into a hole that opened up beneath his feet. Down he went yelling, scrambling in futile efforts to climb out, calling Mother’s name desperately for help. No-one reached him in time. The mouth in the earth was too fast. Down he went, and the earth formed over him.
From my vantage point upon my belly, I just see the wrists of mother as I cling onto her. I can just see the cuffs of her olive green suit, the one she spent all her savings on, depriving herself of a holiday, just to see me get wed. Now that costly suit is sinking, sinking fast with Mother. The stains Mother! ‘Think of the dry cleaning’ I hear my mind screaming at her.
My teeth are clenched in effort. I don’t speak. I do cry. She’s too heavy. Too much gravity pulling down, down, down. Her French-manicured nails dig into the palms of my hands as she dies into the earth. She slips away. Before I can scramble to my feet to look down the hole, the earth reforms and leaves only a solid bed of gravel where once my mother stood.