Helen's death and re-emergence leads to a battle of might versus will, revenge versus hope, and the second Son Of God.
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Taken off the streets at the tender age of twelve, Helen was “rescued” by David Washington, founder of a separatist hate group. Now in her twenties, the lost youth knows nothing but hatred, a hatred that leads to her death and re-emergence.
Helen has an ability the Legions of Hell want, she has seen the path to the afterlife but still walks among Heaven’s hopefuls. They need her to scar the one who spurned them. To save her, a hidden sect of the Church, The Order of Camerone, fight the supernatural.
The battle begins, might versus will, revenge versus hope, and the second Son of God.
“Who’s in here? I can hear you. Come out, I’m right here waiting for you.”
Silence followed, and her suspicion rose. Helen stood and peered throughout the room. The curtains at the window sat still, television darkened, nothing out of place.
“I know you’re here.” Helen rushed over to her dresser and took out the Holy Scriptures, and laid them on her lap. She sat on the bed quietly. If she had one thing in her life she clung to, it was her skewed vision of the Good Book.
“God be with me. I don’t know these voices in my head,” Helen covered her ears. “Please end this. Lord, help me.”
Helen opened the Bible.
“They hurt me once. Father please don’t let them hurt me further. Your verse has always helped me conquer my demons. Help me with this one.” Helen begged as visions of the two attackers infiltrated her mind once more.
Helen turned to her right. Her right arm flung out as one of the assailants held her arm tightly and pressed it to the bed. She turned left. The other attacker pinned her left arm to the bed. Without provocation, the darkest dark swirled in front of her. It was a darkness she had never seen before. An entity in itself, it made no sound, gave no expression, yet filled the room with an aura of hate.
Helen stared vacantly at the entity. The attackers released their grips. She pushed herself to the back of the bed. Her heart was racing, and her breaths were short. She was unable to take her eyes away. Looking for a weapon of any sort, only the Bible lay in view. Cliché moments in the annals of cinema thrust themselves to the forefront of her mind. She opened the book. The words blurred. Her eyes bled. A single drop of blood hit the open page and the words vanished. Helen turned the page and it was blank. She turned the page, blank, and turned the page, blank. She wiped her eyes and blood covered her palms. She cried. “Father,” Helen screamed. “Why do you forsake me in my time of need?”
Helen ran to her purse and spilled it out onto her bed. She spread the contents over the sheets. Panic replaced any rational thought. Her first idea became the solution. Scavenging through the chaos, she pulled out a pen. Helen uncapped the pen and opened her Bible again.
“Okay, Father. I see. I need to work for you. I understand. One, thou shall not kill. Two thou shall not take another God. Three, don’t steal.” She both spoke and wrote.
Helen shook unable to find the words. She placed the pen down and sat silently. She looked upon the book and the words she just wrote…blank. She flipped through the pages one after another. Each page was pure white. Her chest emptied, her stomach emptied, her mind emptied, her arms numbed and fell to her side.
She laughed, looking at the pen. “Fucking pen. It’s just the fucking pen, an empty pen.” she laughed and threw the writing utensil across the room.
She grabbed another pen and wrote. Nothing stuck. She looked down at the pen, smiling. She threw the pen and grabbed her lipstick. “Now, I know this will work.” Helen twisted the lipstick, forcing the bright red makeup nearly an inch over its casing.
She looked at the blank page and scribbled away her rendition of the Ten Commandments. Nothing stuck to the pages. She marked across her arm with the lipstick and produced a brightly colored streak.
She picked up the book. “You’re the one fucking me. You’re the one trying to deceive me.” She wrote on the bed and the walls. In a moment of delusion, she called on the scriptures and wrote any recollections of the Word on her walls. Off the holy pages and onto the walls, her words appeared. The Commandments on one side of her room, and any name she could evoke on the remaining walls, written in a mad hand. She etched the names Jesus, Mary, Moses, and Isaiah throughout the room, along with innumerable crosses and images of angels. Her soul was torn between being lost and having no hope at all.
“This can’t be real. I’m just going through some post traumatic syndrome shit,” she said to herself, laughing at her irrational response to a misprinted Bible and a few tricks of the mind.
“Your trauma hasn’t started yet,” an eerie voice echoed.
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