Orgy of Souls

19

Evil had to have a face.

Samuel left it to smarter people than he to argue the finer philosophical points about the nature and origins of evil. He was more practical. He knew it when he saw it. True evil had to be incarnated—the brutality humanity was capable of inflicting on itself—or worse, experienced. In all of his years in the priesthood, he had learned much about the darkness, the shadow that trailed people. He saw it as a process, a corruption, much like the virus that slowly ate away at some of the very things that made him human. A stalking entropy from within that created moral blind spots, that allowed people to treat each other badly. He feared for any who got caught up in the rush, the confidence that came from it.

Evil had to have a face; only now, Samuel feared that face belonged to Samson.

Ever since the incident where he and his brother hit the dog, Samuel hated driving at night. He loathed the swirling bundle of neuroses that accompanied him every time he got behind the wheel, though it grew worse at night, the rataplan of his heart as he turned onto poorly lit roads. He hated negotiating the darkness through the vision of his headlights, but he had to get to Samson’s.

Samuel knew that he and Samson were inextricably linked, sharing a special connection, an inner language that only they understood. They had a bond forged from years of relying on each other, and Samuel had too long ignored the feeling that his brother was in trouble. Needed him. Samson was so disillusioned, as if God had pulled on a thread of the tapestry of his world and forced Samson to watch it all unravel around him. And it would be so like Samson to embrace the darkness, the nightmares, the hurt, rather than flee to the light.

If he had faith that there was light left to flee to, Samuel supposed.

Even Samuel didn’t know what to think of a God who was in meticulous control of everything yet allowed atrocities to happen, of one who stood back like some master chess player, moving people around, arbitrarily allowing horror into their lives. Maybe he didn’t know God at all or didn’t understand how He worked. It was difficult to reconcile all of the depictions of God that he’d been taught. Samuel had questions, but he didn’t know if the answers would terrify him more than not knowing.

Yet he couldn’t just give up on Samson, couldn’t abandon him. Something stirred Samuel, tugging at his heart like a nagging spirit. Part of him knew why he had sat back and done nothing for far too long. Should Samson’s scheme work, Samuel’s hands would be guilt free. He hadn’t done anything wrong and certainly couldn’t be held responsible. He prayed that he wasn’t too late to undo his mistake.

Samson was still a creature of habit, keeping a spare key hidden in the light fixture. He might as well have a lit neon sign that read “I left it unlocked. I dare your dumb ass to enter.”

Samuel wandered around the place, as it had been years since he’d been invited. The drift in their closeness began when he had entered the priesthood. The decision alone had started a rift, but his vows made it official. The way Samson saw the situation, it was the first time God interfered in their lives.

A noxious scent wafted in from the kitchen. Precariously stacked dishes lined the counter, tumbled piles slid into the sink. Remnants of hastily prepared meals teemed with small black ants. The plates that bobbed above the surface of the water, thick with bloated bits of food, sported various shades of mold. Samuel quickly retreated from there and shut the door behind him.

The living room wasn’t what Samuel expected to see from his brother’s place, every bit the enigma Samson had become. Clean lines. Everything meticulously in its place. The pile of coasters neatly stacked on the corner of the coffee table. Rows of alphabetized CDs alongside a shelf of books arranged in descending size. The incomplete set of samurai swords. The sole item warming the sterile feel of the room was the framed photo on the mantle. Samuel picked it up, noting that not a speck of dust rested on neither the mantle nor picture. His mind drifted to the story of Moses.

People knew the burning bush Moses. The “let my people go” Moses. The parting the Red Sea Moses. The Ten Commandments Moses. They forgot the “I’ve sinned and can’t go on” Moses. For forty years, he had wandered the desert alongside the Israelites, listening to their grumbling and complaining. Though the Lord had provided for them at every turn, sending manna and quail from heaven for food, leading them, providing signs for them, still they murmured. Until one day, Moses snapped. Slamming his staff into rocks, he summoned water. However, the act dishonored God, demonstrated a lack of faith, and for that, he was not allowed to lead them into the Promised Land. At the end, though, Moses charged his people with a message of hope. Though disappointed, he had come to accept God’s judgment.

Samuel longed for that peace, then wondered who was he to think that he deserved peace.

He sat on the couch, imagining what life would be like if he had made different choices. Stretching out his arms, he sank into its embrace, a knot of jealousy working itself in his belly. To be Samson. To have women at his beck and call. To have “the life.” The pangs of envy gave way to something else. He barely noticed it at first, like a slight breeze on a hot day. He sensed that something was off. That he wasn’t alone.

All about him, something powerful and old poisoned the air, perhaps toying with his mind. The coffee table suddenly pulled back. The lines of the room canted to odd angles, as if the veil of reality were being tugged back. His ears filled with the roar of ocean waves crashing into rocks. He studied the couch. The surface was clean, but beneath, the stains remained. Something bad had happened here. Something…defiling. The couch bled; life sprayed from it as if from a severed artery. His soul shriveled against the gnawing that threatened to overwhelm him. An ancient hunger demanding more. Never satisfied, all consuming, a shadow devouring his very being. The roar in his ears turned to laughter. Deep, mocking laughter.

And the blood. On his hands, on his clothes, in his mouth. His stomach lurched. Samuel made a mad dash toward the bathroom, diving for the toilet before spilling his meal into the porcelain. He staggered back to the couch. It seemed ordinary enough now, and he prayed that no one would show him anything different. He reached for a mint from the bowl of candy that sat on the end table when he noticed the book of matches.

Requiem.