Christian Soldier

The blood drips on the mat behind me; a fitting tune as I stand, a silhouette at the window. Light brown curls shift with the late Autumn wind. My nipples are even starting to harden, matching the purple nubs of the corpse. It’s odd to have something in common with this woman

She’s still wrapped inside the rubber womb, dangling from the hook on the ceiling. The filthy whore deserves to hang there; to rot in the warm, wet tomb I had so lovingly made for her. It would be a disgrace to grant her a holy burial, though sometimes I wonder if He would want me to, regardless of her ill-worth.

Filthy murderess…

I abandon my position at the window to sit down in the comfortable rocking chair next to my coffee table; the one with the blue covers, scattered green and pink flowers on it. It creaks under my weight, or perhaps under the weight of what I do… What I have to do…

I thumb through the pages of the magazine on the table. It’s a woman’s magazine, filled to the brim with “empowering” women’s stories. Unsurprisingly, it’s where I’d first come across this catch. Her story was happily published within and indexed on page 3. I’m not shocked by these women anymore. They’re not even Human to me, now. They’re just beasts; meant to be hunted as such.

She’d written her story so vibrantly, as if she’d been proud of her actions. I sneer at the small, socked foot that dangles from the rubber sack. If the wind pushed the swing slightly, I’m sure that foot, with its frilly white sock, would fall to the plastic mat beneath it. She deserved it; the filthy monster.

Of course, these women won’t recognize my trail. They won’t know the consequences of their actions. It’ll be days before she’s reported missing, just like the others. They’ll look to jilted lovers first, condemning the father of her murdered child. He’ll rot in jail as an accomplice to her violence; just like all the others.

I look at the skull of my first charge, displayed prominently between two candles on the mantelpiece. It’s odd that I still have the skull, and that the skull is all that’s left of her. Her child’s body was disposed of whole. Originally, so was she. But her mind had begun to smell, so I fed the vacuumed mass to the dog. Full limbs followed as she decayed.

Jesus gets most of the bodies now. Waste not, want not. At first, he had some troubles with his bowels. The worst part of my job became mopping up his holy diarrhea. It smelled worse than the rotting of Human flesh, but less suspicious somehow.

He has adjusted, and now he’s fat on the meat of Sinners.

I reach my hand toward the small radio that sits by my chair and turn up the volume. I don’t think I’ve ever turned it completely off in these last few years. I like to think that it keeps the Heathens in good company. This room is a prison, and their time will be spent hearing what they should have minded in life. It makes me feel better about having the skulls lined on the bookshelves. They have to listen to the holy word, now.

“Onward Christian Soldiers” begins playing, vibrating the quiet background of the scene. I hum along with the tune, careful not to lose dignity by singing a single lyric.

I lean back and let out a sigh as I hear the splatter of blood against the mat remix the classic tune. The little whore is singing along.

I listen to the lurid version as I reflect the day’s events. I’ve done my duty. I’ve seen to it that God’s Law is followed, and his word will be heard. He may be judge and jury, but he has made me Executioner.

The song fades and the late night host begins his speech. I’m not much for talk, really, so I don’t listen closely. He surely won’t say anything my Pastor hasn’t said to me already. I leave the radio on, because these condemned women need to hear the truth. They spent their whole lives rejecting it.

My eyes wander over the bookshelves of bone and back to the magazine. I have to resist the urge to ravenously surge through it. How could I continue my work if I lose face to impatience? I feel, sometimes, that I enjoy my work a little too much.

I try to hold myself back as I calmly take a peek. A good woman is always eager to look for her next Tithe.

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