In a root cellar, beneath an abandoned house, a raw and bloody finger scratched at the door.

Her finger.
His door.

A door with no hinges.
A man ripped apart at the hinges.
A young woman about to be ripped apart.

The door he now stood in front of gave him life.
His door.
A passageway between life and death. A slab of wood caught between good and evil. It was a door that separated the light from the dark.

The door she stood behind was her only savior.
His door.
A stop-gap that separated her from the monster on the outside.
Still, she scratched, peeling her way to the otherside.

Wicked and vile splinters of wood teased them both.

He pressed his ear to the door and listened. It was a finely tuned symphony written and composed just for him. Every scratch was music to his ears. He longed for the melodic call of her blistered fingers as flesh met wood.

He wondered if Christ heard the same melody when his ripped and torn flesh sank into the wood of the cross.

If he could bottle her cries and sell them he would.
He decided, however, to remain on task. Losing focus could be oh so dangerous.
His mission was simple; to purify the lost and dirty.
He WAS a salesman of sorts - he just sold what others refused to sell...
SALVATION
And that, he knew, made him God!

With every whimper from her side of the door he became more excited. She was masterfully working her way through his favorite sonata.

Her introduction - chilling.
High notes.
Low notes.
Her exposition - The ringing in his ears.
A crescendo.
A pause (perhaps she took a breath)
The Recapitulation - he willed it to continue.
Bravo. Bravo.

He sank to his knees, ear still to the door.
It was nearly over.
He held his breath savoring every lovely, last note. The curtain was about to close and there would be no encore. On rare occasions there might be an encore, a hopeless whimper from the other side, a desperate and final call for help and then like all good performances it would be over.

The fat lady would sing.

06/29/2011

Author's Note: An experiment blending thrilling fiction with poetry.

Posted on 06/29/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gregory R Schelske