He prayed that somehow his merciful Father would see fit to give him a second chance. Christopher would not fail again. He would be strong.
Pausing to catch his breath, he reached for the hand railing before ascending the steps.
He paid no heed to the snow and ice beneath his soles. If he fell, it would be nothing less than he deserved.
Pain would be a welcome punishment.
Punish me, Father, he implored, and give me peace.
The smell of death remained in the air.
The ache in his chest swelled, pressing against the weak organ there.
As his boot rested upon the final step, his eyes widened and his breath deserted him.
Pale flesh splattered with the deep crimson of blood. Letters scrawled in that same lethal hue. He drew back, lost his balance, and tumbled all the way to the ground.
The impact against the frozen ground forced a grunt from his hoarse throat.
“No, no, no, no!”
His wail echoed through the surrounding woods. Haunted his very soul.
Fresh, hot tears streamed from his sinful eyes. He scrambled onto his hands and knees, crawled to the steps. He dragged himself up each tread, his body trembling with denial, seizing with agony.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he reached the top once more and prayed fervently that his impious gaze had deceived him.
“Please, please,” he whimpered. “Please ... no.”
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Terror apprehended his throat. His scream strangled him.
This was his doing. His punishment!
His sinful desires had brought this plague upon his neighbors.
Christopher covered his face with his hands and howled in misery.
It was him. It was him. It was him.
Yet his heart continued to beat ...
. . . and hers did not.
23
7:15 a.m.
A persistent vibration rattled her eardrums.
Sarah pulled the covers over her face.
Another buzz of vibration against harder wood.
She jerked the covers down and picked up her cell phone.
Conner.
