respectfully with a willingness to go along with his contained strategy. Even Rollo.
Why?
Because, like me, they have all been brought here for a reason.
He swept his gaze across the pitiful group, and said, "Before we move on, before anyone else gets hurt, let's try and figure out why we were the ones that were called here…"
Chapter 10
H e is walking amid a colorless landscape pitted with destruction. A city of death surrounding him, buildings and streets destroyed, their occupants long vanished. He is the last man standing, God's final living, breathing creature on an earth buried beneath the severities of apocalypse. The skies shine red and black, the clouds thick and permanent, swollen with fatal acids. Black rain pours down on him, dousing his skin with disease. Should he live beyond this day, his flesh and blood will wither and rot, not long after his mind finds itself buried beneath the infection, suffocating from brutal oppression, entirely unable to comprehend the annihilations that have taken place.
But for now, he remains whole and lucid, gazing out upon the torn landscape, eyes heavily poisoned from witnessing its cause. He was the one who made this happen. He was the root cause of this destruction, simply because he had not found the strength within to defeat the evil that had promised man the end of days.
A wind picks up. Wet debris flies into his face. For a moment, he shields his eyes, then takes a breath of searing pain and peers down at his hands. Here he sees blood, warm and wet against his skin. He gazes at his bare feet. The wounds are there too, bleeding out from punctures in his heel bones. He struggles to utter through split and bleeding lips, "Stigmata," his voice beaten back by the bitter vacuum and pouring rain that surrounds him. He holds his bleeding hands up to the dark, pregnant sky, screaming, "Noooo!" Rivulets of blood wash up his forearms to his wasted biceps and shoulders. Black bolts of lightning fill the sky like dead branches. "I am no savior…" he whimpers, utterly drained of strength, a sudden stench of ozone filling the dense air.
" But you are, Antonio", comes a familiar voice from behind. The accent is thick with Italian heritage.
"Mother…" He turns to face her. She stands before him, only feet away, the black tattered robe shrouding her frail body billowing in the tainted wind. She is unaffected by the years of dementia that had contaminated her mind and body. She is entirely normal looking, perhaps as she might have been had she not been stricken with disease in her later years.
She places a gentle finger across her pink lips. Here he sees the ruby ring of scars she'd for years claimed to wear upon her finger. She speaks softly, eloquently, the wind tossing her gray hair across her face. "God has placed the blood on your hands because you have lived your life free of sin. He sends to you a message Antonio, and you must heed it. If you so choose to deny his appeal, then this will be your consequence." She waves a hand beside her, motioning toward the ruined landscape.
" M-Mother," he stammers, dehydrated eyes unable to provide the tears they aimed to produce. "How…?"
For a second time she silences him with a finger against her lips…just as she used to do when he was a child. The ring on her finger is darker now, the scars thick and wrinkled. "Antonio…long ago Christ came to me, and united with me, leaving with me this ring of flesh upon my finger. As the Creator and Savior's bride, he delivered to me my son, with a purpose that remained to me unwhispered in my time on earth. I kept his faith hidden until the day I was called to sacrifice myself into the arms of His divine will. I went to Him, in Heaven, and celebrated the marriage that has no end—and it is why now, Antonio, that you can see the ring I have worn for much of my life."
He pulls his gaze from her eyes to her finger, where she displays the ridge of flesh she professes to be the ring of
Why?
Because, like me, they have all been brought here for a reason.
He swept his gaze across the pitiful group, and said, "Before we move on, before anyone else gets hurt, let's try and figure out why we were the ones that were called here…"
Chapter 10
H e is walking amid a colorless landscape pitted with destruction. A city of death surrounding him, buildings and streets destroyed, their occupants long vanished. He is the last man standing, God's final living, breathing creature on an earth buried beneath the severities of apocalypse. The skies shine red and black, the clouds thick and permanent, swollen with fatal acids. Black rain pours down on him, dousing his skin with disease. Should he live beyond this day, his flesh and blood will wither and rot, not long after his mind finds itself buried beneath the infection, suffocating from brutal oppression, entirely unable to comprehend the annihilations that have taken place.
But for now, he remains whole and lucid, gazing out upon the torn landscape, eyes heavily poisoned from witnessing its cause. He was the one who made this happen. He was the root cause of this destruction, simply because he had not found the strength within to defeat the evil that had promised man the end of days.
A wind picks up. Wet debris flies into his face. For a moment, he shields his eyes, then takes a breath of searing pain and peers down at his hands. Here he sees blood, warm and wet against his skin. He gazes at his bare feet. The wounds are there too, bleeding out from punctures in his heel bones. He struggles to utter through split and bleeding lips, "Stigmata," his voice beaten back by the bitter vacuum and pouring rain that surrounds him. He holds his bleeding hands up to the dark, pregnant sky, screaming, "Noooo!" Rivulets of blood wash up his forearms to his wasted biceps and shoulders. Black bolts of lightning fill the sky like dead branches. "I am no savior…" he whimpers, utterly drained of strength, a sudden stench of ozone filling the dense air.
" But you are, Antonio", comes a familiar voice from behind. The accent is thick with Italian heritage.
"Mother…" He turns to face her. She stands before him, only feet away, the black tattered robe shrouding her frail body billowing in the tainted wind. She is unaffected by the years of dementia that had contaminated her mind and body. She is entirely normal looking, perhaps as she might have been had she not been stricken with disease in her later years.
She places a gentle finger across her pink lips. Here he sees the ruby ring of scars she'd for years claimed to wear upon her finger. She speaks softly, eloquently, the wind tossing her gray hair across her face. "God has placed the blood on your hands because you have lived your life free of sin. He sends to you a message Antonio, and you must heed it. If you so choose to deny his appeal, then this will be your consequence." She waves a hand beside her, motioning toward the ruined landscape.
" M-Mother," he stammers, dehydrated eyes unable to provide the tears they aimed to produce. "How…?"
For a second time she silences him with a finger against her lips…just as she used to do when he was a child. The ring on her finger is darker now, the scars thick and wrinkled. "Antonio…long ago Christ came to me, and united with me, leaving with me this ring of flesh upon my finger. As the Creator and Savior's bride, he delivered to me my son, with a purpose that remained to me unwhispered in my time on earth. I kept his faith hidden until the day I was called to sacrifice myself into the arms of His divine will. I went to Him, in Heaven, and celebrated the marriage that has no end—and it is why now, Antonio, that you can see the ring I have worn for much of my life."
He pulls his gaze from her eyes to her finger, where she displays the ridge of flesh she professes to be the ring of
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