Part Two: Bloodstains

Half an hour later he wasn't at home, he had come to the church and was kneeling to pray before God. In almost total silence he sat there listening to the sounds of the street outside, while he, kneeling in front of his Lord, could not think of anything he had done that was wrong, only wrongs that had been done to him. Wrongs that God had done to him. For if not God, who else? Who else would have killed the brother he had never known, frozen his mother in ice, and driven his father mad? Rafael's hands slowly retreated from their prayer and clenched into fists at his side until his long uneven, dirty fingernails started to cut his palms. He put his hands in front of his face with the blood dripping down them and he stared at nothing.

"My son? Are you all right? Do wish to talk, or are you just a new Indian beggar come to panhandle on my doorstep," the priest's pasty little peaked face looked down on him with a strange mix of distaste and pity. Without a word Rafael stood up, and looked into the priest's eyes. He stood a good six inches taller and towered above the white little man, who backed away with faltering steps when he saw Rafael's eyes. His eyes were two oceans of all the hate and fury of the world condensed into one person who had never known love, never known parents, never known a family, but knew only enmity. They burned holes into the priest's faith even as he turned and ran from this demon. Still not speaking a word, but being possessed by the devil he raised the rifle and shot the fleeing servant of God between the shoulder blades. He crumpled, lay still, and quietly bled on one of the pews. Whirling around Rafael flung the rifle away from him, and screamed in a fury that couldn't be contained. He rampaged through the church in his rage against God and all that he had done to him. He knocked the candles onto an open Bible that lay on the podium, and watched as it caught fire. And, as if the burning pages spoke with the voice of the Almighty, Rafael fled the blazing manuscript and the church that had rejected him.

After flying from the burning church no one saw Rafael for another seven days. While the families of the dead wept, and the church was transformed to ash, it was like he had vanished. And the last to have seen him were the beggars who sat on the steps and judged.

A week passed and funerals had taken place, the church was beginning to be rebuilt by its mournful flock, and no one had seen Rafael. On the seventh morning after the event, a young servant boy was walking along the beach he found Rafael dead on the shore. His throat had been slit. Those who had hopes that he might still be alive hurried him to the doctor's house. Everyone that saw him though knew was most likely dead. They laid him out on a stone table in the doctor's yard while the ancient doctor, fat no more, stood watching. As soon as the last had left him to do his work in peace, he leapt for Rafael's clothes. Tearing through the pockets his hand scrabbled and came upon a hard lump I his ragged shirt. Inside he found the pearl, but beautiful it would never be for it was stained with the blood of many, and would never be washed cleaned.

Splish! Splish! Splish! Juan Thomas moved his hand back and forth quickly in the water a few times before lifting out his little knife, and gently wiping off the remaining bloodstains on a rag he produced from his pocket.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading my story, and I hope you enjoyed it. Gruesome it may be but you should read my friend's story, that is gruesome. Sorry that this chapter was short, but it was for my English class and I don't think my teacher would appreciate it if I made it ten pages long. Well please, feel free to review…unless your just going to say that is was a gruesome badly done cliché. That has been noted.