Vestigial
Part One
I wrote “Vestigial" directly to a prompt, which is rare for me. But DarkLit Horror issued a call for religious horror short stories, and I thought to myself, self, if you can’t get a piece picked up in a religious horror anthology, what are you even doing with that Ph.D. in Religious Studies?
Unfortunately, DarkLit went the way of the poor, maligned dodo bird. But “Vestigial” remains! Content includes problematic descriptions of physical anomalies, gore, and violence, including toward minors.
Part One
There have been many prophets before, speaking some version of truth. But I am a new thing.
I stand and lift my arms above my head. I know the spotlight catches on my cheekbones and shadows the hollows of my eyes. I know the lantern behind me diffuses through my gown, outlining my body in light. I know they find me beautiful. I am beautiful.
I cannot see them but I can hear them. I hear their indrawn breath. Then they are silent, waiting.
“You have been waiting for so long,” I say. I speak softly but the microphones hidden along the stage elevate my voice through the speakers secreted behind wall panels, filling the expanse with sound. The sound system had cost half a million dollars. We pay the most for the appearance of nothing at all. The face cream that makes my skin sparkle subtly in the light goes for more than a thousand dollars an ounce.
“I am here now.”
They sigh. I tilt my head back, closing my eyes. When I open them I know that they, too, spark in the lights, glowing violet. I’d had iris implants to achieve that color and the impact has been worth every penny. Gods have to be beautiful. Even Jesus had changed his image to the blond, blue eyed messiah played by only the most handsome actors on the silver screen. I will be much more important than Jesus. I will be the last prophet.
My image is being beamed out onto millions of screens worldwide. People across the world tune in, first for the novelty of me and then for the words I speak.
The lights glow on my closed eyelids and I wait, ready to receive. The gods come to me whenever I call.
I give my shoulders the tiniest shrug and the robe I wear falls to puddle at my feet. When my garments fall the audience knows that god has come. The eye in the center of my chest opens.
Our bodies intertwined in the womb. She recognized my power and attached to me, giving herself, my first devotee. My fluids sustain her. Her eye, the only part of her visible in the real, is white and blind but she was not made to see this world. She is my conduit, my vestigial.
The crowd surges. People push to see and the bouncers hold them back. I don’t provide seating because I want them on their feet, shoving. My eyes remain closed while hers is open but I lift my lids a tiny bit. Both to see and also because the lights catch my violet irises, sending out an unearthly glitter. Naked and shimmering, arms spread wide, breasts lifted, hair streaming, I am unearthly. No one can resist me.
“On Monday, March 23 the skyscraper in the west will fall,” I whisper. The crowd stills, even though the sound system is designed so that only the hearing impaired could possibly miss what I say. That’s why I have a sign-language interpreter and subtitles.
“The burning is coming. Many will die.” I lift my face into the lights shining down, careful to twist my body slightly to the left. I don’t want the cameras looking up my nose.
“The blond man will be blamed by some but he is innocent,” I say. “The guilty ones will be…” I pause. The amphitheater is completely silent. “The guilty ones will be on flight 1021 out of Boston.”
I feel her eye close and I collapse, unhinging my knees and falling back so that my red curls spread perfectly on the polished cherry of the stage. I keep my legs carefully together so that no one sees anything other than my pubic hair, the exact same shade as the hair on my head. Nudity titillates but the eye just above my breasts adds an element of strange that prevents me from being overly sexualized. My assistant is at my side, kneeling to drape me in a white velvet robe that I pull around myself, sitting up with her help. I look out over the crowd and they scream in response, calling questions, prayers, petitions, solicitations. The bouncers shove people back and I rise to my feet, holding onto my assistant as though weak. I look out over the crowd.
“Thank you for coming,” I whisper. I hold onto Terry’s arm until the wings hide me. Then I straighten and pull away. “Are we ready for the after show?” I ask her.
I like that she meets my eyes. She is always ready and always prepared. Of all of my helpers, she is the one who really gets what I am trying to do. She never wavers.
“Yes,” she says. “Twenty-one participants will be in the offering room in thirty minutes.” She hands me a coconut water. I live off of juices and elixirs to keep my body perfectly trim. I drink deep, tasting sweet and rot. Under my robe I can feel the eye open again. She is an involuntary reflex, an arrhythmia.
Can’t wait to read the rest? Read “Vestigial” in its entirely.
Super interesting! That eye, tho. Triggered my lizard brain's fear response. Leftover trauma from watching The Gate. Eager for the next part!