Wash Away The Bad

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 12, 2017

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Submitted: December 12, 2017

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Wash Away The Bad.

The congregation are gathered. The seats are not full, some members have stayed away then, not wanting to see me cleansed of my sins, given a brand new start to a brand new life. I have to admit to being nervous. If I’m honest, I’d rather walk away, sins included, but there are guards on the door, although they are being called ushers.

Lots of singing. As usual, the voices most out of tune are the loudest, the proudest. Perhaps they are tone-deaf, ignorant of the horrific noise they are making. I know the words, have had them drummed into me week after week. My mouth stays closed. I can see no reason for their rejoicing.

And then he walks up on to the stage. He holds out his hands towards them and smiles that sickly fake smile. I have this urge to run forward, to shout and scream at them as they sit there looking up in adoration. Are they really all so blind?

His mouth is opening and closing, but I’m tuning his words out. I don’t want to hear them. And I certainly have no intention of listening to his long list of my wrong-doings. It’s all nonsense, made to cover up his double-standards – he has ruined my life, I have not ruined anyone’s. Or have I?

Am I wrong? Is he right? Am I really as wicked and evil as he is saying? Was I to blame?

So involved in my own thoughts, I have not noticed the ushers moving away from their positions either side of the door to flank me instead. They are urging me, no, pushing me forwards; the white dress I am wearing so unlike any that I have ever owned. The congregation turn to stare at me as I pass, their expressions hostile, their whispers no doubt far less than complimentary.

He stands there in front of me. On his face there is an expression that somehow manages to convey both disappointment and forgiveness. I know, though, that the forgiveness is only to be granted should I play along, do my part; act like the contrite and guilty person that I’m not. I won’t do it;

I will not make any confessions and I will not beg for another chance, a new beginning.

Let them all do their worst!

Here we go, then. He is pointing to the pool where I am to be placed. I’ll not make it easy for them. They want me in there, then they can get in there and get good and soaking too. They all start their chanting, their praying as he makes his way to the edge. Oh, boy, do I want to make some huge wave that will smash against his smugness. Their grip is too strong though.

I had a chance to get a good deep inhale, no need to panic. I’ll not give them the satisfaction. They let me up again, back to the surface.

He looks at me – fake imploring me. He does not really want me to confess, does not want to have to give me any forgiveness. That’s okay; he’ll not be getting it. In fact, after that dunking I’m even more resolute.

He’s calling the congregation forwards now, wants them to watch my re-birth. Well, they can look away for it is not going to happen. No warning this time, I am shoved straight under the water and held there. With no chance to breathe in extra air it does not take long for my lungs to empty. I won’t struggle, I tell myself. I won’t give them the satisfaction. But my body, it betrays me and gives them what they want.

My arms and legs are trying to thrash around, although my actual movement is restricted. There is a roaring sound inside my head and blackness washes backwards and forwards across my sight. And all those gloating faces zoom in and out of focus. They are mad, the lot of them; him most of all. They will not give in until they get what they want and I am never going to give it to them.

Instead I am going to force my body into doing something it wants to avoid. It’s not going to like it, will put up a fight against my will, but my resolution is strong. My mind is made up. I breathe in, hard, let my lungs fill up with water, give in to my drowning. Let them be left with the explanations, let them bear the guilt of my death.

 


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