Scale

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

A look into the morality of the purpose of the human soul.

Scale
“Twas a dark and stormy night then, was it not?”
“You know why I'm here just as well as I do.” He snarled.
“Easy Jonas, take it easy. I want you to tell me why you're here.”
“I was hung from a church steeple.” He said shortly.
“No Jonas, that is not good enough. Go back further.” St. Peter replied.
“Okay, but promise after I tell you you'll let me in.”
“We'll settle that later” said St. Peter.
“Okay, well yes, it was storming that night. I was told to go to Fifteenth and West Third street and find the 'Manhattan Parking Garage', and he would be on the roof.”
“Who would be on the roof?”
He hesitated, looked at the ground, then back at Saint Peter.
“Satan, Satan would be up on the roof. I left my house, put my hood up and set out for the garage. It was eerie, it was so dark and deserted; the city was.”
And it really was eerie. It was down pouring, Jonas was almost completely soaked by the time he reached the end of the block. His neighborhood was deserted, it seemed. Not a single car roamed the street.
The glow of streetlights even seemed dampened on the street corners. About halfway to the 'Manhattan Parking Garage' a power outage occurred. He now had an increased sense of urgency. If the outage hit his home, his sons life support system would go off line, leaving the boys body defenseless against the disease that was violently ravaging his body. And so he started to run. He knew it wasn't too far away now.
“Just a little further, and-THERE!” Up ahead, he saw it.
Using his cell phone as a makeshift flashlight, he climbed the stairwell up to the roof. He burst through the door. Before him unfolded a scene from what could have easily been a Hollywood film. Just before him, sat a well dressed man behind a desk. On the desk were two candles glowing intensely bright, in fact they were oddly bright for just candles. Rain continued to fall, but there seemed to be a sphere around the table that the rain simply bounced off of. To the left and right of the man stood two figures. Their faces were shrouded by cloaks, and they held a firearm each.
“Please, sit down.” The man commanded.
Jonas took the seat. It was very comfortable, and he developed a warm feeling of security upon sitting down.
“I am Satan, you must be Jonas.” Satan extended his hand over the desk, Jonas shook it.
“I suppose you know why I'm here then.” Jonas replied.
“Yes, this business with your son. How unfortunate that you would have to come to such means. Still, we have a deal, yes?”
Jonas thought about it for a second. His son was going to surely die if he didn't do this. He knew his wife wouldn't be able to stand it. She might die herself from grief. He looked at the bottom leg of the desk. On it were intricate carvings of an angel being killed. It was the most bizarre and beautifully carved thing he'd ever seen.
“No Jonas, run. Run Jonas, He will save your son.” A voice whispered into his ear.
“What?” Jonas said.
Satan stood up “What did you just hear?”
“Run, NOW JONAS RUN” The voice screamed.
Jonas pushed the table over, and made a break for it. Bullets whizzed over his head as he jumped the first flight of stairs. Down and down he went, until on the fourth flight of stairs, he heard a snap. His ankle rolled to its side, and all he remembered seeing was the concrete wall of the stairwell approaching very quickly.
He awoke, his vision blurred at first, pain throbbing through his head and leg. His hands were bound, and as he came to he realized he was quiet a ways off the ground. The rain was striking him this time, no protective bubble this time. He tried to look up, then he tried to breath. This was a most difficult task to be done, especially since there was a piece of rope now congesting his windpipe and vocal chords. His vision started to blur again, he looked down to the ground. He wondered what would happen next.
St. Peter stood solemnly. “You heard me, then?”
“Yes, I suppose I did. You were the one that told me to run.”
“Yes Jonas, that was me. I want you to see something now.”
St. Peter made a drew a rectangle in the air. Forming in it was an image of his son. The morning sun came through the window and landed on his bed. His wife entered, held him in her arms an cried. She was saying something, although Jonas could not here it.
“Jonas, you have tried to sell your soul. You met with Satan. You should be condemned to the depths of hell,” St. Peter bellowed, “however, though your actions were absolutely shameful, your goal is valiant. You were willing to put everything on the line for your son. Pass with honor.”
The gates opened, a sense of awe compelled him. Slowly, he started down the road towards the city of light.
The End.


Submitted: February 12, 2008

© Copyright 2021 Victor Gray. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Classy Peach

Hey, i really enjoyed this. Awesome writing. GOt more like this?
Fav line:
On it were intricate carvings of an angel being killed. It was the most bizarre and beautifully carved thing he'd ever seen.

Thu, February 21st, 2008 2:32am

Victor Gray

I do have so more, not totally like this though. unfortunetly its all at my dads place and I gotta wait to go get it

Thu, February 21st, 2008 9:58am

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