I am the bearer of God’s will. Every morning I wake with a raw taste in my mouth, natural and untouched by the hands of superficial practices. I cleanse myself in prayer. At the foot of my bed, I plead for deliverance. I run a cold cloth over my body. I anoint my head with the fragrance of ghosts. When I let the smock fall over my head, when I dress in the holy drapery of my profession, I open my eyes to the darkness, then the light when it’s weight comes to rest on my shoulders.

Every day when I pass the cemetery I think of what the dead must know. I put faith in their awareness and await for what comes. The death toll rises and the flames follow consuming their pestiferous bodies — no new graves are dug. God’s forgiveness only goes so far and I can see now that we’ve taken his kindness for granted.

In my sermons, I remind those in attendance that they brought this upon themselves. A black shadow has been cast over our sleeping town and we must rise to face our destiny. We live everyday in the wake of God’s diseased breath.

Yes, there are those that continue to fight against his inevitable will and I say to them: “Stop wasting your time. I am well aware of the hope you share but it’s only misplaced faith in the role individuals play in their fate. Let the might of his wrath cleanse you of your forbearance so that you will reach an enlightened state.”

From household to household I travel bestowing atonement to the dying. I find catharsis in the retelling of their carnal passions and emptiness in my absolutions. I hold on to the words as if their weight were enough to crush me. It is a corruptive duty and I fear that I cannot cope with this gripping fantasy that continues to taunt me.

I walk into a room to give the last rite and see the gnawed remains of innocence on a sweat-soaked, infected bed. The child of beauty opens her eyes and smiles weakly. Her angelic face is untouched by the horrid disease while her neck and her body are filled with laced sores that leak puss and blood. Annabelle, pure and innocent. Her eyes open again, her lips part, and when she calls me father I am filled with anger and lust. I make gestures over her slender body and hear the emptiness of my incantations. It is a terrible lust, a jealous lust, that I cannot consume her like this disease.

I wait for her dying breath to close her eyes. When I brush the side of her face with my hand her rosy lips are still moist. I turn and in the corner an anti-plague nurse stands with a body bag, ready to bring the beauty to her dear incineration. I hold such hate for this useless, sinful creature ready to combat God’s will. Poor Annabelle, an innocent rampaged lamb suffering while this imbecile stalks around with her useless uniform and her body bags.

In a fit of rage I take the bag from her grip and cover her face with my hand. She struggles and falls to the foot of the child’s bed. I pin her under my weight. As I consume her, I imagine Annabelle’s alabaster face and the comfort of illusion brings her again in full, her scent filling up beneath my grasp, her frail warm body pressed against the floor. I crush her like those words crush me, like those empty incantations that bring about death quickly or slowly. Her body becomes acquiescent as my disease consumes her. God presents her to me, again, and I accept.