by Tari Gwaemir
"Hatred is holy."
The room is small, dank and dirty, with its bare, concrete walls and its dripping ceiling. The broken blinds are half-closed, letting in lines of pale, watered-down sunlight that cut across the bed in zigzag patterns. In the bed, tangled in the yellowed sheets, is a jumble of white limbs and white hair. It is motionless except for the near imperceptible rise and fall of the chest and the constant twitching of a finger against the sheets.
Schuldich stoops as he enters this room and perches himself at the foot of the bed. He crosses his legs and leans back. He does not look at the pale, curled-up body. He gazes instead at the ceiling and smiles, the hard, bright smile of a sociopath.
He turns his head toward the window. The twitching finger freezes. He snorts. He walks over to the small coffee table next to the bed. The varnish is scratched, and one of the legs is shorter than the rest. On top of the table, a Bible lies open, its pages torn. Schuldich runs a finger down the thin paper.
The head lifts. Two yellow eyes open.
There is a rusty knife, next to the table. Schuldich picks it up, tosses it in the air with a flip and catches it by the handle. He examines the blade and touches the blood stains on it with an almost reverent expression. He throws it up and catches it again, then slams it into the open Bible. He looks over at the figure in the bed, with a triumphant grin.
Farfarello sits up and runs one hand through his hair. "That hurts God," he informs Schuldich. He reaches over to extricate the embedded knife and closes the ravaged book.