This is a work I did for my extension english exam. I topped the class so I thought maybe someone else might want to take a squiz other than my english teacher.
I dunno, 17 plus or something, it has implied rape and violence, mind you, it's gothic, so nothing new. I created all teh characters and teh story.

The Evil Is Undone

“To examine the cause of life we must first recourse to death” - Mary Shelley

Drip. Drip. He follows the chasms, the warmth of her blood bites into the snow, into the air. Wet and smoky. Sweet and messy. She is corrosive.

He follows her fearlessly. Let her be acidic. Let her burn holes in him. She is evil. Evil must be undone.

As a child, Peter wondered if he was a really good boy. He sat quietly when his mother asked him to. Mostly. He has blond hair, that curled when it wanted to. The women would say he was like a cupid, like an angel. When they said that, he didn't think of their messy coddling, and he didn't think of the fat babies goo-goo eyed on the church walls. He thought of the men in his old christening bible, tall and proud and metallic with gilding, glowing and gleaming, strong, resolute.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Her legs break the dark between the trees. Shapely, the tendons beckon. So soft. So luscious. The torn fabric of the dark falls back into place, with Peter's purpose.

He saw a spider once and a little girl was crying. He took the creature in his hand. So soft. So agile. So fragile. How can evil be fragile? he thought. Good is fragile. Life is fragile. Then he thought of his angels, strong. People die. That's a big thing, a powerful thing, a godly thing. Fragility was a trick as all the others, to lead him astray. Of course it would be easy for Peter to crush something strong and evil looking. Evil has evolved to be delicate so it can take advantage of good. It has grown beauty to prey on soft human hearts.

Drip. Drip. Her panting rings through the air, gilded sobs, steel-edged gasps. Pity me. Pity me. Her lungs cry it out to the crisp white, to the pitch knobbly trees, to the diamond fish tank air. He can smell her sensuousness, so sweet, so tempting, beckoning him on. He uses his temptation as a fuel, urging him on.

Crush. The spider didn't die at first. It wriggles and reached. The green crunchy goop smeared across his hand. His palm hallucinating the battering bleating beating of the heart contained there in. The squirming pleased him. He felt almost remorseful as the mess lay still. Too quickly. He might have gotten pins, he might have coaxed it to repent, to burn, to fear, to suffer as the good suffer. The smell was deliciously disgusting. It was a great and noble victory. It was triumph over the wicked ploys of evil. The girl's sobbing subsided as the rain does when it hits the river. Her baby sister started to howl. Wicked thing. How evil is a tantrum. The evil. The evil must be undone.

He is a man of the cloth. That's what they call him. He didn't think so. A man of Christ's sword. A man of strength. A man bringing death for those that leach off the living. He has sanded the chubby goo-goo eyed babies off the church walls. He steps are slow, soft, righteously malign.
He has been a young man. It was after the service, his first sermon. The baby was grown. A small girl. Fragile. Her smell tormented him. She was so... so.... The word drowns out everything else in his mind. So. So. So. His flesh burned with ecstasy, with rapture.

He had loved her, he had forgiven her. But she was far beyond forgiveness.

At the time, when she escaped him and ran away from home, he thought nothing of it. She was hunted down. She had sheltered with a herd of deer. The doe had lured her away, wicked creature. Its beauty, its softness caused the infant to stray. His hands relished at the warm wetness of the broken neck under his hands, the sound of the hide parting the sinew as they skinned the creature. The doe didn't make a sound, not living, across the back of the hunter, not dying, beneath the priest's hands, not dead.

He knew why now, chasing the girl. The doe had wreaked its mischief. The child never entered a church ever again, and burst into a fit of demonic howls whenever he, a man of the church, was close by. Wickedness.

She would give herbs to those troubled in the village. Mysterious mutated medicines. The men would laugh with her. She was young, but not so young that the young men wouldn't laugh. The women would come to her and seek solace, growing bolder and stronger and malevolent as she poisoned their minds against the church and their husbands.

Peter had taken a violet from her garden, at a whim. It was sweet and fresh and young. The smell filled every sense but his taste. His tongue begged for it, nothing in the world could sate his hunger. He devoured the blossom. IT was bitter and green and waxen. It tasted like the spider would have.

That night, the trembling came over Peter. Every sense was drowning in her, every sound was the hollow reflection of her cried. She surrounded him. There was no gilded angels, there was only flesh, moist, tender, hopelessly resisting. There was no righteousness, only flesh, fragile, broken, burning.

Fragile. Evil. Evil. The evil must be undone.

When he woke, he hated himself. He hated her. He cursed the violets that made him dream of her, to lust for her so deeply. HE. A priest. But then he knew. He was too soft of heart, he often fell for her tricks, her lies, her enchantments. It was her. Always her.

The villagers were easily convinced. A verse A forgiveness. A psalm. It was gone. They believed. They believed that Peter's weapons were merciful. The elders condemned her easily, believed Peter almost too quickly. His flock. His loyal flock. How good they could be sometimes. How noble and gentle as they succumbed to his measures of protection.

Drip. Splash. She falters. The weakness shakes the muscles of her legs with mechanical repetition. He smiles. Now he uses her weapon, her venerability, against her. How beautiful she is. How sweet. How soft. How beckoning. So... so... so....

When she stops resisting, he releases her. Her body lies in the wrong way. The limbs do not fall the way they should. The warmth stops corroding the pure white snow. Her corrosiveness is dissolved. He shivers as the pure still air embraces his victorious arms, the chill taking shape in the thickening wetness on his white robes.

Her lips are red with it. Her skin, as white as his flock. A dead succubus, he reminds himself, not a woman. She leached off life. Life is pure, like death, like the soul. If corrupted, the cure must be equally pure, equally vicious, vicious as death.

The snow starts to fall again, as it blankets the demon, it is corrupted by it. Red. Red. Red. Red. Pink. Pink. Tinged. White. More white. A world of white. Severe and burning as the streams of light from Heaven that burn out the eyes of the wicked.

He pushes back the snow, seeing the face of the once uncorrupted little girl return form the demon's clutches. He kisses her, deeply, purifying her, sucking the poison from the wound. She is cold. Pure. Death is pure. The scent of violets dissolves, dies, decomposes.

As the snow cools his flesh, his hotness dies, he burning, the longing, the lust.

The evil is undone.

Loved it when you read it to me last nigth and still love it!!!!! *HUGS*

:heartbeat: Pat

I love it too! Extremely haunting, fantastic job alternating the thoughts and feelings of the priest with the fleeing of the little girl. Gosh, I can never figure out how you put so much emotion and detail into your writing, you put us standing in the forest, watching her run as if we're three feet away from everything that's happening...it's wonderful! :hug:

Pat, you had it read to you? Lucky! lol

Omg
What a story!

I enjoyed reading it...well maybe enjoyed isn't the right word...but it was definitly amazingly good. The emotions and the images were very powerful.
Tyhe way you tell the story is very original....leaves you doubting what exactly happened. What exactly is going on.
Very good!