When The Dike Breaks
Inspired by a @normal-horoscopes post:
Leo: A church swallowed after the dike fell. What remains of the preacher is now home to some of gods more rare creatures.
WC: 854
        It didn’t hurt, not anymore. It really was a relief; the past few days had been agony. Sharp pains where wood and stone had pierced my skin, grounding themselves in my flesh. But that was over now. I didn’t have to worry about it. The dust had settled and all that was left was the moonlight.
        When the dike fell, the water came rushing after it. The church was too close, and not sturdy enough. It wasn’t a match for the flood that came raging down. Whoever built it must have trusted the dike much more than I would have. Or prayed more than I did. Either way, the masonry was old and couldn’t hold as long as it needed to.
        I was the only one inside when it happened. God did indeed look down on our parish that night, as everyone had been sent home when the storm showed no signs of stopping and threatened flooding. I was in prayer, a lit candle my only companion, hands clasped tightly around my rosary. The sound of the rain never faltered, not even at the cracks of thunder, or later, the crash of falling stones. I had no idea what was coming for me. How could I? We were told to have faith. The dike would never break.
        Was it my doubts that brought this upon me? My foolish thoughts, jinxing my own life, gambling it to the wind? The roof splintered with the thunder, wooden shards falling with the ever-continuous rain. I didn’t have a chance to open my eyes before the deluge reached me; couldn’t even say amen before my tongue was silenced forever. I bit right through it as the ceiling beams collapsed on my head.
        When I woke up, I couldn’t feel my legs. The stone walls of the chapel lay on them, twisting them back in ways they should not lay. Shards stuck out of my chest, none deep enough to penetrate any vital organs, but deep enough to cause immense pain with every movement I made. My left hand still clutched the now scattered remains of my rosary, brightly colored beads shining dully in the dim moonlight. I tried to cry out, but no words came, and I nearly choked to death on my severed tongue as I struggled for breath. Perhaps it would have been better if I had.
        The rain was still falling I noticed as I spit out the offending organ, harsh breaths cutting through the soft patter of the water on the settling beams. A soft mist, reminiscent of childhood, and those days where you splashed around in muddy boots until your mother called you in for supper. The clouds were sparser now, but the rain still fell. I could feel it on my skin, washing away and mingling with my salty tears. I focused my gaze on the moon, my eyes still clear enough to see it through the haze of clouds and pain. She was beautiful, almost full. If this was the last thing I saw before I died, well, thank God. To witness such beauty in the darkest of times truly was a blessing.
        Was I going to die? It felt like I would. If the pain enveloping my body was anything to go by then I was sure the answer was yes. Would anyone find me? Had anyone survived the flood? Would anyone even care? Would they even be looking for me? Would they remember this poor church on the hill and its lonely occupant? Or would they move on to other churches, content in the knowledge that I too was moved, placed in a new church to preach the Word of God to a new set of eager ears?
        I faded in and out of consciousness after that night. The sunlight came the next morning and brought with it clearer skies and bird song. It was a pity I didn’t hear more of them, they were beautiful. No one came to find me. I awoke to the doves, then to the jays, then to the crickets. Still, no one came. Night blended into day and then back into night again. I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure that I even could. And still, no one came. I said my prayers with the sunrise and the sun set. I said my prayers for forgiveness, for strength, for peace. And still, no one came.
        So, as I said, it does not hurt anymore. I cannot feel, and for that I am thankful. I cannot feel as the insects crawl along my face and burrow into my skin, as the fox comes and gnaws on my arms. I cannot feel as the crows pick at my eyes and my flesh, eating away at my very soul. I am nothing anymore. I do not exist. I do not know if I even ever did. The fungi have taken over my form, coated what was once me in a moving, living colony. I am naught but a red stained collar settled on bones.
        That is how they shall find me, if they ever care to look.
