The Violation in 314 ✔️

***13***

Some say that in moments of crisis time slows, but for Mickey Vartabetian, the next ten seconds, the seconds that would determine if he lived or died, passed in a blur of instinct. One moment he had his hand raised, his flashlight ready to bash the brains from Abbie Weber's skull, and the next moment the beast was on him, smashing his light and ready to stomp his face into mush – only then it wasn't. Then the beast was on Abbie.

It kicked her in the gut. It thrashed at her with its three deformed arms, and still she chanted. That is when Mickey noticed the small cross of metal in her hands. Only it was not a cross. It had the base of the symbol but where the top portion should be there was an elongated oval forming a loop. An ankh. The word came to him from some distant memory, but there was no time to sort it out. Abbie clung to the ankh as she chanted and the thing clawed at it as it kicked her, as if it wished to separate her from the emblem.

Then the covers of the scattered books came into focus – old, possibly ancient covers. These were religious texts of all kinds, from the Holy Bible to the Qur'an, to the Book of the Dead and the Book of Shadows. Other book covers highlighted Asian religions and philosophies from Taoism to Shinto to Hinduism and Buddhism. Still more of the books featured titles in languages and scripts that Mickey had never seen, leaving him to only guess what their contents may be. Yet in that instant of seeing, Mickey knew these texts all held one common bond – a belief in something more than this mortal life, a belief in a beyond.

And was that so far-fetched? If this abomination could be, then could there not also be some higher being – some great meaning and plan beyond my own fathoming? Mickey had not considered even the possibility of a God since the day some coked-up adolescent with a gun had put a bullet in his dad's brainpan. Now seemed like the time to reconsider.

His mind raced and locked on a crucifix hanging on the wall – the crucifix mounted behind the coat rack. He had seen it when he first entered the apartment and cast his light across the room. There was no time to think. Mickey acted on faith. He leapt with his good leg, stretching out his good arm towards the crucifix. For that second as he hurled himself towards the Catholic symbol, he thought, that's what I am now, a collection of good and bad limbs. Then, before there was time to follow that thought further, his hand glanced off the metal form of Jesus, tipping the crucifix off the wall, and he collided with the coat rack. All came down in a heap: crucifix, coats, rack, and Mickey.

Frantically he tore through piles of blazers and tweed jackets, looking for the crucifix, which surely was buried beneath. He felt the beast's long teeth bite down into his calf and gasped, but he did not stop searching. Even as it bit a chunk straight from his muscle, he kept searching, blinded by tears, gagged by screams, and throwing coat after coat back at the thing, no matter how useless the gesture.

Finally, his hand brushed across metal. He had found it, but – suddenly his back exploded in pain as the thing raked its clawed hand down his spine then yanked him over and onto his back.

He choked back the pain. He had succeeded. He had the crucifix – thank whatever might be out there – in his hand and he held it aloft like a lantern in the fog fighting back the dangers of the night.

Crack! The thing brought its full weight down on his leg, undeterred by the flimsy metal trinket, and leaned over, thrusting its face within inches of the crucifix and bellowing, a watery and unearthly battle cry. Its desert breath once again clogged Mickey's nostrils and for a second Mickey knew that he had failed. This would be the death of Mickey Vartabetian. Staring this beast face to face, only a crucifix and mere inches between them, Mickey's demise was imminent at best. He stared into its eyes ready to face death – and punishment for your sins, son, do not forget punishment. Mickey flinched at his dad voice, knowing it was right. Whether God existed or not, if this thing walked the earth, surely there was a hell, and it was waiting for him.

He began to mumble the only prayer that he knew. "Now I lay me down to sleep; if I should die before I wake..."

His voice trailed off. Looking eye to eye with the beast, Mickey saw a look, a glimmer of humanity in those cavernous eyes, and he recognized it for what it was. The thing was bluffing.

No time to reconsider, Mickey thrust his arm forward and crammed the crucifix down the beast's skeletal maw. He thought for sure it would clamp down its monstrous teeth severing his hand from his wrist, but it only screamed and gagged as it choked on the crucifix now stuck between its tongue and the roof of its mouth. The smell of rotten eggs returned in a fresh wave, as bile rose in the thing's throat and a trickle of smoke drifted from its mouth as the silver cross burned inside.

The last thing Mickey saw, before the deep dark of unconsciousness took him, was the thing running into the depths of the apartment and disappearing into the shadows. Then all went black. He could hear the sirens, much closer now, in that void, yet even they began to fade.