Chương 194: Interlude 11 - Lazarus

Isaac adjusted his shirt's collar, flipping it up and down to make sure it was perfect. Once he was done, he moved to his shirt sleeves, making sure they lay neatly and ended right before the wrist, showing off his watch. As he did, his eyes fell on the watch, his hand subconsciously rubbing it while his facial muscles tensed. He grabbed and lifted it slightly off his wrist, taking a look underneath. It was still there.

He had hoped that somehow it had disappeared, worn off as the watch pressed against his skin, but no. The words "To my James so that you are never late to our anniversary—Martha" were still visible under the scratches left by the nail file. The engraving was surprisingly hard to get rid of, and he hadn't had the time to finish the job. For a second, he considered ripping the thing off his arm, but he stopped himself.

Today he had to look perfect, and his father's watch was the only one that fit his elegant clothing.

"All that is not within him is false, and all that is false should not muddle a devoted mind," he whispered to himself, the words calming him down as a wide smile made its way to his face. Today was the first day he would get to preach the new gospel, and there was no point in making it worse by thinking about his parents. Finally, he brought his attention back to his surroundings, looking at the college campus. On the surface, it looked great.

It was surprisingly clean, with trees and flowers decorating the modern buildings. The students walked around and sat, celebrating their day off. The First Resurrected instructed them to preach to the dying and the sick, to the diseased and those in pain. But he disagreed with this approach. Or rather, with the definition. The priests might not have been aware, but he was. The campus was a place of the sick.

The people there might have looked happy and good-mannered, but he knew of the degeneracy of the disgusting underbelly. No, it was not the sick and the dying who needed to hear the gospel. It was those here. The private college for rich brats, unaware of the changes outside, kept in their little bubble. The bubble needed bursting. Straightening up, Isaac took a deep breath and finally began choosing his target. The few people sitting in groups were immediately out.

They would not be interested in hearing what he had to say. Those walking from place to place were also out. They had purpose. Once he had his own group, it would be easier, but the first followers were the most important. The First Resurrected preached this over and over again. Finally, his eyes stopped on one boy sitting to the side. He had his laptop in front of him, but it looked like a decoration, as the young man looked from side to side, clearly uncomfortable, not fitting the space.

Looking closer, Isaac noticed his clothes didn't bear any of the more expensive brands. They were also older, so most likely someone from the scholarship program. Isaac smiled and approached him.

"Is it taken?" he asked, pointing to one of the empty seats by the wooden table.

"No?" the other answered, confused, looking pointedly at all the empty tables around.

"Thank you," Isaac said with a wide smile and plopped himself next to the confused young man. He then closed his eyes and looked for it, searching for the space right behind his eyes as if trying to feel for a foreign body. And it was there, manifesting as pressure, a strange, unpleasant feeling on the border of pain. Once he got it, he connected and let it guide his senses to the mind of the person next to him. Only a glimpse, but he could sense deep sadness, fresh sadness barely hidden under the usual demeanor.

Then there was more tiredness sitting underneath it, this one not recent but prolonged, chronic. He wanted to go deeper, but the pulsing of the foreign thing broke the trance. He opened his eyes only to meet a wild, wide gaze, a pair of eyes with blood seeping out from underneath them. His mother sat on the seat in front of him, an expression of utter disgust on her face.

"You're a fucking embarrassment to this family," hissed the apparition.

"Mother," Isaac said in shock before he could get control over his mind.

"What?" asked the man beside him.

"Oh, um." Isaac hesitated, looking in front, only to see empty space. But before he could stutter any more, he remembered his training.

'Always be sure. Even if mistaken. Don't hesitate. You can't show weakness.'

"Mother or father?" he asked, straightening his back, bringing his business smile back to his face.

"Huh?" the person asked, even more confused.

"Who did you lose, your mother or your father?" Isaac asked.

"Wha— how did you?"

"Sorry," Isaac shook his head.

"It's just… you look like you're in pain. And let's say I can empathize with that kind of loss, so it came out on its own. I apologize. I shouldn't pry." He pulled back, but didn't get up to move away. The head priest taught him this trick personally. If the person didn't get up on their own, then they would be obliged to talk. That's why you sit next to someone who has a lot to pack up, the process taking time and being awkward. Never approach someone who can just storm away. You might be reading a stolen copy.

Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. And just as the head priest taught, so it did.

"Father," the target said after a few awkward seconds of silence.

"My condolences."

"Thank you."

"Isaac," he introduced himself.

"Fred."

"Well, Fred, I'm not sure I'm the one who should be telling you this, but you shouldn't be here staring at your laptop. You should go be with those close to you. It will ease the pain."

"Yeah," Fred said awkwardly.

'So no family or far away,' Isaac observed, happier and happier about the target he picked.

"And your situation too," he pressed on.

"Situation?"

"You're tired. You have been for a very long time. And the mind does not tire from work if that work has meaning. It's the meaningless actions put on us by a meaningless world that do this to us. Death by a thousand small cuts each morning when we wake up. And I can see that tiredness in you."

"What are you, some kind of psychic?"

"No." Isaac shook his head with a smile.

"I'm just someone who found a way to deal with this meaninglessness. This world is full of miracles that we simply can't see. I just like to help others see them." Fred looked at him with a growing frown.

"Sorry. I must seem weird to you. I just saw the pain inside you, saw the loss, and had to do something about it. I'll go now," he said. This was a risky move.

'Only leave the power to make contact in the other side's hands if you are absolutely sure they will call. But if you do that and they are the ones who contact you, you will have absolute control over them.' The words of the priest echoed in his head. And what better way to get his first faithful than by making him his most loyal soldier?

"Here," Isaac said, passing the man a card as Isaac got up.

"It's my number. I have a support group for those who have experienced loss. We talk and help one another find meaning in this world. I'd love for you to come. No payment, no need to give me any data, no hooks. We aren't a cult." He chuckled.

"Or if you're not good with meetings, then just shoot me a message if you want to talk about anything," Isaac said, and then walked away before Fred could say anything. He had a feeling the boy would call. That grief was deep and barely held in. One emotional outburst and he would get a call, probably late in the night. Isaac looked around, but having Fred see him fish for more people might scare him off, so he decided to take baby steps. That was enough for today. He would try again with the homeless later.

Happy with his work, he headed home. This was a good day in his new perfect life. He would go back and be the perfect son he always wanted to be, and then go out and be the perfect pastor to the suffering and the sick. He entered his small home in the suburbs, dreaming of preaching to the masses, people hanging on his every word.

"I'm home," he shouted as he entered.

"H-h-hello," answered a subdued, shaky voice, as if the speaker had trouble getting the words out.

"S-son." At those words, he smiled wider. He loved his father's new greetings. His mother would still take some work, though, as all he heard from her was wheezing. But small steps. He walked into the dining room where his parents waited with supper laid out lovingly, like the proper family they were supposed to be. He looked at the plates set on the table. It was canned soup again, which brought a slight frown to his face.

He was sick of it, but it was the only thing the two could prepare without risking fires or further injury. The smile on his face twitched, but he got it under control and sat down to eat.

"How was your day?" he asked the two people sitting stiffly by the table.

"G-g-good." The dull words of his father reached his ears.

"And you, Mom?" he asked, looking aside. The woman only bobbed her head up and down in labored movements.

"No," he said slowly.

"I want words. How. Was. Your. Day?" he asked once again, but once again only bobbing answered.

"Mom!" he shouted, putting his spoon down with a clatter. But before he could instruct his mother on proper conversation etiquette, he felt something wet. Looking down, he noticed that he had splashed the soup on his shirt. His only good shirt. The same shirt he would have to wear to teach the homeless tonight.

"Oh no no no no," he began repeating as he started to rub the stain. Yet the red spot only spread wider.

"Fuck. Bring me a wet sponge," he commanded. His father started getting up, but he raised his head and shouted, "No!" The creature stopped halfway through the motion.

"It's her fault, she will bring it," he shouted, pointing at the other thing.

"Move," he shouted before gritting his teeth and trying to calm down slightly.

"Please, Mother," he finally added like the perfect son he was. His mother tried to stand up, using the table as a crutch, but after two wobbly steps, she lost her balance and fell to the ground, dragging the tablecloth and everything on it with her.

"Noooo!" Isaac screamed, getting up in fury, looking over the mess made on the floor as well as on his own clothes.

"Fuck, you ruined it!" he screamed, approaching the body lying on the ground.

"You fucking whore, you bitch!" he screamed, kicking the body on the ground.

"You followed Lazarus's path, and this is the result? H-how?!" He looked around as if for an answer but only met his father's dull eyes.

"You must be rejecting his power! Yes, that's it. It's your fault! How fucking dare you!" he shouted. In his rage, he finally raised his leg to bring it down on her head, only to notice the deep wound where the spine connected to the skull.

"I'm so sorry, Mom. It's all my fault," he said immediately, seeing it. The head priest told him not to damage the brain or the spine when going for the kill. He told him to use the rat poison. But he couldn't stop himself. This was all his fault, he realized. He should have poisoned them as instructed.

"I'm sorry, Mom. It was my mistake." Tears began streaming down his face.

"I let down Lazarus. I did. I'm so sorry," he said, helping the undead creature push itself up. He then looked to his father. Seeing the man from the front, his eyes stopped on the long bruises wrapped around his neck. Choking was the better option, but still, he had held his hands around his throat too long. Lack of oxygen damaged the brain. He had failed his father, too.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized to the body still frozen halfway through getting up.

"You couldn't fully experience the miracle of Lazarus because of me. I apologize. I'm a bad son," he said, tears now fully streaming down his face. He briefly considered taking the rat poison the priest gave him, but then threw the idea away. He would have to repay his sins. And to do so, he would enlighten so many about Lazarus's miracle. Do that or die trying.