Sin Eater's Journal Entry 39 Entry 39 Downstairs. I had to go downstairs and face what no one should ever have to face. The laughter stopped as my foot fell on the first step. My hand shook as I reached back and retrieved my Glock from the holster under my shirt. I stopped on the steps and locked at the gun silhouetted by the light at the bottom of the stairs in the entry room. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just shoot my father. I put the gun back into the holster. How was I going to do this? How was I supposed to take my dad down without killing him so that I could cleanse him of the demon sigil. He was a fit man, trained in martial arts…and my dad. If he was branded…if he as branded, then my dad was gone. I had no way to save his #life. I could only release him from the demon’s control before he was…before I had to…before I lost my entire family. I pulled a knife with each hand. At the bottom of the steps I looked at the front door and considered walking through it. I could get in my car and go, drive from away from all this. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave my dad in the hands of that beast. I would never forgive myself. The light to my father’s office was out. I turned from the front door and walked across the entry way, through the dining room, and into the living room. My father was standing by the couch. He had a gun in his hand. It was pointed at me. I flipped my vision to confirm what I feared, to confirm that there was a mark on my father’s forehead. The sigil was there, but what I saw was so much worse. Detective Gary Ward’s aura had been slick and oily. My father’s aura was a rotted husk, dripping from him in dark, thick veins of cancerous sludge. His eyes were voids into the darkness. The sight of it revolted me, twisted my gut and dragged me down into a cold pool of despair. “Oh, dad,” I muttered. I turned my Holy Vision off. I couldn’t stand to see him like that. Not that I’ll ever be able to forget it. How long had it been since Crawford marked him? It occurred to me then that I had something wrong about what that demon sigil did to the one bearing it, but it wasn’t time for me to ponder on such things. I had much more dire things to worry about. I took a step forward. The gun on my dad’s hand wavered and fell away from me. Maybe there was still some humanity (some of my father) locked inside of that dark husk. I had to cleanse him, to give him relief from that awful burden. I kept my eyes trained on his, hoping beyond hope that the core of my father, the core of his love for me, was looking out at me and fighting whatever the demon was doing to him. He came from a line of Sin Eater’s. He must have some of that fortitude in him to fight. I took another step. The gun went off, but my dad was shaking so badly that the shot went wild. I lunged back, cocking my arm to throw a knife, expecting a second shot, but the gun was pointing away from me. Sweat ran down my dad’s face as he wrestled and invisible force that was trying to point the gun at me. He spasmed. The gun roared, and plaster exploded from the wall behind me. I started to throw, but halted. I couldn’t do it. Maybe if I rushed him, I could get close enough to get at the mark. My dad looked at me and for one blazing second I saw something flash in his eyes, strength, defiance, determination. “Bram, please,” he said in a strangled voice as if he were drowning and fought his way to the surface for one final cry of help. It sent a chill up my spine. I snapped my arm forward. The blade buried itself in his shoulder. His arm went limp, and the gun fell to to the floor. Now, I could rush in and cleanse him. Now, I could release my father from the torment that resounded in those two pleading words. I spun the knife in my hand. The sound of the shotgun was deafening. The pain of the pellets eating into my back was beyond anything that I had ever felt, electric hot and full of acid. The force of the blast sent me slamming face first into the carpet. I couldn’t feel my legs through the pain. I don’t remember much of anything from that moment, other than the all consuming pain. My father stood not five feet from me. His eyes had glazed over once more, all trace of the true man inside washed away. Through the red haze that was my vision, I watched as he bent over and picked up his gun from the floor. A boot landed beside my head. A knee pressed down on my shoulder. The pain burned white hot across my back. I tried to speak, to say something, anything, but nothing came out. I’m pretty sure at that point one (or both) of my lungs was punctured. I didn’t know if I was going to have the strength left to heal from such damage, or if I would even get the chance to heal. Rough fingers snared my hair and raised my head, sending flashes of bright stars across my vision. “Watch, little Sin Eater,” Crawford’s voice whispered in my ear. “Watch and know it’s all your fault.” My dad raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I wish I could say death released him, but he died with that sigil on his forehead. I was so close to removing it, but I failed. My father died marked by a demon, sentencing him to damnation, because I failed in so many ways. I had nothing left. My entire family was gone. The weight of it crushed me. The truth of it burned my spirit. “It’s all your fault,” Crawford whispered in my ear. He was right. It was all my fault, because I created the thing pinning me to the ground and whispering in my ear, this monster that chopped my family down around me. The demon inside of me offered me strength, offered alliance, offered me vengeance. I listened with interest. Copyright 2014 Wade Hunter