Killer of Prophets - Chapter I

I found no joy in the bludgeoning of your poor infant skull. But there will be no prophecies so long as I am epithet by our most holiest and beautiful savoir, our lord, God. That being, I was christened Killer of Prophets. I was fated from my birth, a most unholy birth. A bastard I was born, poor and wretched, touched by sin before my first breath. There, not in a manger, but a meat shed, where my mother's husband slaughtered sheep and strung them up skinless by their ankles, I was born, and in the very same moment, spoken to by God. I needn't know Aramaic, I needn't yet be a conscious creature to understand God's words, for he does not need words to deliver his thoughts to our minds. I knew, in that very moment I parted from my mother's body, that I was bestowed a very sacred, very tragic craft. Perhaps being a prophecy myself, my destiny was decided in The Room of Necessary Murders, my mother's feet in pig's blood, knelt below wreaths of muscles and entrails and moist hide of fatty ungula, the smell of coppery amaranth kissing my face in a tender butterfly's kiss. 

My mother was the only one present for my birth. As I wailed- for warmth, for milk, for relief from drying blood and vernix, my mother died, just after my very first breathe

as if she knew it would kill her nonetheless

to witness what I am to become. 

I was sorry, but only enough to feel the guilt that I am obliged of, as I have practiced my craft enough times for it to come easily and without much fuss from myself or my victims. The poor, pink, hideous little baby- so hideous I felt a pang of sorrow for him and what I knew would become of him if he were to grow, had lain easily and quietly in his crib, as a doe in a quiet meadow, or a warm supper on the dining table. I found a vacant silver candlestick on the dresser beside the crib quit quickly. I do not bring my own weapons on my crusades. I know they will be provided in the moment I need them. My faith extends to every step of my feet and every drop of blood left on my hands, for every moment of my life is a fate most certain and most carefully written by our wonderful, most beautiful lord above all. I am his perfect character to compose in his Grande Novel, for the grandiosity of the novel is what matters most, and the ending that will kill All of Everything more perfectly and more beautifully than any killing before.

The sleeping babe did not make a noise, barring the crunch of my blow to it's head. 

The prophecy, dead. No malefic legions to come pillaging with flags and burning torch heads, lit from the deepest, fiery well; To fertile, verdant kingdoms under the perfect ruling of God. For that battle would be the end of us all, in one way or another. And let God be our only end. God be our only end. 

I wiped a splattering of blood from above my lip, not willing to taste such a sacred wine on that night, for it was a typical night not unlike any other. 

I laid the candlestick beside the poor, hideous babe, it's hideousness unrecognizable then. 

I left a cross, painted of the babe's blood, just on the chest of his linen swaddle. 

It was my fate that the parents did not awaken. 

I left from where I came, the window falling shut after me, as if never touched. 

Rain deluged from night's darkened heaven

and my crusade continued, eternally.