The Sacrifice

A short story about a sacrificing cult. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

Candles flicker dimly as the elders stand at the front of the room, forming a triangle around the sacrifice. We love it, but it corrupts us. That’s what the elders say.

“It must be sacrificed.”

 

My hands feel like they’re wrapped in moss and I can feel my heartbeat echoing down my spine. It’s my first time here. People warned me this group was extreme, but nothing prepared me for the elders and the sacrifice. It sits there, helpless while the elders’ totalitarian tones remind us of ours sins. Our failures. I need this. Extreme is all that’s left. Nothing else has worked. Nothing else will work.

“It must be sacrificed.”

 

The smell in the air; grotesque yet appetising. Lingering remnants of previous sacrifices. One of the elders produces a ballpeen hammer from inside her dark velvet robes. She raises it above her head and holds it there. Trying to magnetise the eyeballs of everyone in the room. But I can’t watch. That poor, innocent sacrifice. I turn my head away and glance at a spiderweb in the corner of the room. Black rotting flies melt into the white candyfloss. I close my eyes and gasp as the elder slams the hammer down onto the sacrifice. For a moment, no one else reacts. Then,

“The sacrifice makes us strong.”

 

One of the elders gently lifts the sacrifice from its podium. Gooey innards slip from inside its broken skin. The elder takes it away into another room. Some people say the elders eat the sacrifices. Another elder wipes the podium clean with her finger. Wet chunks of the sacrifice stick to her. She seems tempted to lick them off, but instead wipes her finger on her robe. Then she walks to the back. Walks to me.

“You didn’t watch. If you don’t want to be here, you are free to leave.”

 

The room lights up. Everyone’s heads swivel around like nuts on well-oiled bolts to stare at me. The elder knows her power. Her cruel power. The only true power. She knows I can’t leave. She knows everyone is here because they need to be. No other choice.

“Come to the front.”

 

The lights go down. Only the candles and their eerie glimmer illuminate me as everyone’s heads slowly turn in unison, their eyes escorting me to the front. The elder lays another sacrifice on the table, atop the shrapnel of its fallen brother. Then she hands me the hammer, from flabby hand to flabby hand.

“You need this to grow.”

 

My hand trembles as I lift the hammer over the sacrifice. The skin of the sacrifice shines like a shield. I bring the hammer down hard and scream. The sacrifice is pulverised. The elders look pleased. One of them takes the hammer and the shattered sacrifice away.

“We don’t need chocolate. It makes us weak. Makes us fat. If we can sacrifice it here, we can sacrifice it in our lives. We don’t need chocolate.”

 

A chant. A drone. A mantra.

 

“We don’t need chocolate.”