Mania by Katie Schmidt

Chronicles of Revelation
I go to church to make up for the sins I have not yet committed. I pray to a god I do not believe in and wear rosary beads that constrict me. I pray at her grave, and I go home and pray for her forgiveness. The Lord should be ashamed of what I want done; I do not feel a thing. 
My father is a scientist; he taught me to believe in the unseeable. If I believed in science, then I must believe in God, for who else created this wretched world? That is what my father wanted me to believe. He wanted me to believe that his wife, my mother, was still with us and watched over us. I have always despised him for that. If she were really with us, my life would be one without my father, away from the beatings, away from the chemicals and broken glass strewn about, and away from the constant reminder that Mom was gone. As a child, I had been exposed to a concoction of his chemicals which scarred my magnificent face and burned my piercing blue eyes, partially blinding me. Groping for the faucet, I had slipped on a piece of glass, probably from his liquor bottles or extraneous beakers, and pierced my back, legs, and arms. In his drunken stupor, he thought I was a desperate rat and threw his half-empty liquor bottle at me, slamming his door, muttering, “Darn rats.” I cried out to him, but he had already turned his back. 
Alcohol droplets scorched my wounds and more glass shards pierced my stomach. I wanted to kill God for taking away the only thing in my life I had ever loved, taking with it my only reason to stay alive. I wanted to annihilate the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. However, the Holy Spirit was already gone, but the Father and Son remained. 
For months, I dreamt of his death, never intending to act upon it, until one night when he brought up our shared love in a drunken, disparaging tone, saying, “She never loved you or me anyway; it’s better she’s gone now.” 
I rode our black stallion to the house at midnight. I entered the house ever so slowly, fetching the necessary supplies, preparing myself for the next task. Taking an hour to reach the master bedroom, I finally open the door a crack, but my father, even in old age, wakes with a start, demanding, “Who is in here?” 
I calmly respond, a wicked grin growing with each word, “It is me Father; no cause for alarm.” 
As he reclines and closes his eyes, I strike. I pour the acid onto him and watch him burn the way I had all those years ago and revel in his screams as he clung to me for mercy. As he attempts to attack me, I stab him, over and over, once for every piece of broken glass I had to handpick from my own skin. I drag his body outside to where I had stationed the horse. The horse, sensing danger, knocks me down, infuriating me, so I stab the horse over and over again even as it tramples me and neighs in defiance. After the horse finally gives out, I make a cut straight down its torso, emptying its organs onto the ground. Letting out a howl of anger, I strike my father one last time and cut out his heart. I feel the muscle die slowly and then shove him into the horse’s large, now-empty ribcage, breaking both my father and stallion’s bones with a satisfying crunch, creating a pool of blood. Attempting to cover my tracks, I scour the house to at last find a spool of thread and a large needle. I sew my father inside the horse and marvel at my work. At last, the beast was caged… or was it my inner animal being unleashed? 
Realizing what I had done, I look down at the mess. I weep and swear until finally I decide to hide the bodies. I drag them into the stable, trying to make it look as if the stallion was laying down on a bed of hay.
“Crap!” I say as the darned horse falls over. Acting swiftly, I move him to the only place I knew a demon would be welcome--the church. Fitting it seems. The Son bringing the Father as a sacrifice and not the other way around. 
As I walk out of the church, I realize my hands are covered in dried blood. I chuckle to myself and go to the entrance of the church to “purify” my hands of evil in the holy water, knowing I’ve committed the greatest sin of all. I strut slowly and place my hands in the clear, cool water, but as I let the blood peel off the tips of my fingers and stain the water, I see my father’s face. I instantly pull my hands out of the water and wipe them on my shirt. I look at the cross hanging above the bowl and my father is hanging on the cross instead of Jesus. I scream and run back to the house, where the police are already investigating the strange scene. 
With my clothes being drenched in blood, I run and run and run until I reach the forest. I sit down but am approached by piercing white eyes. They surround me and their faint growling grows until it reverberates louder and louder, forcing me to cover my ears. As the snarling dies down, I see a pair of eyes coming closer and closer. The eyes stop before I can fully see the creature. 
He utters one verse, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” He cackles and the cacophony increases, getting louder and louder, piercing my senses once again. 
Abruptly, they cease their derision and chant in unison, “The old has gone, the new is here! The old has gone, the new is here! The old has gone, the new is here!” 
I wake to feel the cold, firm hands of a priest, Father Malcolm, shaking me awake. He whispers quietly, “Shhh, no one must know.” 
“What if they find them, Father?”
“Unless they search for the Devil himself, no one will know.” 
“But Father, what if the Devil has already been let out?”