Fear of God (Trials of Strength Book 1)

Fear of God

By

Matthew R. Bell

All rights reserved; no
part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without
prior permission from the author.

Copyright
© 2014 Matthew R.
Bell

Also by
Matthew R. Bell

The Trials of
Strength

Fear of God

Child of
Recklessness

The
Nightmare

I was bound and gagged.
The tight wire that wrapped around my arms and legs was tied to a
chair, which was bolted to the ground. The hairs on my body stood
on end and sweat stuck to my face as I breathed ragged breaths. I
clenched my fists, and tried to catch my bearings.

The room was dark, but
spacious, and a light bulb swung above like a spotlight. After a
period of my eyes adjusting, I surveyed my surroundings. The walls
were cracked, grey, and withered with age. The floor, pot marked
with holes of missing concrete. I appeared to be in the middle of
the room, a small table to my left with a sliver tray on its
surface. Its contents covered with a white cloth.

My mind spun, and one
thought rung loud and clear. I did not want to find out what that
tray was hiding.

My eyes were wide and
shot from side to side like bullets. They searched for an exit, a
door, a window, something to prove I could escape. A tear slid
through the sweat on my face as that hope diminished. I wasn’t
escaping, I knew that.

After a while my ears
picked up on voices, whispers in the dark. I couldn’t see any
movement, so I assumed whoever the voices belonged to were
positioned behind me. I strained to catch their words, but before
they reached my ears, they jumbled and became incomprehensible.
They were fast and eager though, the two male voices trying to talk
in hushed tones, but the excitement they shared animated
them.

My heart pounded against
my chest.

What the hell
is happening?

Again my eyes bolted
around the room. Tremors ran under my skin, threatening to break
the surface and run in circles screaming. Then they came into
focus. Not the two excited men or a much wanted exit. No, what I
found was something sinister, something that forced tears into my
wide eyes and a scream that threatened to burst from my throat.
What I found, was blood.

Small crimson puddles on
the floor. Some looked fresh as the light glinted from them, while
others had dried into the stone. Horrified, I noticed the sharp
smell in the air and I was surprised it had taken so long to
notice. I couldn’t avert my gaze and my mind filled with horrific
scenes from countless horror movies. I shivered. I could feel the
rush of adrenaline, and I began a useless struggle against my
restraints.

I twisted and pulled.
Fought through the agony of the wire as it cut my skin as I used
all the strength I could muster to free myself. I released painful
gasps and sobs from my mouth, but the gag muffled their sound. My
wrists stung, and blood trickled slowly from them, but I still
thrashed against the restraints.

I wanted out. The chair
was like an oppressive force, pushing in on me like four walls, and
made it hard to breathe. But it was futile, the wire showed no
signs of wearing out, and I was no closer to being free than
before. More tears finally broke, and the unrelenting terror led
way to helplessness. My body sagged.

I stopped, and so did the
whispers. The voices were gone, and the silence that clung to the
air was deafening. I could feel their eyes as if they seared holes
into my back, and I gritted my teeth and shook my head.

For a few minutes nothing
happened. Then, they moved. Two sets of footsteps grew closer, and
the echo of their feet sounded like cracks of thunder. Part of me
wondered why the sound wasn’t alerting anyone, why no one burst to
my rescue from some unseen door. A figure appeared to my left, but
his face was turned to the side as he grabbed the table and pulled
it a few feet in front. He turned his back and started work on the
contents.

I didn’t need to wonder
where the other man had gone as his presence behind me sucked the
air from my lungs. There were clanks and mumbles from the man in my
sight, but whatever was on the tray was blocked by his body. After
what seemed like an eternity, he turned. His hands were empty and
he crouched down and looked me in the eye.

For a second, I couldn’t
help but flinch, I couldn’t place his face but his gaze was trained
solidly on me, broken and ashamed. He shouted something, but the
words never reached my ears. I closed my eyes and hoped I was stuck
in a dream, but his voice erupted again, and a hand grabbed my
chin, forcing my eyes open to look directly into his.

For a moment nothing made
sense. Then a gasp escaped my lips. Something in my mind clicked,
like two jigsaw pieces snapping together. I realised something, and
that something was important. Frustratingly, it eluded me, but a
strong feeling of déjà vu filled my stomach.

The man smiled,
satisfied, and turned back to the table. This time he didn’t take
long to face me again. He cradled something in his hands and his
face was focused and stern. Slow and steady, he flicked the tube
and shot liquid from a long, large syringe. My heart almost stopped
and I started to struggle again, a pain in my chest.

The man muttered
something, and a set of heavy hands landed on my shoulders from
behind and locked me in place. The syringe began to move closer,
the man slouched over as he watched with fascination. A smile
separated his lips as his free hand grabbed my head and forced it
to the side. He was quick, the needle plunged into my neck, and the
contents were expelled.

Almost instantly my body
burst into flames. They lit the room with malicious light and tore
across my skin. My blood boiled, and I could feel it bubbling
beneath my flesh. The men took a step back and watched as the fire
consumed my body, from my arms to my legs. It spread through my
stomach like a fiery viper, snaked up my torso, my neck…

It snaked its way to my
brain.

*

I burst back into
reality. For a few seconds I refused to open my eyes, in case the
fire would return and the men still watched. A crisp wind blew in
from my bedroom window and a radio echoed through the house
downstairs. I allowed myself to breath and gulped down air. It had
only been a nightmare, a sick concoction of my mind.

I opened my eyes slowly
as my heart continued to pound against my chest. I dripped with
cold sweat and shook. I hated nightmares. I hated their undiluted
ability to evoke emotions I did my best to avoid. I hated that even
when you woke back to reality, its grip never really let
go.

My body was stiff and
coiled. It struck me how nightmares were a lot like long runs, only
with the sheer terror vacant from the latter. I took another deep
breath and turned my head to the side, checking the alarm clock
next to the bed. I shot upright, too fast as the world spun and
then righted itself quickly. I was late again.

I wiped at my forehead as
I got up and manoeuvred around the mess of the room. I grabbed some
clothes from the wardrobe and the door swung shut, the mirror
attached to its front catching my appearance. My blond hair jutted
out in awkward places and I was pale and shiny. Dark rings circled
my green eyes. I rubbed at them, a feeble attempt to remove the
black bags. I sighed and headed for the bathroom, hoping a warm
shower could wash away the remnants of the night.

The warm water cascaded
down on me and instantly, the tension I had built unfurled. I felt
better as the nightmare slunk back to the recesses of my mind. It
was nothing to worry about, nothing that would happen in reality. I
took my time and when I finished, I pulled aside the shower curtain
and scanned the room for a towel.

‘
Crap,’ I
whispered. The towel rack was empty.

I jumped out the shower,
opened the bathroom door, and careful to hide myself in all my
glory, called downstairs.

‘
Mum?’ I
shouted. ‘Could you get me a towel please?’

I shut the door and
waited for a response. Instead, a few seconds later, the door moved
to open. I pounced at it surprised.

‘
Mum!’ I
exclaimed. ‘I’m naked!’

‘
I gave birth
to you sweetie, I’ve seen it all before,’ she laughed, squeezing
her hand through with a towel.

I grabbed it and shut the
door again, cursing myself for walking into yet another of her
jokes, but I smiled.

‘
Maybe your
old age is getting to you, but things change in twenty years!’ I
said, knowing full well I was being baited.

I heard her laugh as she
trudged downstairs. I dried and got changed, exited the bathroom
and put my dirty clothes in the basket to be washed. I headed
downstairs and entered the kitchen. The radio was on, playing some
upbeat music from the 80s, the music my mother loved. She was there
too, at the sink cleaning dishes. She turned as I sat down at the
kitchen table and flashed a good-morning smile.

Rebecca Bishop was in her
mid-forties, but she had retained her youthfulness and looked no
older than thirty. Her dark brown hair cradled her face, and her
mahogany eyes emanated kindness. To me, the woman had no bad bone
in her body, always doing what was best for others.

I poured some cereal and
got to work on it when she turned. I knew what was coming, the
conversation about to unfold. My mother gave a weak
smile.

‘
Lucas, honey,
your Dad phoned earlier,’ she said. ‘He has to work late again, so
it’s just us tonight.’

It sounded like no big
deal, something any mother would say to her child when a father had
to work late, but that was the way it had always been. My father,
Richard Bishop, worked at the local hospital, so his time was
always spent there. Two years my mother’s elder however, and he
looked his age, and then some. His blond hair had turned grey and
the lines that pot marked his face only seemed to deepen every time
we saw him.

‘
But he’s a
busy man, you know how it is,’ she said, a hint of disdain in her
voice.

Busy man or not, it was
my mother who was affected most. The reason the hints of loneliness
and pain echoed in her voice. She respected and loved her husband,
but anytime the conversation of spending more time with his family
came up, she was shut down. Didn’t we know how important his work
was? The people whose lives he could save? The money he earned to
keep us comfortable? It was a financial and guilt tripping
conversation stopper. Like that matters when your wife, who you
promised to love and cherish, is in pain and alone.

I closed my eyes and
gritted my teeth against the wave of anger that always came during
these thoughts. I loved my father, but he could be a heartless
bastard sometimes.

‘
We both know
he can’t keep up the work he’s been doing,’ I said finally, trying
to reassure her.

‘
You’re right,
but when does he ever listen to us?’ she laughed, but it was
hollow.

That was true, but what
was also true was the danger to his health. The long hours,
stressful conditions and everything that his work entailed had hit
him like a truck. My father was getting older, and the work was
becoming harder. His face nearly matched the colour of his hair,
and it grew greyer as time went past. My mother had suggested a
holiday, but he had looked at her as if she had thrown a dead
animal at him. It was never mentioned again.

I stood up and kissed her
on the cheek. This woman deserved better, but she would always be
there, for both of us. I washed the bowl I’d used then headed into
the hallway to collect my things. I was just about to say goodbye
and open the front door when my mother called out from the kitchen.
She slouched into the hall, a look on her face I couldn’t read, and
pulled me into her arms.

‘
You know I
love you right?’ she whispered like she was out of breath. ‘No
matter what, I love you.’

Her vice-like grip
tightened, and I struggled to free myself. I looked into her eyes,
and up close, could see the fear and desperation written in them as
they crinkled at the sides. My heart quickened and the hairs on my
body felt electrified.