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Authors: Stephen Andrew Salamon

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The Wrath of Jeremy

BOOK: The Wrath of Jeremy
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The Wrath of
Jeremy

 

 

Stephen Andrew Salamon

 

© 2000 by Stephen Andrew Salamon

Smashwords Edition

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any
form or by any means without the prior written permission of the
publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a
review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

 

Second printing

 

DEDICATION

 

This is for my love, ‘Samantha’. Through your
fears and dreams, I’ll be with you every step of the way….

“The Unseen is there, waiting for you to see
them.”

 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER
ONE

CHAPTER
TWO

CHAPTER
THREE

CHAPTER
FOUR

CHAPTER
FIVE

CHAPTER
SIX

CHAPTER
SEVEN

CHAPTER
EIGHT

CHAPTER
NINE

CHAPTER
TEN

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

CHAPTER
TWELVE

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

CHAPTER
TWENTY

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER
THIRTY

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

ABOUT THE
AUTHOR


PROLOGUE

 

T
he sunlight smiled
upon them, waving its rays in a perfect melody of warmth, while
their middle-class, leather-covered feet still walked onwards,
through the tall steel-like grass that gave a subtle, prickly kiss
as it hit their ankles. Looking down at each blade of grass he hit,
breaking the ice from them, due to the fresh dew that froze itself
to their green, fragile lives, he started to become addicted to
this ritual of sound, highly amused at its natural echo. Walking
more, the boy, named Jeremy, noticed that the grass was becoming
easier to glide through, only because the new birth of the morning
sun was slowly melting, thawing the innocent icicles from the
blades, turning them to a soggy substance that permeated his shoes
with a smell like mildew. Yet, he and his parents still walked—he
glided—toward a white church in the distant field, surrounded by
golden yellow cornfields that dominated the land he saw, perceiving
them to be that of golden blades that guarded the church of wood.
Birds flew out of the fields sometimes, and Jeremy stared at them
flying away: his brown eyes loved innocent creatures of the
morning. He always wondered where the birds would fly to, what the
sparrow would whistle its daily song for, and why the black crows
would always hang out on the blackened, dirt-filled scarecrow that
stood over the cornfields behind the church of white. He turned to
his right, and saw the long, vast dirt road which led to their
town, but looked in the opposite direction, always pondering where
that direction led. Seeing the heat hovering closely over the road,
a mirage of tremendous warmth that begged to the sun for more of
its energy, Jeremy turned back, and focused his eyes on the church
again, as the sun’s reflection off the white, pebbled road was too
great, too much for his pupils to stand.

Still they walked, in a fast rhythm, toward
this house of God, in their brand new church clothes, and fake
smiles that put up a front to neighbors, believing that they were a
perfect family with no secrets. Yet, Jeremy, with his brown eyes of
beauty, would always allow his smile to vanish, not wanting to
place this Sunday mask on himself, like his parents did in the
yesterdays, the present, and the Sundays to come; he yearned to be
real, genuine. Walking quickly, their rhythm showed that Jeremy and
his family were late, and this caused young Jeremy to smile; he
found it comical that his father wore this heavy mask so greatly.
Crickets still chirped behind them, and the sparrow’s song became
an echo to Jeremy’s ears, showing the family that they were closer
to the church. Jeremy’s peripheral vision showed statues of saints,
making it known that they were about to mount the steps of the holy
house.

“Jeremy, hurry up! I don’t want to be late
again on the count of you!” his father shouted. Jeremy rolled his
eyes vividly toward his father’s suited back, and still followed
them, his feet now gliding across the white, wood-chipped stairs of
the church. Feeling small, old, rusty nails biting at his leather
shoes, gripping their sharp beaks onto them and pulling their metal
bodies out of the wood, Jeremy lifted his feet toward the next
step. Once his father opened the doors, Jeremy paused from
entering, not wanting to, being afraid to witness this holy house’s
stomach, but knowing that he had to again, just like every Sunday.
Songs started to be heard by the people, the sour smell of
frankincense made its way to Jeremy’s stuffy nostrils, clearing
them abruptly, and shooting straight to his brain, allowing a brief
headache to be conceived. Very discreetly, he and his parents made
their way up to the front of the church, and sat down
inconspicuously in the front pew, having his parents smile to the
other people as they sat, and hearing whispers all around, with the
main subject that Jeremy knew; the whispers consisted about him and
only him.

A cross, larger than life, stood on the
altar, directly in front of the pew that Jeremy was sitting in,
draped with the aroma of oil-filled holy water, that allowed the
statue of the King to gleam, admit its outer beacon, and permit
Jeremy to almost see his own reflection on it. He gawked at it,
squinted toward it, and then shut them, being too afraid to stare
at it for some reason or another. The mass still continued, and
that’s when Jeremy fell into a deep sleep, while holding the holy
book in front of him, acting as if he was reading it, while his
mind could enjoy a bit of night dreams. Half an hour later, he was
awoken by the loud sound of the priest, who stood at the altar,
beginning his Sunday sermon that would normally scare the life out
of anyone who listened. He knew he was awake: having the priest
looking at Jeremy, seeing that his eyes were small, bloodshot,
proving to his holy mind that this young man just had a nap, Jeremy
knew the anger this man showed could only be shown in reality, not
in dreams. Thus far, the priest still went on with his sermon, and
Jeremy was forced to listen, due to the fact that he knew about his
sleeping and he didn’t want him to tell his parents.

“Waste and void is what existed in the
beginning,” the priest roared, showing a green vein through his
forehead, and a red face, like his head was ready to blow up to an
oblivion filled with past stories that held blood to their motives.
Jeremy listened closely, perceiving this holy man’s exasperation
with the church members and his plight to bring morality to the
sinners. He had great storytelling skills of historical events that
he honored to be the word of God.

As Jeremy sat, trying to concentrate on this
holy man’s story, while ignoring the fear he was trying to instill
in his parishioners, he noticed that a statue to his right might
have moved to his peripheral vision.

The priest quoted Proverbs 9:10, saying, “The
fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of
the holy is understanding.” Jeremy looked to his right, and saw
nothing but a statue of a saint, lined up with about twelve other
marble statues standing still just like they did every Sunday. So
he gazed back at the priest, and paid attention to the rest of his
sermon, trying to get at least some good out of it, being that it
was a daunting story.

“God is in all of us, and so is Lucifer.” The
priest paused, took in a breath of the hot summer air, looked
intently toward the sunlight of the stained glass windows, and then
continued. “God tried to destroy the earth, but after the great
flood, he made a promise never to destroy it again. Many people say
the rainbow meant he will never try to flood the earth a second
time, but I believe it meant one thing—that destruction of our home
shall never come from his hand again.”

Suddenly, Jeremy noticed the holy cross of
titanic size standing in front of him on the altar, and the eyes of
Jesus were beginning to show a bit of red. Blood, one single
teardrop, started to fall slowly down Jesus’s left eye, and Jeremy
tried wiping his own, not believing what he was seeing, not wanting
to comprehend it. Heavy breathing took over Jeremy’s lungs, panic
choked at his nerves, and the feeling of numbness crawling its
claws up Jeremy’s flesh was the only thing he felt. Summarily,
rapidly the statue of Jesus opened up its eyes, and placed them in
the direction where Jeremy was sitting, its pupils piercing toward
him, forcing Jeremy’s eyes to close shut in fear. His heart beat
faster, with Jeremy striving to calm it down, feeling the pump of
it growing to a vociferous echo, a shrill sound as he discerned,
and knew that behind his closed eyes were the eyes of Jesus, open
wide and facing him only.

“Repent, you sinners, for God shall find a
way to deliver his great wrath!” the priest yelled, striking his
fists against the podium which he stood behind.

Jeremy then pried his eyes open with his
shaking fingers, and turned away from the holy cross, and saw one
of the statues of saints lifting its marble-made eyelids and
gawking at him like it hated him with a tremendous passion.

Jeremy’s eyes started to water, trying to
hold in his frightful tears, feeling as if he was suffocating,
gasping for air in a hot and stuffy room, yearning to try and
understand what was happening. He whispered to himself, “No more,
not again. It’s not real, it can’t be real; it’s just my
imagination. It’s just my ima—”

His mother noticed him talking in fright,
turned toward his petrified eyes, and said in a motherly approach,
“Jeremy, are you alright?”

Jeremy couldn’t answer, not even one sound
came out of his neurotic, fretful mouth. He could feel his tongue
wanting to scream out for help, yet it was like it turned to solid
stone. He felt heavy and frozen in fear, worried to make a sound.
His exhales manifested gasps of breath, currents of fear that
flushed out from his teary soul, not knowing how to control this
revolting shock and terror within him. Jeremy then turned to all
the other statues, and saw them opening up their sculpted eyes,
gawking at him, allowing thick, heavy humidity to fill the room,
birthing sweat and a feeling of choking hit him, stabbing him like
a ton of icicles, burning his body from their masked heat. As the
dust-covered sweat dripped from his forehead, like they were in a
race, his father saw that he was acting strangely, so he questioned
his wife, “What’s wrong? Is it Jeremy again?”

“I think so.”

Whispering, the father spoke with anger:
“Damnit, he does this every time. Did you bring his medicine?”

Frantically, and with nerves almost
paralyzing her hands, the mother looked in her white, leather
purse, searching for that one bottle for her son which would cause
healing to his mind and not be embarrassing to theirs. Searching
and searching, moving quickly past her make-up, old, sticky, used
tissues, combs and brushes, the mother still couldn’t find his
medicine, and Jeremy now was in a straight trance, just staring at
these statues of life, showing him they have some form of a soul,
of a reason to exit their dormant, lifeless shells, and enter a
state of reality.

The statues, all of them, lined up on their
pedestals, began to lift their marbled feet up and step off their
homes that they were made on, making loud clatter as they stepped,
crashing sounds which only Jeremy could hear, yet couldn’t
understand. Jolting panic triggered Jeremy’s hands to tremble even
more and to grip the Bible he was holding so tight that some of his
fingernails broke down the middle of his tips, bleeding out down
the back cover of the book without Jeremy even noticing the
stinging, throbbing pain. The statues started to walk toward him,
slowly, very slowly, lingering, allowing Jeremy’s tears to shoot
out in a faster race for escape, while he just stared at this sight
of horror, not knowing what to do, where to go, or how to get up
and leave. His feet were like weights, legs like rubber, and his
hips were frozen like ice, paralyzing his wanting to run, damaging
his craving to escape.

BOOK: The Wrath of Jeremy
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