It Was A Wednesday

It was a Wednesday, and there was a crack in the road.
It had been there for a long time, but this time it was different.
For a long time, no one noticed it.
And little by little, it had started to grow.
First, it was an arm’s length.
Then a leg.
Then it was six feet long.
On that Wednesday, it was something else entirely.
And from the crack, they say, came The Beast.

The Beast was twenty feet tall and had horns the color of black gold and it had hands the size of houses.
And The Beast smelt of Ammonium Sulfate and phosphorous.
It had pentagrams inscribed in its arms like scars gotten in battlefields.
It roared with the strength of a thousand horns.
And upon seeing The Beast they realized that the mercy of god had been depleted and the brave men cried and the babies cried too.
And It was a Wednesday.
And the sun was blocked and the moon was hid and everything sacred or beautiful lost its meaning and died.
But while everyone ran and took cover, there was Thomas.

And Thomas smelt of freshly cut grass and wild berries.
He carried the bow of the gods and the sword of the demons, and it’s said that he spoke a thousand tongues and was ten feet tall and could destroy a boulder using a single finger.
Thomas was seventeen years old.
And Thomas and The Beast looked at each other, and in that moment there was no time, for time had completely forgotten to pass.
And The Beast, it grinned.
Not with teeth, but with knives.
And the air it breathed turned to dust and the drool from the corner of its jaw could melt steel.
And Thomas grinned.
And the air he breathed was just air, and there was no drool in the corner of his mouth.
And in that moment of mutual appreciation, Thomas and the beast were friends.
Then they were enemies.

And Thomas ran for what seemed like a thousand miles and he breathed heavily and if he was brave or just pretending to be brave, no one could tell.
The Beast waited.
And the sun in Thomas’s sword was bright like he was and the string of his bow was tense as he was and in all of creation there was no more perfect moment than this.
And The Beast waited.
And Thomas struck.
And the shriek of The Beast broke the silence.
And the air was filled with the pain of The Beast.
And Thomas looked down and he saw what he had done, and he was happy
And something like mud or blood or both stained the face and hands of Thomas.
And there was rain.
And it was a Wednesday.

And The Beast’s teeth clamped themselves around Thomas’ legs.
And Thomas screamed.
And in that moment no one could tell Thomas from the Beast, or The beast from Thomas.
And if the sword had just being set into The Beast’s eye or if it had just been there from the beginning, no one really knew.
And The Beast was blind.
And Thomas was deaf.
And the wind blew.
And it was a Wednesday.

And, blindly, the jaws of The Beast grasped at what there was.
And there was Thomas.
And with his infinite might and strength Thomas thrust his sword into The Beast’s head.
And for the longest time, there was silence.
And if Thomas had died first, or The Beast had died first, no one really knew.
And the widows cried.
And the rain stopped.
And the brave men and the cowards and the drinkers and the saints, they cried.
And the wind stopped.
And The Beast moved.
And it was a Wednesday.

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