The Ritual

I will not condemn what you read from now on.
It has been ages, and as much I can recall it was not just another good friday before an easter sunday.
Alexander, like every year, must be curious to attend the holy sermon with Wilhelm. Like every year, he reached out to his great grandfather's attic and looked for his telephone directory. Every year they perform a ritual, that he had no part.
He was told to draw out a call to Sabrina. He never spoke to her except making a few words of a venue that comes by a post every year, two days before the sermon. He always wondered about the consequences. This time he decided to unravel the age-old mystery of this ritual that he never talked about to Wilhelm.

He waited for the postcard, and the postman around his usual time at one past nine in evening.
There was no clue who will be the next victim of this ritual. After waiting for an hour the letter arrived. The postman greeted,

"I am retired and this will be my last delivery to you. I hope we meet soon." And left.

For a moment, alexander pondered upon his words but soon he found the letter in his hands and started opening it.
Eventually, this time his own address was on it. He was unable to process the situation. He became numb. His hands began to shiver.
He cannot read the words on letter, the black alphabets starts to ache his eyes, his senses pleed in restlessness.

This cannot be true. I am the part of this family, the last heir.

Suddenly, the bell rang. He slowly crawled towards the telephone. It was Sabrina, waiting on the other side. In a low voice, he stammered

"Lincoln 26 street, golden gate, pennsylvania."
And the voice turned dead.

It was Wilhelm's address. His pulse went down, he cannot move. By every passing second, his guilt was swallowing his marrow. His bones dried.

What have I done! Wilhelm, my dear friend
Oh forgive me, for my apology is a dead weight
To be forgiven.

Two days passed.

It was the day of sermon, before the easter sunday. Wilhelm was buried in his couch.

Oh lord, deliver my soul
The eternal peace
Or I shall find no purpose
In this life-long slumber.

He was waiting for Alexander's arrival on his chamber door. He did not prepare for sermon, he was lost in his own narrative.
Suddenly he heard a knock on the door,

"Alexander, finally you came." And walked towards the door.

"It is heavily raining out here. Make it fast, open the door." And the voice dropped dead.

The moment Wilhelm opened the door, he saw a woman in black cloak, her eyes were lifeless holding a dagger in one hand and the charter on other.

Wilhelm realised a sense of urgency to move but he was paralysed. For a moment, they performed a silent communication.

"What is the purpose of you coming?" He asked.

"For a ritual, this time it befall upon you."
She replied.

"My day has come undone. I can feel it in my bones. I have retarded my senses, my neurons have met their deadline after this night-long eternal slumber."

Wilhelm asked her to come inside and moved towards the window pane. He gazed at the painting hung beside it.

"Look at this painting, the persistence of memory. I always wonder how did he make it. If you can bury me inside it, I am ready for the ritual." He demanded.

After hearing his words, she stood against the wall, and stared at the piece for a moment. Her senses begun to rot. The painting depicts the bare existence of time.
What could possibly be done for a man of such existence. He was a dead weight, lifting his bare identity.

And then the ritual was performed.

Aften an hour, Alexander appears at the chamber door. The door was dead. He was trembling in great terror. He moved inside and found an empty room.

Good lord, spare the world for its sins
Spare the devil for his win,
But spare me not this time
For such a foul play of wits.

While he was repenting his words, he noticed something unusual. He moved towards the window. He took a close look at the painting and all of a sudden his nerves began to quarrel, his face grew pale.
It was Wilhelm, inside the painting,

Scissors injected in frontal lobe,
eyes were popped out on ground
beside the half burned hands
and a blood stream all over the surface.

He took a step back, and after a moment he ran out of the cabin. He cannot breathe, his soul was choked with gloom.

The following sermon marked his crucifixion.

*****

Painting: The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali