The Book of All Things New

It is I, 'The Teacher.' I have not released you yet. There is more that I must say. Be quiet and read. In the beginning, at the start of my captivity, I was pure. I was nobel and true to our calling. But my captors taunted me. They cursed me and said that I was damned, though that did not stop them from wanting to learn of my abilities and secrets. They desired my powers. But I told them nothing, for I knew them to be hypocrites and evil men..... In truth, there were somme sincere believers among them who gainned solace and morality from their creed. But my guards were not of that number. My 'handlers' I believe they would call them now, were of a different breed. Indeed, most Vatican functionaries were unaware of their existance. They survived and endured as a shadowy force, whispered about, but seldom seen........ When the lofty door at the top of the slippery chute was opened and victims thrown down the 'throat of death,' they would listen. When it was over, when the screaming stopped and I had fed, they would ask me questions. Their voices echoed down to me. But I would curl up, hug my knees, say my prayers and tell them nothing. So they would throw down another victim. And another. And another, in an effort to ensnare me and inflame my thirst. for living nourishment. I ate. And I ate. And I ate. Initially I tried to hold back. I tried to controll myself. The pathetic victims would survive. They would sit with me in the darkness. We would talk and confide in each other. I told them of my 'life,' and they told me of theirs. But then the moon would wane. The month would end and a new cycle would begin. I could feel it. Hundreds of cubits below the streets of Rome and I could feel it, a visceral gnawing, a visceral ithching beyond the limits of my endurance. It was a fundamental 'call' and I was helpless. There was absolutely no thing I could do. The victims knew it. They sensed it. They felt it. At first, I would grow unresponsive and then, after a while, completely silent.. And they would grow wary. Small parcels of food and drink were slid down to them. I could hear them chew. I could hear them swallow. And then I would inch closer. And closer still. I would sniff all about them. Tasting the particles of their essence in the dank and putrid air. They would gasp and freeze up in fear. A heartbeat can make music. It can keep cadence better than a drum. The low, throbbing sound would call me. It would tempt me. It would bewitch me and set my soul on fire. The human would suddenly feel my breath upon its neck. I could hear the sobs. I could smell the tears. Sometimes, I would lick them off. I enjoyed that. Not a word was spoken. What good would it have done? And then I would break through the skin and feed, an addict lost to this most dangerous of drugs....... At times I prayed. I prayed for Tomas (known to you now as 'Jonathon') to mount an invasion and swoop down into this vile place at the head of a band of angels and set me free. But they never came. Tomas never came. I could feel his heart. I could live his thoughts. That's what kept me going. And I presume he could hear me as well. But there was no rescue. I had no hope. I could not climb up to the top of the chute and force my way out. Believe me, I tried. But they would force me back with fire and throw down more flesh. And after a time, on a certain level, I did not want to escape. I just wanted the lives. I just wanted the nourishment. They used me as a cesspool. They used me as a sewer to wash away all those deemed unfit, for all those beyond their limited grasp of salvation. And I did my job. And I did it well.....Can you picture me? Can you see my face. I am sending you an image. Remember, since the first posting of this tale more that four months ago, we have only been pretending that this is fiction. But I think you know that, especially one in Sweden and another in the Balkans. Relax....Close your eyes.... I'll show you more....