My Brother's Blood Machine Part 2

I wrestled with this second section for quite a while. The other night I got some inspiration and decided to scrap the whole thing and try it from a different angle. Originally the second section was to be the argument between Celia and Johnny Early. It sounded too angsty so I said fuck it and came up with this. I didn't spend near as much time on it as the last part, and I'm afraid it shows. Let me know what you think.

I'll probably have something different on here for the next post.

P.S. This was Skyrim's fault

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            Agatha Bleam sat back in her wooden chair and exhaled a fine stream of smoke. Light from a dirty window caught the smoke, and she rather thought she saw God’s face. Instead of the uncomfortable prickling of spiders and beetles crawling across her skin, she felt the goose-pimples of excitement. God was coming to her again. She could feel it.

            She looked across the small dining room table at her two sons. Her two monsters. Her head swam from the Devil’s Crystal, and they looked like angels. God’s angels. Her eyes watered at the beauty of the two sons she had created to serve Him and only Him. Thoughts came, unbidden. Butchie’s face, a nightmare landscape of wrong features. Long-Arm and the horrid namesake on his left side that hung down to the floor. 

She took another drag from her pipe.

            “Butchie, honey. God needs to speak with Momma.” Agatha sighed as her sons became beautiful visions of light again.

           “Yes, Momma.” Butchie said quietly. He stood up and walked to the phonograph, ancient and rare. The Bleam family treasure for a century. Butchie carefully picked up the tiny arm, spinning the machine to life. As he placed the head of the arm on the jet black disk, the lost magic occurred. The room flooded with music. Sad and sweet and beautiful, alien instruments and a man dead for hundreds of thousands of years cried out a song of love and loss in a language forgotten by man. 

            Agatha gasped. Tears slowly streamed down her face. Long-Arm sobbed too, but out of fear. He didn’t understand what was happening, or why his Momma was crying. To Agatha though, he had no face. He was a perfect being of light, joined by another as Butchie retook his seat. 

            The song warped and warbled. Out of the mess, and into Agatha’s crazed mind came words that twisted themselves to suit her fantasy. 

            “Agatha Bleam” One particular verse called

            “Yes, my Lord. Oh yes God I’m here.” She cried

            “Agatha Bleam. You know me. You know my words. You’ve kept my commands. For this, I shall grant you a boon. A gift of which you can treasure until I call you unto me.” 

            “Thank you, my God. Thank you my Lord oh how I love you my Lord!” Agatha sobbed

            “Agatha Bleam. Your son shall become the Angel of Death. He shall be my servant all his days, and you shall be his mother. Rejoice, my dear Agatha.”

            “My Lord… I have two sons. How shall I know the gift?”

            “Agatha, my child. I have yet to decide which son shall become my servant. They cannot hear me yet, as you do. Though I love them both, they must hold a contest. They must free souls of their bodies. Whichever child frees the most souls shall become my servant. Tell them, my daughter. Do not fail me in this. They must construct the Blood Machine to-“

            The record had ended. A light hiss and occasional pop hung in the room. Agatha took a deep breath. Her parlay with God had left her sobered, feeling alone and abandoned. She looked at her two sons. Ugly though they might be, she loved them still. 

            “M…M…Mo-mmah?” Long-Arm managed through sobs. He hated it when she spoke to God. It confused him so. She smiled at him and he began to calm down. 

            “Long-Arm” Could this mutant simpleton be God’s servant? “I’m sorry baby, but I’ve tried to explain.”

            “M-Momma t-talk to God-Jeeses but God-Jeeses not here.” Long-Arm managed. Agatha sighed. She couldn’t make the poor boy understand. 

           “No, Long-Arm.” Butchie said softly, taking Long-Arms stunted vestigial right hand. “God was here, he just talked to Momma. We just can’t understand him like Momma can.” 

            The boy was the picture of patience and love, as he looked into Long-Arm’s comparatively normal face. Could he be the ferocious Angel of Death? She knew she would have to explain to the boys, but hesitated. The Blood Machine? Her poor sons couldn’t possibly know what that may be if she didn’t. But she trusted God, and trusted him to lead her children. 

 

            “Boys… God spoke to me, of you.” Butchie sat up, alert and attentive. “He said that one of you is an Angel. The Angel of Death.”

            “Long-Arm… Angel?” He said, trying to process the information

            “One of us, Momma?” Butchie asked, confusion plain on his terrible face “But… Did he say which of us?”

            “No… He said…” She hesitated again. She hated sending her sons to this knowing no more than she did. Her faith was being tested, she was sure of it. She was sure she would pass. “You two are to have a contest. You must gather souls for Him. You must release the souls from their bodies. God said you must construct a Blood Machine.”

            The brothers Bleam looked at their mother, bewildered. 

            “Blood… Souls… Momma what God mean?” Long-Arm grunted.

            “Blood Machine? Momma, is the soul contained in blood? We just gotta get blood outta bodies then?” Butchie, frail and brilliant. Agatha beamed at him. “Could be. You boys’ll never touch the stuff, but we Seers, we know things. You never shoot the Devil Crystal into blood. You do that and you’re damned for eternity. No, you burn the Crystal and inhale it so it passes from you quickly. That way you ride the Devil into the spirit realm. You can still hop off him when you reach your destination.”

            “The soul… It has to be in the blood then!” Butchie said, ecstatic at the knowledge. Thoughts and ideas for the machine spun in his head. He wondered vaguely if Long-Arm even understood before

            “W-w-we gotta get bl-blood outta people. M-mash ‘em up.” Long-Arm smiled. His huge arm was freakishly strong. His only pet, a bunny he had found, got ‘mashed up’ shortly after he got bored of it. Butchie never told Momma that story. 

            “Of course, love. Of course. Go, my children. Build this Blood Machine. Collect souls for God. Go, my children.”

            The boys stood up and left the house, each going for a hug and kiss from Agatha before departing. She watched them through a window, walking into the woods, searching for parts to build the machine that Butchie was already piecing together in his head. Pride welled inside of her. God was not wrong.