500 Years Earlier During the morning of that Saturday in early March, the landscape showed two colors: gray and black. The mountains in the west stood barren, casting shadows upon the little German town. The sun played peek-a-boo with the heavy cloud covering that had developed. Balancing himself by holding onto a tree branch, Shane tried not to lose consciousness. Spreading from the top of his head into his chest, the pain intensified with each breathe of the cold air. Bending over, he vomited. His distress did not lie in the fact that he was powerless. It remained the denial of his request that disturbed him. One must follow the path I have created. Do not disobey me. The master’s words stuck in his head. They taunted him. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he glanced toward the Tower. Shane desperately tried to subdue the horrendous images of what was to come to no avail. The smell of their blood lust permeated the air; it sickened him. The masses gathered and in one collective voice decided to banish the evil that lived in town. His lover now proclaimed as the evil. For days, he performed grand and glorious ceremonies. Each one filled with the most brutal of sacrifices and laced with faithful prayer. Even though executed with great care, his ceremonies brought no solace. With the corpses he remained, gloating over his bloody kills, waiting to hear the answer he so longed for. Waiting for a word, a sound, a feeling, but nothing came to him. His anger grew and festered. Hate intertwined into his soul until it consumed it entirely. He knew what he needed to do. In the shadows, he stood. Waiting in anticipation for his next victim helped to wash the pain from his heart. Unsuspectingly his sacrifices fell innocently into his arms. The smell and taste of their flesh would calm his anger. Emotions washed away, leaving nothing more than a bittersweet memory of his helplessness. In the end, he remained submissive. He wondered why he even tried. Falling to his knees, the tears ran from his eyes, down his cheeks onto his chin. Please, please, do not take her from me. I will do anything. Just give me a sign. Please, not her. If we are all powerful, then we can stop this. Please hear my pleas. I beg for mercy on her part. Please do not leave me here alone. I do not want to be alone. I do not want to be without her. Have you never loved, you bastard? His chest tightened as he heard a low rumble over the mountains. Swallowing, he tried to rise to his feet to no avail. With one last glimmer of hope, he listened for an answer. He knew there would be none. Suppressing nausea, he took another deep breath and finally found the strength to stand erect. Gazing toward the Tower, he saw the 100 or so do-gooders standing in small crowds, chatting with each other about the day’s planned activities; waiting for their moment of glory. Hesitantly, he walked toward the crowd. There was nothing left for him to do. There was nothing left for him to wish upon. Nothing left except to bear witness. The crowd slowly moved to the outside of Confession Tower. The tower, a two-story high, structure was constructed completely of bricks. It stood odd in the middle of the woods. Holding only one window at the very top left the insides of it dark and damp. The lack of windows pleased the vicar, by keeping the evil-doings hidden from the local people. It served the peasants well. Once suspected of the crime of witchcraft, the accused stayed locked in the tower for interrogation. Torture always followed. Once inside the structure, the interrogations performed were so cruel and vile, it forced confessions from the mouths of the guilty and the innocent.
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