Cult Part 1

A man walks through a crowd of people lying on the ground. The people have freed themselves. The man has convinced them that this path was the right one. He could not do it himself. He hates himself for this. His own quest was too hard to complete. He is hopeful and yet doubtful that most of his followers successfully completed what he couldn't. He walks around them placing single rose petals on each of their foreheads as a sign of completion. Ceremony is so often just that, he thought, but I hope it will be real this time. This was his fifth ceremony of the year.

He sits alone in his motel room staring at the wall, thinking over the events of the day. He cups his chin in his hands and bites the nails, a bad habit he hasn't shaken since childhood. He tries to remember if his mother bit her nails, or was it his father? No, his sister had. Considering she was his best friend, the habit made sense.

He packs his suitcase like he does every night, not out of fear, but in preparedness. He looks at his wallet. His driver's license picture is always good for a laugh. He remembers when he looked the way he does in the picture. He ponders how it is possible that he has had his life figured out so many times and every time feels the most correct it has ever been. He can't help but think about this with an air of pity and nostalgia, thinking of his youth as a time of frivolous innocence to be fondly recalled. He had to get some sleep so he went to bed at nine, giving him a maximum amount of time to get tired enough to pass out into a confused sleep. He was told by his wife that he talked in his sleep and it was often very funny. She was never angry to be awoken by his arguments with no one. She tried to follow his line of logic in his impassioned pleadings against his subconscious.

His driver's license read Marshall Jones.

He felt rested when he woke up and went outside and felt rejuvenated. The scum of the earth hadn't raped his naivete yet. That would come later. He had to move, to run, everyday because it was a routine. He had forced himself into this routine and in would be unhealthy to break out of it. While he ran, he thought and this hurt him. He hated the way he thought, wished it was simpler, wished he didn't believe what he believed. If children could control their influences humans would be a more perfect society, albeit a more homogenous one. But he was born without the ability to do this so he saw everything as it was and hated the world. He was set on a path he never thought he could deviate from.

How could he see it any differently? He believed, he had faith, that he was right. But the burden of the prophet is heavy.