“A prophet’s job is never done.â€?
The words repeated themselves, even as I waited for her.
“A prophet’s job is never done.â€?
“A prophet’s job is never done.â€?
They’d grown during the night, nearing an unbearable crescendo, each tiny whisper slightly louder than the one before untill the sound filled my skull reverberating back and forth, threatening to rip me apart. I knew what had to be done.
She wasn’t the first one there. I think it was the cook. She wasn’t many minutes behind him though. The entrance to the coffee-shop was in a small alley. It was still dark. She screamed.
Or well I think she screamed, I couldn’t hear anything at all over that horrible yelling in my head.
“A prophet’s job is never done.â€?
As my gloved fingers crushed her windpipe her eyes began to fill with red. She cried blood.
When she stopped moving I took some of that blood and wrote on her forehead.
I was convinced then that it was God.
I wrote ‘sinner.’
The voice was gone.
The next week though…
“A prophet’s job is never done.â€?