The Daughters of Purity - a fictional short story
David Abramson clutched the worn copy of Isaiah, the prophet's words a flickering flame in the storm of doubt raging within him. Raised in a tradition that awaited the Messiah, a seed of belief had sprouted after encountering the teachings of Jesus. But acceptance brought its own tempest. Whispers followed him in the bustling Jerusalem marketplace, accusing eyes burning into him. The fringe sect, the Daughters of Purity, led by the enigmatic Sister Mary, were relentless.
Sister Mary, or whoever wore the mask that night – they were all identical, meticulously sculpted with prosthetics and fiery sermons – infiltrated David's life. Three Marias, each claiming his hand in marriage, each a devout follower. Yet, behind the piety lurked a coldness that sent shivers down his spine. They built churches, monuments to their own twisted interpretations, spitting on established denominations. Their wealth, amassed through exploitation, fueled their fanaticism.
David, ostracized by his old community, felt trapped in a gilded cage. He yearned for solace, for a connection untainted by deceit. But his faith in Jesus, a beacon in the darkness, was a secret he guarded fiercely. The Marias, convinced they were God's chosen instruments, saw his conversion as a victory over their perceived enemy. They believed their cruelty, their manipulation, were mere tools to usher in their warped vision.
Years bled into one another, punctuated by David's silent prayers and the cloying piety of his "wives." Then, one by one, the Marias withered, their youthful facades crumbling. Fear, a stark contrast to their earlier arrogance, flickered in their eyes as their final breaths came.
Death brought no peace to their souls. They found themselves not in the pearly gates they envisioned, but in a desolate, fiery wasteland. Hovering before them was a figure, his presence both radiant and wrathful. It was Jesus, his gaze a storm of righteous anger.
"You," he boomed, his voice echoing through the fiery abyss, "who twisted love into hate, who built your dominion on deceit, where is your piety now?"
Their self-proclaimed righteousness crumbled under the weight of his words. The torment they inflicted on David, their scapegoating of an entire people, was laid bare. There was no absolution in Jesus' eyes, only a terrible, searing disappointment. With a final gesture, they were cast further into the inferno, their screams a chilling symphony to their twisted faith.
David, meanwhile, awoke in a place of serenity, bathed in warm light. He heard a voice, gentle and familiar, beckoning him forward. It was Jesus, not in a form of wrath, but a figure of compassion.
"Welcome, David," Jesus said, his voice like a balm to David's weary soul. "You walked a lonely path, yet your faith remained true. This is your home now."
In that moment, David knew peace. The persecution, the loneliness – none of it mattered anymore. He was finally home, embraced by the true meaning of the faith he held dear, a faith that preached love, not hate, acceptance, not division. The fires of hell awaited those who used his name in vain, while for David, there was finally, blessedly, peace.
Sister Mary, or whoever wore the mask that night – they were all identical, meticulously sculpted with prosthetics and fiery sermons – infiltrated David's life. Three Marias, each claiming his hand in marriage, each a devout follower. Yet, behind the piety lurked a coldness that sent shivers down his spine. They built churches, monuments to their own twisted interpretations, spitting on established denominations. Their wealth, amassed through exploitation, fueled their fanaticism.
David, ostracized by his old community, felt trapped in a gilded cage. He yearned for solace, for a connection untainted by deceit. But his faith in Jesus, a beacon in the darkness, was a secret he guarded fiercely. The Marias, convinced they were God's chosen instruments, saw his conversion as a victory over their perceived enemy. They believed their cruelty, their manipulation, were mere tools to usher in their warped vision.
Years bled into one another, punctuated by David's silent prayers and the cloying piety of his "wives." Then, one by one, the Marias withered, their youthful facades crumbling. Fear, a stark contrast to their earlier arrogance, flickered in their eyes as their final breaths came.
Death brought no peace to their souls. They found themselves not in the pearly gates they envisioned, but in a desolate, fiery wasteland. Hovering before them was a figure, his presence both radiant and wrathful. It was Jesus, his gaze a storm of righteous anger.
"You," he boomed, his voice echoing through the fiery abyss, "who twisted love into hate, who built your dominion on deceit, where is your piety now?"
Their self-proclaimed righteousness crumbled under the weight of his words. The torment they inflicted on David, their scapegoating of an entire people, was laid bare. There was no absolution in Jesus' eyes, only a terrible, searing disappointment. With a final gesture, they were cast further into the inferno, their screams a chilling symphony to their twisted faith.
David, meanwhile, awoke in a place of serenity, bathed in warm light. He heard a voice, gentle and familiar, beckoning him forward. It was Jesus, not in a form of wrath, but a figure of compassion.
"Welcome, David," Jesus said, his voice like a balm to David's weary soul. "You walked a lonely path, yet your faith remained true. This is your home now."
In that moment, David knew peace. The persecution, the loneliness – none of it mattered anymore. He was finally home, embraced by the true meaning of the faith he held dear, a faith that preached love, not hate, acceptance, not division. The fires of hell awaited those who used his name in vain, while for David, there was finally, blessedly, peace.
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