St. Peter Inc. Page #2

• Religion
• Short story
• Spirituality & New Age
• Philosophy

								

	The woman standing with a fearful and apprehensive expression clenched tighter to the two items David had described. She pulled them closer to her stomach as she approached the desk. With a great amount of mental effort, she managed to give the book to Lucas and the file to David. As if the desk had hit the woman with an overwhelming wave of heat she quickly took several small steps backward each producing a small thump against the floor. For a moment nothing could be heard, but the rhythmic ticking of the clock.
	“Thank you. If you have any questions please ask them now,” David said as his delicate fingers flipped open the file that had the words “The completed life of Eileen Murphy” branded onto it in a bland black serif font.
	“Ay I have… uh… a question,” the woman forced out of her throat. Her green eyes glowed with furious apprehension. For a moment it was as if her voice had left her whole body and fled to her spine. Her posture tightened as only that of an authority. It was as if she was trying to milk all the height she could out of her short frame. “So I am dead?” She paused, letting her voice once again return to her eyes, “How'd I die?”
	“The memory of one's death is always erased up to the nearest peaceful moment so they can be calm upon arrival so we may process them more quickly. This is in accordance with the 465th amendment to bylaw 224,” David replied in his stoic work tone, “however,” at this, his tone broke into one of compassion. Her eyes penetrated him with the empathetic fury of blackened emeralds. As he glanced upon the hidden words of the file he spoke, “I may tell you if you wish.” These words didn’t come from his lips, but rather the passion of a broken ethos.
	“Yes, please sir,” the woman answered with subtle resolve.
	David had already found where in her file it stated her cause of death, “You were shot three times by Sir Rorry Murphy on May 6th.” David's voice broke in the way demons do in holy water. “He shot you once in the side whilst you were running away, once in the back of your leg, and then once you were on the ground he shot you in the head.” 
	A single tear rolled down the cheek of the woman. At this, Lucas began his questions whilst holding the small gray book on the table. The book could’ve been mistaken for a wallet or passport. The only thing on its gray leather exterior was the word SOUL painted cleanly in a gold font. 
	“What is your full given name?” Asked Lucas in stark contrast to his traditionally laid-back inflection.
	“Eileen Quinn Murphy,” She answered, “why do you need my name? It was on the folder?”
	“To prevent any mix-ups in folders,” David offered, which beckoned a glare from Lucas.
	“Please do not interrupt me, miss,” Lucas said with a near snarl-like expression. “Where do you live?” he continued. It was clear to David at this time that Lucas, a man so very content in living in a world that he has been confined in, only seeks to be controlled.
	“Sligo, Ireland.”
	“Have you been baptized?” As he asked further David examined every inch of his friend’s character. From the loafers that he proudly walked on to his coffee-stained teeth. He was an angel, yet he was nothing more than a man.
	“Yes,” the woman replied
	“Have you committed any Significantly Infringement to Natural Serenity commonly referred to as S.I.N.S. Including murder…” As Lucas’s monotone questions continued David’s eyes finally rested on his best friend's stale lips. No emotions were in his words. No compassion. No malice. But rather the still cruelty of it was what struck David himself with fear. 
	“No,” The woman again said under the rain of decaying questions.
	“Theft…”
	“Not that I know of”
	“Or adultery?” At this, the woman looked like someone had played a sharp note on her heartstring. Her eyes which, were pointed intensely at Lucas, quickly moved to her feet. Lucas repeated, “Have you committed adultery?”
	“Uh… Yes. I suppose.”
	“No further questions,” Lucas said victoriously. But David knew there was nothing victorious about his verdict. It was a verdict that they had stumbled upon far too often.
	At this, Lucas grabbed one of two stamps sitting in front of him, dipped one in a spongy pad of red ink, and stamped one of the pages of the small gray book. The mark it left was unmistakable as the word Hell. Lucas handed the book to the woman and in a flash of fiery light, that had grown too familiar to David, she was gone.
	The next person walked in soon after. David still couldn’t stop looking at Eileen Murphy’s file. It took Lucas nudging him with his foot twice for David to begin his typical introduction, but he stumbled on his words. For once he saw the fear on the man's face in front of him and found it not to be a fear of divine justice. It was a fear of them. They were not justice; they were as vile as those who find sanctity in the fire and brimstone. David caught himself and continued his winding spiel. 
	At the end of the day, a pitiful gong rang pardoning David from his thoughts. David and Lucas began to pack up their belongings. Within the slew of papers David's eyes again rested upon the serif print. So many names. So many souls.
	Lucas, with an intrigued eye, asked “Why did you let her know how she died?” 
	“I don’t know. It seemed right,” David said while looking at the now-closed file.
	“Yeah, but we don’t usually do that.” 
	“It’s not against the rules. It’s... It’s just not protocol,” David replied defensively.
	“Well, sure but why break protocol now? For something so small.” 
	David turned to look at Lucas, “Her file. She didn’t cheat on her husband. At least not in any way that seemed wrong. He beat her senseless. Then in the night, she ran. She ran and then she fell in love.”
	“Well she still committed adultery didn’t she?” Lucas said half-sitting on the desk.
	“Yes, but it was completely justified,” David realized Lucas had sat on Eileen’s folder. In a way, it made sense to him. The righteous rump of the holy squashes the crème of sinners.
	“May I remind you David that we aren’t taught justification,” Lucas remarked snidely.
	“It’s the price of benevolence,” David said with a facetious half smile.
	“It's not our job to choose what’s moral, it is none of our business.” 
	David had again turned away from Lucas. “But it is our business,” he whispered with quiet anger, “every day we judge people and determine their fate. That fate is determined by morality.” 
	“Yes, but it isn’t our job to determine what is moral. And, if it makes you feel better, Rorry Murphy is sure to go to hell, for murder.”

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