The Maze The Lost Labyrinth - By Jason Brannon Page 0,40

do to prove it to you?”

“You’re still lying to yourself too, it seems,” Asterion said. “But you’ll eventually realize the value in truth.”

“So what happens if I fail this test?”

“You die,” Asterion spoke as if that should have been plainly obvious. “And I expect you’ll die painfully.”

“And if I do happen to escape?”

“Let’s not get carried away. You beat Cerberus, true enough, but this test will be much, much harder. Cerberus was an obstacle. This is a situation.”

“Care to shed any light on this---situation?”

“Sometimes the most beautiful things are the things that will harm us the most.”

“Anything else, Confucius?”

“These are your trials and tribulations. Not mine.”

And with that he left.

Chapter 19

The damage in the kitchen was extensive. In one fell swoop, Darrell Gene had destroyed what took him hours of work to complete. Both armies lay in disarray, little more than kindling for the fireplace now. Darrell Gene regretted what he’d done and wondered if he hadn’t been a little bit hasty.

It wasn’t so much what the wingless angel had said to him as is it was the possibility that the angel might have been telling the truth.

He’d been afraid of seeing the rebels win the war, but maybe in his life, that’s what they were destined to do. For a moment, he’d held on to the possibility of fitting in, of finding a group of people that loved him. But the longer he thought about it, the longer he realized that wasn’t likely. He could carve saints out of birch wood from now until the end of time, and they would never be strong enough to defeat the dismal feelings in his soul. They would never be strong enough to overcome the darkness.

In some subconscious part of his mind, Darrell Gene knew he was likening the outcome of his life to a board game. Somehow it seemed fitting. The desires of the flesh and that small seed representing the purpose of God that had never germinated in his heart were the two warring ideologies in his soul. Like angels and demons, they were at odds and would always be at odds until he chose a side and shifted the balance.

Tears rolled down Darrell Gene’s cheeks. “Who am I really?”

Darrell Gene didn’t need a response from anyone to know the answer. He had done some truly terrible things. He was a monster, and the Burroughs family was right to be frightened of him. No need in pretending otherwise. He didn’t want to be another Carl Beckett, roaming the streets of town with a smile on his face and a mouthful of lies.

Above the sink in his bathroom was a mirror. Darrell Gene stood there for several minutes looking at himself, seeing for the first time what other people must see. He wasn’t tall or thin, but short and heavyset. His hair was a greasy black, and the wet look wasn’t something he did intentionally. A thin, pubescent moustache clung precipitously to his upper lip, and his cheeks were marked by acne scars. Most days, he wore jeans, some sort of rock and roll T-shirt, and a ragged, sleeveless denim jacket. He didn’t even bother trying to hide the tattoos.

The artwork was a Technicolor testament to the skeletal. A malevolent looking skull with wings marked one forearm while a Grim Reaper with a wicked looking scythe stood watch on the other. His flabby biceps were wrapped in prison-inked barbed wire, and his elbows were done up in spider webs. A heavily-scaled serpent with eyes like rubies spiraled up his left arm, going from his wrist to the bend of his elbow and further up where it ended just below the barbed wire. The right arm was decorated with multi-colored stars which provided a sinister background for the Reaper to do his worst.

He hated what he saw. Maybe it was because he knew the evil that lived in his heart, and that made everything else so much worse. Or maybe he just had his doubts that someone like him would ever be able to fit in to normal society.

He felt like a monster, and the monsters would have no trouble accepting him. The regular folks were a different story. He could never see himself being a part of the church-going crowd. They were too vanilla, and he was as far from vanilla as you could get.

“Stop denying what you are.” The Reaper spoke from its place on Darrell Gene’s arm. “Stop being ashamed.”

“You’re one of us,” the winged skull tattoo whispered.

“You can’t