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  K. Trap Jones

  The Sinner

  BLOOD BOUND BOOKS

  Copyright © 2012 by K. Trap Jones

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-0-9849782-1-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Artwork by Stacy Drum

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Visit us on the web at:

  www.bloodboundbooks.net

  For my wife Robyn and my three sons: Chase, Hunter and Ayden.

  My whole world begins and ends with you.

  Warning

  Due to the unique formatting of this book, The Sinner is best read with the following options selected:

  1) LANDSCAPE

  2) Line Spacing: SMALL

  Preface

  A lone farmer, chosen by God to test the boundaries of sin, is isolated in a darkened cave with only a quill, a candle and a stack of parchment paper. His burden is to awaken each day within predetermined encounters involving the seven deadly sins and their associated demons. At the end of each vision, the events will remain within the farmer’s mind for a brief period in order for him to transcribe his thoughts. The following are his translated entries within their original narrative formatting.

  I

  isolation

  As I lay dying in my own blood waiting for death to greet me,

  The punishment has ceased, but my wounds

  Serve as remembrance of the turmoil I have endured.

  My life’s liquid displays like art against the dirt grimed floor

  With small rivers of blood twisting into the black.

  It flows from me as if it is disgusted with my shattered body

  And no longer desires me as its owner.

  Each drip adds to the red current

  And carries me closer to my demise.

  Fear of the unknown unites me with this quill.

  I do not know why I have been chosen,

  But this darkened cave filled with shadows is now my home.

  My fingers are blistered from dragging them

  In the darkness across the rocky walls

  Searching for a path leading outward.

  My eyes no longer shed tears and

  Have become as dry as the dust consumed air.

  My aches from being huddled in this pit

  Reflect the length of my stay here.

  The dryness has murdered any moisture within my mouth.

  My tongue fails to provide my cracked lips with any such relief.

  I am deathly alone with my mind and

  He offers no care for my well being or mental state.

  He is against me now; an enemy to my livelihood.

  He portrays evilness in the forms of unexplainable sounds

  And mysterious movements that lurk within the shadows.

  All of which does not assist me with maintaining my sanity.

  I do not know how long I have been here,

  Nor do I truly understand my surroundings.

  My last real thought is of my farmland

  And its peaceful memory comforts me.

  A task has been presented before me.

  Do not ask me how I know this,

  As I would not be able to supply an answer.

  It is a feeling that is apparent within me,

  An unexplainable knowing of what is real.

  I avoided this quill and paper while

  My mind plagued me with the realization of my situation.

  The valley of fear that I find myself in

  Is unforgiving and relentless in its pursuit

  To destroy the essence of what constructs me as a man.

  The anger of my dwelling no longer brutalizes me

  So long as I transcribe my thoughts.

  Although, the unrelenting onslaught of pain

  Remains a constant aftermath.

  My will is ruined from the bleeding walls I witness.

  My mind is numb from the howling screams I hear.

  My heart is weak from the sheer agony that devours the air.

  I am broken; I am no longer whole.

  My captor is well versed in the art of torture

  And has made it known that I face

  Mind altering consequences for not using the tools provided.

  I cling to this quill as it is the only item I can personify with.

  It has instantly become my friend.

  The amount of fear that tears at me

  Is as unavoidable as the pure darkness of this cave.

  It is unyielding and stalks me even when I close my eyes.

  I dare not exit the safe radius of the candle and the

  Protection it provides me as I cannot justify

  The sources of sound residing across the threshold of light.

  The flame of the candle flickers yet there is no source of wind.

  The wick burns into the wax, but no excess drips.

  The fire has no care in the world;

  No predictable pattern of movement.

  It dances and is quite soothing to watch.

  Although I know that I am physically alone within these confines,

  My mind observes unexplainable movements

  That fault my rational judgment.

  Shadows. Shadows that move as if alive.

  I crouch closer within the bright circle

  As I believe that they are watching me.

  I feel that my evil audience would strike at me if given the chance.

  I try not to think about my visitors and

  Offer them no traditional welcome to my prison,

  But ignorance has never been a strong trait for me.

  They do not pester me; instead they merely observe.

  If I stand and walk in their direction,

  They blend deeper into the darkness

  And only make themselves known

  When I do not share my thoughts.

  I choose not to acknowledge them as to frighten them away.

  Regardless of what they are and their purpose,

  It is quite refreshing to have some companionship.

  From my observation, I have determined

  Eight distinct shadows of various sizes.

  Some are more curious and daring than others.

  Although I have yet to view any of the forms

  Outside of their shadowy boundary,

  Some do lurk closer to me than others.

  I do not fear them.

  They have done nothing for me to be afraid of.

  I am, however, curious as to their intentions.

  Often times the cave seems vacant,

  But at certain times it becomes quite agitated.

  Possibly due to my thoughts.

  Perhaps they are sent here when God is displeased.

  If that were true, silence would be that of acceptance.

  I must break from my practice

  As my wrist is not accustomed to long periods of writing.

  Something wicked lives on the edge

  Where the light bonds with the dark.

  She thirsts for me to halt my thoughts.

  I sense her presence now and smell her hatred for me.

  She is my attacker; the one who reaps my spirit

  And keeps me humbled and subdued.

>   Unlike my shadowy friends, she offers me no good will.

  My scars and blood loss are evident enough of her strength.

  Whereas the shadows embrace my thoughts,

  She is content with tearing the flesh from my bones.

  With that said, I will write to avoid any further turmoil.

  I am neither a writer nor reader of literature,

  Which makes me ponder as to why I have been chosen.

  The whispers of the shadows speak of a life of sin, but

  I cannot translate enough of the sounds to understand

  That of which they speak.

  I am not a religious person, but I know that God

  Has presented me with a task.

  How do I know this?

  It is apparent within my mind and the thought

  Is unavoidable and indestructible, for I have tried.

  I often wonder when the task will begin as

  This cave does not provide me

  The same enjoyment that my farm does.

  One can only look upon shadows and dirt

  For so long before insanity forms.

  My patience is scratching at me.

  Questions presented by my mind are increasing,

  Forcing me to argue with myself to be quiet.

  Part of me believes that God has a plan;

  He will inform me when he is ready,

  But my stubborn side believes that he has forgotten about me.

  Have I wronged God in some way

  That his vengeance has been unleashed upon me?

  I do not remember ever wronging God.

  An aura of sin fills the cave now.

  Prophets speak of sin like it is an evil spirit,

  One that will condemn a man’s soul.

  Some say it is a traveling nomad

  That corrupts a village by merely treading through it.

  I for one do not believe in the tales

  Of a wave of sin flooding the land,

  But alas I have somehow found myself

  In a cave with no exit, so all is possible.

  To my knowledge, sin only lives within the tales.

  My mind informs me that I will live through sin,

  But that cannot be true if indeed sin does not exist.

  Prophets also speak of a choice when approached;

  Virtues that battle the evilness.

  If I am to live through sin within this cave,

  Then I will simply choose the virtue.

  Why would I do otherwise?

  I imagine that God is patient,

  That he will get to my task eventually.

  Or has my task already begun?

  Is this cave sin? Is being alone a sin?

  I wish I knew exactly what sin was.

  If I did, my task would be easy to accomplish.

  Of all the kings, shepherds and priests,

  Why choose a farmer with little religious experience?

  Would not a prophet who studies sin be more suitable?

  Now I am beginning to think that I am not capable.

  What if I fail God?

  Surely, failing God would be a punishment of death.

  The flame of the candle is very mesmerizing.

  I often think that it does its rhythmic patterns

  In order to entrance me, but that would be absurd.

  Fear once again draws me back to my friend the quill.

  When writing is the only activity allowable,

  It has altered from a hassle into a blessing

  And is quite enjoyable.

  I have also discovered that during my absence from thought that

  My shadowy visitors become restless.

  They shriek with displeasure and scratch upon the rock walls.

  The eerie sounds startled me as I slept.

  As of now, the sounds are decreasing,

  Calmness is once again filling the cave.

  Small memories of my past reinvent themselves

  And graciously allow me to recollect.

  Most are of my farm.

  The images provide me with comfort, but

  Also add to the realization of my confinement.

  It offers me conflict with the sadness and

  Presents me with a dilemma of emotions.

  Of all of the livestock that I tended to,

  The goats were my favorite.

  They were always kind and appreciative of my work.

  When I close my eyes, I seek out my farm and it calms me.

  It is my only defense against the isolation;

  The utter darkness of my situation.

  It gives me hope, promise and slows my rapid heart.

  Please do not take that which comforts me.

  Please allow me to keep a portion of my life.

  I often consider that my mind has been drained

  In order to provide for approaching events.

  This is no more apparent than with the small act

  Of remembering my own name.

  I have tried, but my mind leads me down a path of emptiness.

  Once there, it guides me back to present thoughts.

  I hold on to the hope that once my task is complete,

  That my mind will be filled again with my past memories.

  I cannot believe that my visions have been erased for eternity.

  The mere thought is quite depressing.

  Not even God would be that cruel.

  My visitors must be pleased with my ideas.

  They have all vanished from the cave.

  Part of me wants to stop writing

  In order to welcome them to return,

  But I know that they are not my main task.

  Being alone is a sign of acceptance from God.

  An empty cave is a desired acknowledgment.

  It supplies me with great determination,

  But the loneliness is a hardship that is very strong willed.

  Constant leaving of my visitors weighs heavy on my heart.

  It drags me deeper into a trench of depression.

  My mind desires the reassurance that I am not alone.

  To be deathly alone plays with my emotions.

  It sends my thought patterns plunging into an abyss.

  I suppose I could stop writing to fetch my friends back,

  But that selfish act would displease God.

  I thrive on the basis that I know they will return,

  But that by itself does not make their departure any easier.

  For now, it comforts me that this quill is my only true friend

  As I know that it will never abandon me.

  Holding it amongst my fingers

  Grants me with a supremacy that is indescribable.

  I am not a faithful person,

  But that is altering due to my present situation.

  I have seen and heard things within this cave

  That would challenge even the most stubborn being.

  Does God exist?

  Something exists as something has entrapped me here.

  I have yet to see God, I doubt I ever will unless

  He has taken the shape of one of my shadowy friends.

  Even then I would not be able to comprehend him.

  The cave is becoming restless again.

  The once static shadows are beginning to shift.

  I have displeased God with my previous thoughts

  And my enemy is returning.

  She seems more agitated than any time before.

  The safety radius of the candle is slowly decreasing as

  She is overpowering the light.

  It provides no resistance to the dark and is weak in comparison.

  Darkness has crept up my legs

  And I can no longer see them.

  Violent shrieking and scratching is becoming louder.

  She is here, she has come for me.

  The shadows chew at my arm that holds the quill.

  My thoughts are decreasing as I wit
ness my hand

  Being the only visible item left within the light.

  I am sorry. I am sorry for my thoughts.

  I have angered her, I have angered God.

  I have . . .

  II

  WRATH

  The day began like any other day.

  There was not much excitement

  Waking up each morning along the city streets.

  My bed was wherever I laid my head the night before.

  With the winter season approaching,

  It was beneficial to huddle in groups in order to keep warm.

  The chill in the air was devastating

  Especially in the already shadowed corridors.

  I mainly survived by rummaging for food

  And additional clothing to keep warm.

  Many people of my kind

  Sold themselves as servants in order to avoid the streets.

  It was an option all of us had, but

  Some were too proud to venture into that area.

  I was propositioned once.

  I accepted, as food was scarce.

  My master at the time fed and clothed me,

  But my personal pride would not allow it to last.

  He would whip me violently

  When I disobeyed or showed signs of thinking.

  Instead of fighting back, I crept out of his abode

  The next night and returned to the streets where I was free.

  I heard more drastic tales of servants losing their lives,

  I considered myself fortunate that I was able to return.

  I would rather live freely and poor than rich and confined.

  The idea of serving another never appeased me,

  But sometimes the starvation became overpowering.

  It was not always like that.

  I did not always live on the streets.

  I once had a lovely cottage north of the city in the mountains.