“Hello Steven.” There is infinite sorrow on the Bishop’s face as the guards plant me in a chair on the other side of his desk, my hands spread out on the top. “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to talk again.”
So had I. I thought I’d hidden well enough this time to die and wake up with God instead of the Church’s doctors.
He leans forward and puts a hand over mine, stilling the tremors that rack it. “You can’t keep doing this. Please, repent and walk with us in the footsteps of Jesus.”
I don’t answer him. My throat is locked with remembered pain of the razor that opened it and spilled my life onto the ground.
I want to spit in his face and tell him he’s wrong, that God never meant us to keep re-animating these tired bodies as we suck the world dry. But the resurrection process has left me weak. All I can do is shake my head. Lights flash behind my eyes as nanobots falter in their painstaking task to reassemble my thoughts from darkness.
“Oh, Steven. How many times must we go through this?” He looks over at the doctor who stand in the shadows. “Steven rejects the words of the holy prophet Dr Pearson and his gift of resurrection. Execute him tonight.”
My heart soars. They are going to give up and let me go.
But... no. “Steven, we’ll talk again tomorrow. I pray that you will be thinking more clearly.”