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Random Rants and Other Nonsense

A Soul's Definition
by PitchforkPrincess


Brent had no doubts that he could win the five mile marathon. He'd been practicing for months, running circuits around the University and weight training.

Of course, the risk Brent was about to take could also have dire consequences. There was a very special entrance fee. His wife had pleaded with him not to take such a risk, but the prize money was too much to resist.

Besides, they needed the money badly. Heather had just discovered she was pregnant. This news couldn't have come at a worse time, because they were behind on a stack of bills, and Brent had been laid off two weeks earlier.

However, the new strain on their lives was not a dark cloud for either of them. They had been trying for several years to have a baby, and were resolved to bring a healthy child into this world.

"Brent Andrews, Mr. Blake will see you now."

Brent glanced up at the receptionist, who pointed one long, bony finger toward a door with a plaque reading: "Rudolf Blake, Contracts".

"Just go on in, he's waiting," the receptionist replied. Brent shivered. The woman couldn't have been more than 25, yet her coal black hair was streaked with wisps of gray.

Shaking off the feeling of foreboding the strange girl gave him, Brent entered the office.

Standing at the rear of the office, behind an enormous mahogany desk, was a man of impressive height, and slight weight. Brent did a double take, certain than no human being could be of such mis-matched proportions. This odd man stood over six and a half feet tall and yet appeared to weigh no more than one-hundred ten pounds, evenly distributed throughout his body.

Brent gave his head a good shake, in an attempt to clear away the impossible image. Yet, the strange, stick-figure man remained as he ever had.

"Welcome, Mr. Andrews," Rudolf Blake intoned, his voice rattling in his throat like dice in a cup. "I understand that you wish to participate in our marathon."

"Yes," Brent choked, clearly uncomfortable even discussing what he was about to do.

"Do you fully comprehend the bet you're about to place?" Mr. Blake watched Brent with curious eyes.

"Yes, sir," Blake whispered, voice disjointed. "I must wager my soul."

The skinny giant nodded. "Correct. If you win, you receive a very generous check of ten-million dollars. However," and here he looked most grave, "if you lose, my employer collects your soul."

Brent briefly scanned the strange contract Mr. Blake handed him, eager to get out of this office and away from the strange lawyer. "Where do I sign?"

Suddenly, pain erupted from his fingertip. It took him a moment to comprehend. Mr. Blake had jabbed the tip of the strange quill into his index finger.

"Just make your mark anywhere," Mr. Blake cackled.

To avoid any considerations of backing out, Brent quickly pressed his bloody finger into the middle of the parchment, swiftly sealing his fate.

"Good," Mr. Blake murmured, "Good."

•


The race started out well, with Brent easily holding the lead. Only twenty-five people had entered, and all were male. Many appeared to be out of shape, but a few might eventually pose real competition.

As he ran, Brent contemplated what had made each of these men enter the race. The risk was great. What was worth the soul?

The question posed a real dilemma for Brent, who could no longer convince himself that it had all been done for the sake of his child. At least some part of him had entered this crazy contest out of lust for piles of money. He imagined that there was nothing he could not do if he had ten million dollars collecting interesting in the bank.

All of these thought were a serious distraction, and when a runner pulled in front of him, and then put distance between them, Brent's heart slammed against his chest. He cursed himself for letting his mind get the better of him.

When Brent saw the finish line looming near, impossibly too soon, he shot off like a bolt of white hot lightning. If he ran his hardest, surly he could regain the lead!

The heels of his running shoes slammed into the ground as Brent strove to close the gap between him and the mysterious runner in front of him. He concentrated, imagining the sign Heather had pinned to his back. Bearing the number '1' was a clear sign he was meant to win this race.

Horror spread across Brent's face as the leading runner's own number came into view. '26'. But there had only been twenty-five participants when the race began! Had this all been a fraud?

Anger at the deceit surged through Brent's body, and he gained on '26'. The finish line now lay only twenty feet ahead. He could make it! He could win this thing!

And then his ankle snapped. He went down in a ball of pure agony, and watched with a sickening feeling as the race was lost to him and all the other fools who'd fairly entered.

They all gathered around him, each with an identical look of despair on their faces. They hoisted him up and carried the distraught, injured man across the finish line, none touching the tape that had split when the mysterious runner won the race.

There they waited, certain that momentarily, they'd be transported to the fiery nether regions of hell, never able to atone for this one grave sin.

"I'm never gonna meet my boy," one damned man choked.

"I'll never hold my baby girl," another confided.

Sick terror dawned on Brent's face. He looked toward the bleachers, where twenty-five distraught women waited. Many were visibly pregnant.

"Oh god," Brent choked, "I signed away my soul... my soul!"

Then, every woman, wife, and mother-to-be fell forward, screaming in miserable agony, as each felt the baby growing inside them vanish.

 •

 

Author's Notes: Can't remember the prompt for this one. Had to keep it under 1000 words.