"And they came over unto the other side of the sea, into the country of the Gadarenes. And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit, Who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no man could bind him, no, not with chains: Because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him. And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in the tombs, crying, and cutting himself with stones."

- Mark 5:1-5

I had been sitting out on the grass, by the little stonewall church I had come to call home in my servitude. I had pulled the precious, tattered King James Bible close to myself, finding comfort and calm in the words held therein. The wind was quiet and calm, bringing a slight chill to my bones.
I pushed the bangs of my light brown hair to the side, reflecting over the words the apostle John had written, the wind picking up again beside me. After a moment of fruitless effort in keeping the pages down, I had closed the Bible with a sigh, staring out into the distant darkness, on the other side of the lake. I suppose I had been lost in thought then, because I did not notice Bishop Romero come to sit beside me.
In fact, it had been his quiet voice that had displaced me from my thoughts. He had murmured that he would need my help, I was the only student he considered adequate enough for this task. I could not have possibly said no to the bishop, but I wish I had. I might have saved myself the grief that I bear as a cross, now.
He had asked me to take care of a child like a mannequin within the church's care, possessed by a demon without a name. But he only wanted me to watch her at night, while she and the demon rested for the morning practices. This way, Bishop Romero would also be able to rest, in order to perform the morning Masses.
I would watch her over my books and manage to write. Really, as frozen and still as she was, she quite fascinated me. I longed to ask her question after question, even though she would not respond, but I had also been instructed not to speak to her. They were worried that I may become entwined with the demon that held her, thus wasting my own talent.
I had asked Bishop Romero how long she had been there. He would have liked not to answer my question, but I was persistent. He told me quite simply that she had been there for 5 years, though she had not been affected by time at all in those years. I questioned how old she was, truly. She would be 15 in March.
I questioned quite often about her, to Bishop Romero. I found out her name, Madeleine Vincent; I had been quite pleased at that discovery. I questioned about how she came to fall under such a state, but he could not answer me simply. I asked of her parents, he told me that they had died just a short while ago. I questioned of what was to become of her, he replied that he wasn't sure. I stopped questioning only because of the warning looks he would give me. I'm curious, but I know when to keep my curiosity to myself.
So I contented myself to simply studying her in the nights we shared, her on her narrow white bed, me in my chair, surrounded by the books I had brought for studying. Her long, raven black hair would manage to shine, in the dim light, like a beacon to me. She seemed so pale against the black of her hair and the rosy red of the crucifix around her neck. Our sole intruder was the archangel, Michael, who stood, face downcast in a hard, merciless look for the demon, on a table by her bed.
Often, when I was finished with my work, I would move closer to look into her face, to study what seemed to be empty and vacant. Despite the pale, waning light of the moon, I would sometimes imagine I saw a blush in her cheeks and red in her lips. I wished I could know what color her eyes were. She was always asleep by the time I arrived to watch her carefully.
For weeks, my nights went like this. I found a calm serenity in the nights watching her, and during the day I would rest and sleep, but dream about that pale figure lying there in that room, Michael, sword in hand, defending her from the demon who would steal her soul away. I, in the corner, praying feverishly for her, until, as the sun rose, she would open her eyes and smile at me.
I was only 17, then. I was fixated around a girl who looked no older than 10. But the attraction was the mystery she held, in those nights alone. She would pay me no mind, but sleep as if she were only a normal girl. Then, while I would sleep, she would come to my dreams, sometimes to my bed, and smile at me. I knew the thoughts were sinful and against everything I was trying to establish for myself, but I could not stop my mind's eye from being fixated on her while I slept and my naked eye when we were together.
Michael as my witness, I was bewitched, and I had no clue how to escape, nor could I go to any of the bishops for help. I would be labeled as demon possessed and banned from the books I loved to study, confined to a room less hospitable than this, I'm sure. The awaiting tortures, I could not imagine. Thus, when I went to confession, I sealed my heart from the bishop and God there.
In accordance to my fears, I went on as if everything were as it were when I first arrived, curious about the God I was willing to serve and willing to obey the people teaching me. But, more and more, I found myself questioning their teachings and the credibility of them. I questioned the books I would read, and I would begin to get angry, with them and myself. I could no longer blindly accept, and somehow, I felt it was Madeleine's fault, though that was impossible. She would just sleep while I was there.
Thus, I was alone, yet I would not be left alone; I was abandoned, yet pestered constantly. The times when I thought I would find solace began to be times when I would be uncomfortable and deign over soon. I felt I was going mad, and there was no way to stop the impending doom: not my God, not my Savior, not my Protector, not my teacher, and not my Bible.
I was left undefended, all my thoughts shaken, simply because of my wandering mind. Though, even now, in my current state, I feel some connection to a mysterious being. Though, now that I have the chance to question it clearly, I'm not sure if the mysterious being ever was the god I idolized.
As the lost and confused feeling inside of me grew, so did the isolation from my comrades. When I was sure no one would be there to question me, I would visit Madeleine, watching her closely during the daytime. But, as if by some twist of fate, her eyes would always be closed upon my arrival. It was a mystery; I longed to see what color her eyes were.
I came often, more often than I should have. I would move close to her bedside and touch her hand. The heat radiating from it was so warm, unlike the pale color cream of her skin. The obsession with her was driving me to madness.
It came to be where holding her hand was all I could think to do in the evenings. It was the closest way I could grasp to be near to her. There were other more physical ways, more emotional ways, but they frightened me. The nameless demon frightened me. Yet, in ways I couldn't have grasped, I was already possessed. I was tired, from days of restless sleep and nights of tiring want. I slept, just one night, her hand in mine. I slept, and woke in a whorish haze, gazing into the rusted red eyes of a demon; a demon clad in a white nightgown, raven hair cascading around pale ceramic skin, her hand clutching mine tightly. I was afraid, now that I had seen what I had wanted and wished for so badly, I was terrified. The heat that flew from her hands was burning into my flesh, her eyes refusing to let my gaze go. Though, through it all, I could see behind her demonic gaze, I could see the innocent woman I had fantasized about. Her heat was surrounding me, and all I could do was blush. But when her pale lips brushed mine, I could not describe the sensation accurately.
It felt as though something had been given and taken away from me at the same time. Her heat and flown into me, but suddenly, I had never felt more alone in the world.
When her useless body collapsed on mine, the loneliness grew to such an acute strength. I felt a shudder, followed by a sob, uttered from my own mouth.

In the dimness, I heard Bishop Romero cry out, "Demon! Bewitched! Mourn for the innocent life you've taken and the God that will not remember you!"

"Then Saul, (who also is called Paul,) filled with the Holy Ghost, set his eyes on him. And said, O full of all subtilty and all mischief, thou child of the devil, thou enemy of all righteousness, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord? And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind, not seeing the sun for a season. And immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness; and he went about seeking some to lead him by the hand."

Acts 13:9-11

A/N: All in all, I was really new with first person narratives when I first wrote this. I also wasn't quite sure how I wanted Jeremiah (Is that sad if you can't remember if you put his name in the whole story, not to mention if that even was his name?) to turn out. Quite frankly, between you and me, I'm still very unsure of his personality. It's like drawing a good, strong outline. I'm just not sure of the details yet. Though, do rest assured. I'm very sure of how I want this story to go and of some definite crucial points I plan to throw in. (Not to mention, you'll be seeing another RP character I'm very fond of.) My synopsis: I may or may not be able to keep up the type of narrating style I used in this chapter, but the bible verses stay. For sure.