Paige Heinrich-"The Fruit"

A cool gray mist taints the morning with a feeling of despair, and two bilious figures drag out of its embrace. They hobble forward, restlessly, toward a marble structure in the mist’s wake. A heavy door rests in front of them, glistening with gold and silver moldings. No act is done, no word is said, yet the door glides open in invitation. Their eyes gloss over the already present crowd sitting in nervous bundles of themselves on long ivory pews. Slews of abhorrent men and women hunch over, chewing nails, shaking sporadically, and rocking themselves like juveniles. Their anxiety is contagious. The two men, now tapping their fingers, take their seats. They sit next to a disfigured woman adorned in robes of every color. She looks up, chanting under her breath, and shrivels to the side.

Large bells chime their sickeningly sweet chorus above and a sudden calm washes over the crowd. A door at the front of the wide room, identical to the first, swings open to reveal a small man dressed in long white robes. He walks with purpose towards a marble columned altar sitting at the front of the pews. His feet stop in front, and he reaches into his silken sleeve. From this, his hand reveals a glistening scarlet apple which he places gently on the platform. A moment passes, and the man retreats to the door in which he entered.

This new image holds perfection. This fruit, red as a stream of blood and staining the pure white stone underneath, evokes an emotion deep inside the souls of the weary people present. A slow fire begins to burn in the pits of their deepest self. The two men glance at each other through the corners of their eye, but only for a second as their attention is soon encaptured by the picture in front of them. The visual tension returns and unease fills the room once again. Feet start to shuffle and murmurs crescendo into shouts. A woman in the back begins shaking violently and cries spring out around her. Chaos ensues as person after person falls victim of this frightening stupor.

Yet amidst the mayhem, the final man to have entered the room arises slowly from his seat on the pew. The elaborate woman next to him moans in fear and grasps onto his arm. Her grip of steel does nothing to stop him as a divine string pulls him forward, toward the center of the room. Towards the marble altar, and the lustful fruit. All his muscles tense in frightened restraint. His teeth grit together like a symphony of rocks. But his foot takes another heavy leaden step forward. Step after step he trudges on, trying to resist this pull yet allowing it all the same. He knows what is to come, and still, he marches onward.

A sudden quiet jolts the man from his trance and he realises in fright that he is overlooking the crowd, planted directly in front of the altar. There is no longer shaking or discord as all eyes are strained, bloodshot, and staring dead center at the apple. The man follows their gaze and slowly dips down to the fruit. A wet bead of sweat glides down it’s glossy, unblemished skin. He reaches out both hands, entranced by its dazzling beauty. His fingers shake, his lips tremble. Then, he grasps the apple in one swift motion. Sharp inhales sound as each person holds their breath. Not a word is spoken, nor sound created, as the man lifts the fruit to his mangled face. His heart races in dangerous proportion yet his hands do not halt their journey.