The Broom Closet

I have taken the liberty to put the following
true story to words (heard from Missionary
John-John Lambeth’s lips).

Warning: Graphic language and descriptions.

The Broom Closet

Nameless…She was never named, but that does not matter, anymore.

She died this morning… alone.

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In reality, the story began with a hospital visit to room 309, requested by an Apostolic saint on behalf of her sick, soul-harden husband.  The shallowness of his breath indicated the shortness of his future and that frightened the man… but not quite enough.  After a few words of comfort and a prayer, the missionary turned to leave.

As he walked away, he felt the tug of a pleading hand on his arm and saw two sad eyes behind the haunting touch.  Softly, she said, “The girl in the broom closet… please pray for her.” Silence then hung in the air as those sad eyes pointed to the end of the hall.  When the missionary turned back around, no one was there.

All the doors were numbered… except the last one on the left.

There, hesitantly, the missionary knocks and waits.  Silence. Unlocked. The door is unlocked.  He enters.  It really was a broom closet.

Almost empty, except…

The closet packed the terrible smell of decaying blood.

Where from, why? Yes…

The slender beam of light from the hall turned the darkness into dark brown as the missionary saw the narrow cot pushed up against the wall.

And there on the thin foam mat, she laid…

Alone…

The tattered sheet that barely covered her was much too transparent. Every decimated bone was showing through, screaming out her pain in narrow lines.

The sheet was not enough to cover the oozing of blood and life, caking on her in a dark crimson stench.  The scene was overwhelming.

Yet, the missionary felt there was life in the room, barely…

Her dazed eyes slowly opened… her life was ebbing. Death was near.

Pray?

Pray what kind of prayer? Healing?  Pray salvation, maybe?

What’s your name? What was her name? Silence cloaked her name.

It was already too late as…

The winds of eternity began permeating the closet… and hell marched in as her moans began expressing torment.

Her left hand exposed a wedding band… but there was no husband.

Neither was there a nurse, nor oxygen… not even hope. The missionary arrived too late

It was hell’s bloom closet.

Alone… death is always lonely thing when hell is the destination.

The closet turned to darkness again as the missionary walked out.  Through the door and his tears, he heard her last groan.

There are no heroes in hell.

Nameless… everyone is nameless in hell.

Avoid hell… find a prayer closet.

John Bradley Lambeth