It is all that surrounds me, and even myself which continues to deteriorate as time passes ever on. Hour upon hour, though I have no means by which to count them, pass, and the stench of
has long since become a constant to my senses.
Reverberating echoes from the dripping
are merely unconscious noises in my ears, the moans and cries of the tortured un-noticed.
There is no escape. Many hours of tugging on my corroded iron chains have shown me that.
I’m sure that gangrene has long since usurped my hands from me, for their constant suspension removed feeling from them so long ago, I no longer notice. No longer even do I care what becomes of my body, or my soul.
If I am damned to rot in this stagnant abyss, so be it.
God in Heaven, save me.
Save your creation from this mortal damnation.
I have prayed to deities in the realms of both darkness and light, without response, and I now challenge their very existence. With my lips, while they were still intact, I brought forth every blessing, every curse I could voice.
Lord of Hell, release me.
Send your demons to my rescue.
Loud grinding sounds interrupt the continuity of the room’s own living noises, though I am unable to see what causes them.
approach my corner, and the new sounds alone are something that will keep me awake for
merely remembering their unique presence.
I make no pretenses that the
have come for me, even as I am lifted from the floor, and forced to stand. It is a task which I cannot perform, and I hear snorts of
at my incapability of this simple action.
My head hits the floor with a loud cracking sound as I fall, sending a nauseating flood of pain into my skull. There is a brief warmth of liquid, which passes between my face, and the cold surface of the slime covered stones, before I am jerked upward and pulled away from the haven of my corner and chains.
I do not know where it is that I am taken.
I cannot see.
It is unfamiliar to me, and I am terrified.
My bones begin to ache from the constant jarring, as the
forming the floor strike them. Many stops are made as
are opened for further passage.
At last, I am lifted, and placed into a chair of some kind. Around my neck is then fastened a strip of cold
locking on both sides, and preventing me from moving my head forward. At the nape of my neck is a single pointed stud, forcing a slight arch in the curvature of my spine.
For a moment, all around me is very silent, when breaking this oddity I have not heard in ages, comes the rustling of
A voice rings out, very close to my ears, asking me if I am ready to repent of my sins, and be forgiven by God in Heaven.
There is no God.
The voice asks me again.
There is no Satan to rebuke.
I hear the creaking of
And the point at the back of my neck pushes forward slightly, digging into my flesh, and tightening the space between the
band at my throat. A voice says something, perhaps to me, perhaps not, but I do not perceive its meaning. The
is turned again, moving the tip even more forward. My throat is constricted to the point of near suffocation, and the skin bearing the pressure of the stud breaks, allowing the sharp tip to press itself against my spine.
Rivulets of pain shoot through my body as the
is turned once more, and I can hear the popping of bone dislocating from the proper placement, the cracking of my own neck, sound in my ears as the tip crushes ever deeper, sending a sheet of blood down my back, and cutting off all supply of air to my lungs. A white haze begins to fill my brain, and the pain has little relevance to me any more.
Paralyzation spreads its roots in me as the screw is given one last turn, and I comprehend nothing more.
On that brightest day,
With its colorful flowers and radiant blue sky,
When nothing could be better,
As you emanate happiness, joyfully ringing out your tale of great fortune,
It will creep up on you.
And fancying only your own sick world, you don’t even see its darkness and perversity, encircling,
Into its gaping, stinking maw, devouring your soul from the inside out.
Until your own support fails you,
Dropping you into a festering pool of despair and grief.
That which the weak call escape,
That which the strong call cowardice,
That which is the eternal unresting called
Oh the beautiful rose of crimson,
That which water makes blossom so lovely.
As it grows you shall wither,
Never seeing its complete splendour,
That the color of Cupid’s target.
If only it could remove its roots from your veins.
Yet that time lies past.
You planted it.
You nurture it.
I can feel my
and I clench and unclench them in an effort to dispel any dream state in which I may be. As an old reflex takes control, my
open, and I
light. For the first time in ages can I actually
light, and through the light, I
two shapes. They seem very similar in shape and stature, and as they approach, becoming more distinct, I can see how one might actually think them siblings. Though one is fair, and the other dark, I feel the same sense of power emanating from both, yet as one.
Why an impossibility young one? You deceive yourself with lies because of your own lack for any other rationale. You called upon us, one after the other, afraid that one may not assist you. Afraid to take a stand. Afraid to be strong. And when we, insulted by your disrespect and pettiness refused you aid, you cursed us with all of your might, and turned your back to us. Nowhere would you believe us to exist. So where do you stand now, disbeliever? You stand before your creator, before the very force which holds reality together. Your reality. And for your great lack of faith, you will be rewarded. You are now free from mortal damnation. You are immortal, eternal. You cannot die, for there is no death here, and you cannot cease to exist. But you can still suffer, and this is what you will do before us…for eternity.
I cannot comprehend such
as is suddenly inflicted upon every
I try to scream, but there is no sound. Nothing to release the anguish and torment beyond any mortal reasoning. It is maddening, and yet insanity cannot cease the pain. No sound can I utter, no movement can I make, no way to ease the ever building torture which fills, yet empties my being. It will never cease, and it will never stop its growth, as I can only lie, believing.