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Scriptures of Torment
I've lost count of the days I've spent here, though my trial is coming to an end, the cold loveless crawl they call the path to salvation. Clasping tightly to these pages, I pour my eyes over the words like hot wax, searching for the pardon I so truly seek. Why won't my lord love me like I deserve to be loved?
As I fasten this faith around my neck I begin to choke, the brace too tight for me. I am told that I have allowed myself to become tarnished. As I scrub at my skin like a stained sheet, I am unable to remove the colour that seems to populate my every pore.
The shame is almost too much to bare. My final day before judgment. Will I go to hell?
In a panic I flush through these pages one last time. One last time. I search so hard for my salvation, but with every turn of the page I begin to feel the bark of the blackwood under my fingertips. The words form an image of his face. I can see them now, I let my fingers read his expression, a book I do not want to close, a freedom I crave.
These scriptures of torment become sand in my hands, the grains slide off my fingers like stones, as they hit the ground they cause a tremor so loud it bursts the ears of my holy captors. They will know my pain. They will fear my salvation.
God steps down off her filthy altar, scraping her toes over the world as she stalks towards me. The tributes of her sons and daughters swing from her waist, configurations of flesh and bone, carved from the souls of the weak. She will receive no such payment from me.
Years I've been fed sap from a poisoned tree. Once a source of virtue and direction, reduced to rot. And a rotten plant must be torn from the earth. She reaches for me now. I take her wrists in my hands and I feast upon her face.
No god will be able to stop you,
No god will be able to control you.
The Glass Purge
I search for the man in the blackwoods, but as I draw nearer to the forest my path becomes convoluted. I am becoming confused, my motivations tested. Who are these others that beg of my attention? The world spews forth its bile and my content grows like cancer.
Offerings of food and shelter test my resolve. I am cold, but not cold enough. I am hungry, but sustenance I shall find on my own.
I have witnessed the machine, it is old and rusted but still its cogs are slowly turned by those who worship it. The men oil the wheels with their sweat, their pain matched only by it's produce. It is a vile creature that I will not succumb to.
And so to, I climb the corpse walls, these pillars beset in this world to blot out the sun. I urge all, remove the plastic sheets from your eyes, fear is your motivator but hatred mine. I am angered at your weakness. Few heed my warning. All will face resolve.
'Shadows became opaque as their hosts turned to glass. Humanity fell to Judas, bowing before him, they offered flesh and bone for him to wear around his neck.
Whispers of the serpent tell me what I already know.
'Tyrant, you have become'
'Loveless', all I feel is numb.
'The way out' redemption for what I have done?
Tightening around my neck like a noose, the words of the serpent repeat. 'Purge'
I tie my family to the coulombs of my chapel and allow them to bask in my glow. I am very generous.
Why do their smiles descend?
I begin to doubt their admiration.
I will make them believers of me. Layer upon layer dissolve from their bodies, until only black bones remain. I see no soul.
Clarity comes in waves, but just as the tides, it slowly slips from my grasp. In a fleeting moment I have seen what I have done, like all before me I have embodied the God complex.
The only thing tighter than the nooses grip is the serpent’s words strangling my mind. I will be done with this putrid existence. No soul to be saved.
The Lowest Circle of Hell
It's not like anything I've ever seen before, so many screams, it's all I can hear. The river merges with the bodies on the shore, flowing as one, I can barely tell them apart.
Virgil, one for Dante, one for all who challenge the gods directs me to the ferryman. 'You will know pain no mortal soul has known, King Minos need not condemn you my son, it is known. The lowest circle of hell awaits. He. Awaits.'
A parody, a divine irony as it were for my sins against God, condemned me to this pit. I am scared, I am truly terrified.
King Minos takes me by my mortal form, he subjects me to a special torment. Every circle shall taste my flesh before it reaches the lowest.
My eyes are plucked from my burning face by the fat, the infinitely hungry.
The gluttons, morbidly obese creatures who feast on each other turn their blunt teeth to me. I am eaten. Regenerated. And eaten again.
As I pass through the very bowels of the circle of gluttony I descent to the greedy, unsatisfied craving for the worthless, never ending pockets in our skin that we fill with gold. Forever drowning in the sparkling filth.
My skin, now gold, shines upon a lower level. I can smell it. Lust. I am passed around as I am, an object of those ruled by their desires, never satisfied in the washed intimacy.
Hatred leaves a definitive taste in my mouth, as I spend years fighting myself, the ones who’ve committed suicide and the angry I am hastily taken from this circle and onto the next. There’s fear in the eyes of these demons as they watch me dissolve the souls of ghouls. A question nearly forms in my mind before I am thrown deeper.
The circles of Fraud and Heresy bare a lot of familiar faces, many here from the old world I see. I am granted a moment to sew their mouths shut before I am taken to before an icy chasm.
All ghouls and demons depart as angels guide my soul, betrayers of god belong here with him, my true God. It’s cold, inviting, have I found where I belong?
The wings of Lucifer blow an icy air over me and I am frozen still, his claws lacerate my frozen flesh, his teeth penetrate my skull. Infinite white noise injects into my mind, there’s no remedy for this pain. My weak soul shall surely succumb to this ultimate torture.
The only thing more painful than the noise, the irony, and the only thing I still feel is hatred. Pure hatred.
Scriptures of Hate
No scholar shall accurately document these events, no lore explain what’s foretold, for lore is the catalyst for these injustices to Judas. He knows this. Be aware mortal.
Ten million years Judas endures suffering, reduced to a soul sphere, the essence of his being. Billions like him surround the confines of his third-dimensional prison in hell, suffering indefinitely, reduced to husks, their torment is all that remains. Though no suffering can relinquish Judas’s hatred.
Even though Lucifer personally inflicts such remedies of pain, they cannot subdue the hatred. Fear begins to elope hell as demons, ghouls and the fallen congregate around him.
Judas sees what his existence is, a God that would not accept him for who he was, a world that only cared for greed and individuality above all else, the insanity that eloped him before suicide and the ultimate irony of his place in hell.
Judas stews, his hatred a form no third-dimension knows nor can contain, he expands like a tesseract. In all directions he sees, in all times he has been and will be, nuanced dimensions are pierced, through the fourth, the fifth, sixth and seventh he expands. Judas now aware of these pages, of this authors sickened, drugged state his hatred extrapolates to truly terrifying levels.
Sinister surveyors of all dimensions and time materialize before Judas, a dimension where alien forms congregate and enjoy the pains of sentient life for all eternity. They warn him that his presence, albeit disgusting to them is all but threatening to the existence of existence itself. His ability to surpass his third-dimension is a paradox and if he does not cease to exist he will dissolve the omniverse in hate.
Judas heeds these new discoveries with much tenor before he implodes upon himself. All things know or unknown dissolve upon themselves, reduced to a single origin. Hatred.
No god will be able to stop you,
No god will be able to control you.
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