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~~C Y R E N~~ · **01-29-2013, 03:38 PM**

There's a scar there, right behind the veil.

It's painted in crimson hues, etched into a wall of tendon and sinew. Howls of misery and screams of

pain

create a cacophany of sound so detestable that it's provenance is disguised. We only know that just a little further beyond, lies waiting all our sins material; all our guilt given governance. We are at the threshold between the flame and the shadow, sniffing the acrid stench of our shredded and steaming soul, waiting to push forward into the Abyss.

Darkness behind us, darkness beneath us; for darkness, we would commit the all of ourselves, the everything. Oh devils, why can't there be darkness before me? A stretch of a hand forward and we feel the inferno licking, we feel the digits shrivel and shrimpen into disfigured caricatures of themselves.

Oh what coin we would trade but for just a moment more of bleakness. I would purchase peace with my eyes; with my tongue; with my blackened heart.

Yet, the Gatekeeper is not a salesman.

His vapid face is marred by the fog, his scythe gleaming and sparkling as it strays just out of reach of the flame, hung low over his shoulder. His robes though, they are vivid. As if they were simply a display of all my former horrors. Hands of blood push outward against the cloth, seemingly poking through at points, seeking comfort.

I afforded them none in life.

They shall return my generosity in Hell.

For once, as I stand there, knees locked and flesh melting, the body does not squeal. The shell; that carcass, that meatsuit, it doesn't dictate anything. No more receptors in the brain(have I one?) blinking, no more urges to stifen the surging onslaught of torture, no more need to staunch blood that has flowed from me in countless buckets.

I detach from body and from mind, from self and from sinner.

Clutched am I, in the Gatekeeper's palm. In his pale face, my eyes search for a soul but find none. I have an urge to scream, to flee, to fly away from this apocalyptic gargoyle - but the 'ferryman' does not allow it.

At his will, am I. All of I, all I was, all I will be. Here, suspended above self, his scythe protruding through my metaphysical self, my self portrait skewered by his rigidity - it's here, where I know what Hell is.

It's in that wraith's face.

Plain as the day is long.

His face is my own.

Hell is coming face to face with yourself.

And not only feeling or suspecting but KNOWING that you come up short.

As he tosses me into that blinding flame, I know all my hopes are dead and that no one will save me from perdition.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode The GateKeeper (Enter Perdition)
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