A final word.
Somewhere it is light, not here. I laugh and I hear it echoed back to me. So this is hell.
I know the others are close. Victoria is here, I can sense it.
I feel a laugh rise and am swallowed by the darkness. Hell.
It was my final act, a failure. They insisted on kneeling, bowing to a God that judged them. A God who had created a flawed world turned them lose in it and expected to be loved for creating the crucible of torture He had devised. I still loathe Him, and laugh at myself, how similar our tendencies are. Alejandro will never know what cold hands were on him all those nights ago, why he suffered so very delightfully. Lessons unheeded.
I have been a coward and a bully, a killer and so many worse things; I accept that. I knew what it meant, even as I denied God I knew this day would come, I feared it, and yet I did it anyway.
Somewhere there is a painting. On it there is a child angel. It is the masterwork of a talented artist, a beast and a pedophile. His name has become a laughing stock, but his skill still shows, would that I could have destroyed that too. From that canvas I stare out, and see the world, and I know what a mockery it is.
I would not live on my knees. I would not die begging that old bastard in heaven to forgive the tendencies He Himself instilled in me. I am His flawed creation; I am the thing which He used to test the worthy, and it makes me feel dirty to know I let Him.
One final act of defiance, that is my only prayer; let me spit in the face of the creator and then I can accept this place. Then I can resign myself to never feeling my beloved daughter’s fangs at my throat again.
For every white flower there is a dark shadow to set it off. I regret nothing.
I know the others are close. Victoria is here, I can sense it.
I feel a laugh rise and am swallowed by the darkness. Hell.
It was my final act, a failure. They insisted on kneeling, bowing to a God that judged them. A God who had created a flawed world turned them lose in it and expected to be loved for creating the crucible of torture He had devised. I still loathe Him, and laugh at myself, how similar our tendencies are. Alejandro will never know what cold hands were on him all those nights ago, why he suffered so very delightfully. Lessons unheeded.
I have been a coward and a bully, a killer and so many worse things; I accept that. I knew what it meant, even as I denied God I knew this day would come, I feared it, and yet I did it anyway.
Somewhere there is a painting. On it there is a child angel. It is the masterwork of a talented artist, a beast and a pedophile. His name has become a laughing stock, but his skill still shows, would that I could have destroyed that too. From that canvas I stare out, and see the world, and I know what a mockery it is.
I would not live on my knees. I would not die begging that old bastard in heaven to forgive the tendencies He Himself instilled in me. I am His flawed creation; I am the thing which He used to test the worthy, and it makes me feel dirty to know I let Him.
One final act of defiance, that is my only prayer; let me spit in the face of the creator and then I can accept this place. Then I can resign myself to never feeling my beloved daughter’s fangs at my throat again.
For every white flower there is a dark shadow to set it off. I regret nothing.