This is the one shot, not that i really expect anyone to read it but first timer here, (apart from s
He stood awaiting his turn,
Oh how he would break this soul, it was young untried and niaive. His job was
to teach this 'inocent mind' that yes there were true monsters in this world, and his
precious all mighty had created them. How he would pray to god to save him, in vain.
God wouldent save him and if he tried it would only be worsen his inedaval suffuring.
True penace for what the lord had done.
The line shuffeled foward.
Blood lust clouded his thoughts, his punishment was always worth it for his outings
why would he care about the jacket?, enough to stop his work anyway.
On this thought he reached the end of the que and moved inside the confesion box.
They would not be disturbed, he had waited to go in last, more time to torment the
green preist now lite up by the dim light. How could he of resisted?.
He started with the old memorys talking in a smooth almost loving voice, like it was
pleasent accounts of a normal life, he shared with a smile and glazed 'happy' face. As
he told the preist of how he never understood the fear in his victims eyes as he slowly
calved there lives away limb by limb. Oh good the preist was afraid, he should be. It
would be his turn soon.
'To resent news', he muttered with a smirk through the thin mesh; he told to the shivering
pathetic boy about the choir girl who he had carved, like a beautiful piece of clay, a true
masterpeice he had made her,long golden locks framing her pretty head, an angel.
blood splattered angel. He laughed at his irony. The newspapers never could show the pictures
to gruesome, like humans werent attracted to it be simply nature. He inlightened the boy
She had represented his pain and his suffering, all which was Gods fault. He had not granted her
praying just as God would not, at the slightest hit of remorse he had simply cut deeper fighting
the lord, HOW DARE HE MAKE HIM FEEL!, if God wanted to fight him and punish him for his crimes
it was fair but he in turn would be punished for his.
God hardly even tried anymore, He knew it was in vain, that pathetic and weak little
Jei was lost, gone forever. And for him remorse, fear, pain, were meaningless.
He had carved poetry into her, to share his message with the world. It never listened, that was
why he had to try harder, try, try again. He cut away her angelic locks, vanity was as
pityful as all Gods other meaningless emotions. He broke her, the fine china doll, shattered
beyond repair, like her skull against the cold wall, the cold world.
He left then, he could hear the wimpers of the preist, this his hope he loved it, how
stupid and pathitic it was faith in some allseeing uncaring force.
He turned and waited outside the curtain quitly, for the preist to gather himself
and run out of the dark box, into his waiting arms. He let out a scream then, antisapated
and muffled instantly, he pushed them both back into the dim dark room.
The fear, the unanswered prays, the faith, he drank it in and poured it out into his new
masterpeice. Just another victory in his vedetta against God.
The war raged on as he left the now quite church, in his blood splattered sunday best.
He was no angel, and as he reached into his pocket and touched the lock of golden hair,
and smiled, he was winning.
Oh how he would break this soul, it was young untried and niaive. His job was
to teach this 'inocent mind' that yes there were true monsters in this world, and his
precious all mighty had created them. How he would pray to god to save him, in vain.
God wouldent save him and if he tried it would only be worsen his inedaval suffuring.
True penace for what the lord had done.
The line shuffeled foward.
Blood lust clouded his thoughts, his punishment was always worth it for his outings
why would he care about the jacket?, enough to stop his work anyway.
On this thought he reached the end of the que and moved inside the confesion box.
They would not be disturbed, he had waited to go in last, more time to torment the
green preist now lite up by the dim light. How could he of resisted?.
He started with the old memorys talking in a smooth almost loving voice, like it was
pleasent accounts of a normal life, he shared with a smile and glazed 'happy' face. As
he told the preist of how he never understood the fear in his victims eyes as he slowly
calved there lives away limb by limb. Oh good the preist was afraid, he should be. It
would be his turn soon.
'To resent news', he muttered with a smirk through the thin mesh; he told to the shivering
pathetic boy about the choir girl who he had carved, like a beautiful piece of clay, a true
masterpeice he had made her,long golden locks framing her pretty head, an angel.
blood splattered angel. He laughed at his irony. The newspapers never could show the pictures
to gruesome, like humans werent attracted to it be simply nature. He inlightened the boy
She had represented his pain and his suffering, all which was Gods fault. He had not granted her
praying just as God would not, at the slightest hit of remorse he had simply cut deeper fighting
the lord, HOW DARE HE MAKE HIM FEEL!, if God wanted to fight him and punish him for his crimes
it was fair but he in turn would be punished for his.
God hardly even tried anymore, He knew it was in vain, that pathetic and weak little
Jei was lost, gone forever. And for him remorse, fear, pain, were meaningless.
He had carved poetry into her, to share his message with the world. It never listened, that was
why he had to try harder, try, try again. He cut away her angelic locks, vanity was as
pityful as all Gods other meaningless emotions. He broke her, the fine china doll, shattered
beyond repair, like her skull against the cold wall, the cold world.
He left then, he could hear the wimpers of the preist, this his hope he loved it, how
stupid and pathitic it was faith in some allseeing uncaring force.
He turned and waited outside the curtain quitly, for the preist to gather himself
and run out of the dark box, into his waiting arms. He let out a scream then, antisapated
and muffled instantly, he pushed them both back into the dim dark room.
The fear, the unanswered prays, the faith, he drank it in and poured it out into his new
masterpeice. Just another victory in his vedetta against God.
The war raged on as he left the now quite church, in his blood splattered sunday best.
He was no angel, and as he reached into his pocket and touched the lock of golden hair,
and smiled, he was winning.