(no subject)
Death all around.
Is it not glorious, my son? Does it not please you?
Screams ringing in your ear, unknown that they come from your own throat.
Bodies lacerated and bloated.
Blood covers your hands to the elbows. Scarlet jewelry, warm and fragrant.
A cleansing, beautiful one. Necessary for utopia to come.
You stand atop the highest heap of rubble, gazing horrified over the wastes of the slaughtered world.
All have fallen at your feet, most begging for their lives in pathetic fashion.
Unworthy, sweet Messiah. You know they are unworthy.
You shake your head, silver streaked with crimson. You have done this, have gloried in it.
Yes, my son. My beautiful son. My ultimate perfection! You are strong. Strong…
You were their Elite. Their most precious creation. And their greatest fear.
They have driven you into madness, torn from you your honor, your conscious, your very sanity.
But the horror of it all:
You do not regret.