(no subject)
Title: Nameless
Notes: This is an original work. I like doing these in my spare time. It has no clear character and is more of a description of one's own sins should they look deep enough.
The church could have been called beautiful, I suppose, if it had been a fair day, with the hymns being sung by women in black and the priest speaking the words of our Lord. Nevertheless, today was no fair day, and this church is the source of my solace for now. The silence is eerie, if not comforting. The church, though a holy place, is not spared by war and even the walls seem to cry in agony as the evil of men pushes through. I sigh; yes, this would have been a place of beauty if war had not crushed it with his heel.
As I walk towards the altar, bodies of children catch my attention. Lying on the pews, they seem like dolls: Ragged and thrown away, a child’s habit to destroy precious things to get new ones. I knew contempt; I had seen the victims of prosecution, justice, and war. So why did seeing these children - these little, destroyed dolls - put my stomach into knots? I have seen, I have heard, and I have definitely done worse.
I press on, stepping over and on the bodies of the dead and forgotten, and nearly fall flat on my face. I catch myself and kick the body that tried to bring me down to hell with it. Not time to delay now, I think as I pass scarlet pools that only those of treachery bathe in freely. So was His will that this place of light be thrown into such a darkness, that even the sharpest of eyes be closed in fear of what they cannot see? Then so be it; I pass the altar and through a door in the back. The statue of our Lord’s son stands in tainted glory, surrounded by those who sang hymns and prayed. They are dead now, killed for their beliefs. I spit on one of the bodies; Good riddance, I think to myself as I kneel to the one who gave us this hatred and love.
Born from my mouth came the confessions I would tell no one, not even to the devil that stands behind me. He knows already, for he looks and acts like me but is my side of darker times. Once I tried to rid myself of him, but he merely laughed and told me no one could escape the past, not even the holiest of men could resist the cry of war, the slaughtering of men. The women were kept as prizes, and the children thrown out.
Stained by the blood of my enemies, I look unfitting to be here and ask for forgiveness. The devil flies around with wings as black as the church was holy. I never noticed he had wings, but I suppose being blind to the idea of darkness in this land has made me arrogant and stupid.
For days, I seem to stay there, my list not halfway done. The smell of rotten corpses reminds me of the meat once served in my court during an era of when even the highest of men were treated like those of the lowest status. I realize that this is not a place of death, but a wedding. The procession has already begun, and I am merely a spectator - no, I am the groom. Perhaps I am the priest to wed this fine couple, the faces melted off by the fire sprouting from the ground with my every step. Ah, that is right. I am the one who caused all of this. That devil is not my doppelganger but I in another’s perspective. Then who, I wonder, saw the church in ruins, the statue in its tainted wonder, and the bodies littering the ground?
Yes, the church would have been beautiful on this day of matrimony if I had spilled upon them the bodies I once saw, the blood I once tasted. However, I merely watch, lost in a time long forgotten by this modernized world.
Notes: This is an original work. I like doing these in my spare time. It has no clear character and is more of a description of one's own sins should they look deep enough.
The church could have been called beautiful, I suppose, if it had been a fair day, with the hymns being sung by women in black and the priest speaking the words of our Lord. Nevertheless, today was no fair day, and this church is the source of my solace for now. The silence is eerie, if not comforting. The church, though a holy place, is not spared by war and even the walls seem to cry in agony as the evil of men pushes through. I sigh; yes, this would have been a place of beauty if war had not crushed it with his heel.
As I walk towards the altar, bodies of children catch my attention. Lying on the pews, they seem like dolls: Ragged and thrown away, a child’s habit to destroy precious things to get new ones. I knew contempt; I had seen the victims of prosecution, justice, and war. So why did seeing these children - these little, destroyed dolls - put my stomach into knots? I have seen, I have heard, and I have definitely done worse.
I press on, stepping over and on the bodies of the dead and forgotten, and nearly fall flat on my face. I catch myself and kick the body that tried to bring me down to hell with it. Not time to delay now, I think as I pass scarlet pools that only those of treachery bathe in freely. So was His will that this place of light be thrown into such a darkness, that even the sharpest of eyes be closed in fear of what they cannot see? Then so be it; I pass the altar and through a door in the back. The statue of our Lord’s son stands in tainted glory, surrounded by those who sang hymns and prayed. They are dead now, killed for their beliefs. I spit on one of the bodies; Good riddance, I think to myself as I kneel to the one who gave us this hatred and love.
Born from my mouth came the confessions I would tell no one, not even to the devil that stands behind me. He knows already, for he looks and acts like me but is my side of darker times. Once I tried to rid myself of him, but he merely laughed and told me no one could escape the past, not even the holiest of men could resist the cry of war, the slaughtering of men. The women were kept as prizes, and the children thrown out.
Stained by the blood of my enemies, I look unfitting to be here and ask for forgiveness. The devil flies around with wings as black as the church was holy. I never noticed he had wings, but I suppose being blind to the idea of darkness in this land has made me arrogant and stupid.
For days, I seem to stay there, my list not halfway done. The smell of rotten corpses reminds me of the meat once served in my court during an era of when even the highest of men were treated like those of the lowest status. I realize that this is not a place of death, but a wedding. The procession has already begun, and I am merely a spectator - no, I am the groom. Perhaps I am the priest to wed this fine couple, the faces melted off by the fire sprouting from the ground with my every step. Ah, that is right. I am the one who caused all of this. That devil is not my doppelganger but I in another’s perspective. Then who, I wonder, saw the church in ruins, the statue in its tainted wonder, and the bodies littering the ground?
Yes, the church would have been beautiful on this day of matrimony if I had spilled upon them the bodies I once saw, the blood I once tasted. However, I merely watch, lost in a time long forgotten by this modernized world.