The smell of incense, the chanting of the choir, the sinner tied to the table, the disabled cuffed to the wall, the poor chained to the floor. For they all have committed some crime against your god, we must liberate them. The air grows thicker, the smell of incense choking your throat, drowning your thoughts, the crowd grows louder, louder, LOUDER, and your vision blurs.
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Redemption, redemption, redemption, redemption, you hear the crowd chant; you chant with them, not you, but it, the thing that resides within you chants. It chants for their death, for their ascension into nothing, for their liberation from freedom, for their cleansing of their righteousness. You watch as the pastor unchains the sinner from the table, unchains the disabled from the wall, unchains the poor from the floor and you watch consumed by it, as they all walk, erratically, dancing without rhythm nor purpose. A glow comes from their bodies. Blue, pink, yellow, a myriad of beauty, signs of the primordial encapsulates your vision as these colors envelop them. This is not a sign of God. This is the sign of the devil.
"Here are the marks of the devil himself," yells the Pastor as he raises his hand that holds his doctrines, blackened at the edges, corrupt as much as he is, and a torch in the other, "For these men and women and children have sinned, we must free them. We must liberate them. Gather your anger, your hatred, your despise and free their souls from their vessels. This is the greatest gift that we can give them."
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With a swing, reckoning... reckoning they believed to be God's will fell. The embers of the torch splutter and dissipate in the air, the burning ball of fire hurtles towards the dancing crowd. The screams. The screams of laughter, joy, satisfaction maniacally converge dispersing whatever shreds of dignity remained. The church, the town is laid bare, exposed naked, burnt to the core to reveal what it really was, a den full of mad men. All consumed by it and you were one of them. Everyone rose from their seats, walking slowly and intently towards the burning ball of fire in the middle of this church, no, in the middle of this madness. They watch and ingrain this burning mass of fire into their vision, the heat soldering it in place, not letting them forget, it not wanting them to forget the greatest pleasure of their lives. Their hearts beat and burn with excitement and anticipation, intoxicated with the idea of bringing justice in the will of the lord.
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They can satisfy it.
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Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. They step on the burning sinners, the burning disabled and the burning poor. All on fire, nothing differentiating themselves any more. Their skin burnt off, their hair turned to ash, liquid seeping from their eyes. They scream for mercy, but are silenced with disfigured faces and dented skulls. They crush their bones and joints; the snapping feels satisfying to them. The tears of pain and unnecessary suffering stain their face. They run deep into the cracks of the stone their bodies lay upon; pools of water and blood mix, harmonizing, rejecting, going with and against each other as the stone pit fills in. The people's stomping splash their blood onto the walls. They kick and scream and tear at their flesh purging the corrupt souls from their mortal vessels. Some even devour it, believing that they are holy enough to clean the corrupt. You see a small boy, who looked as if he only learnt just how to speak, tearing and punching what seems to be a burning woman's face. You do the same.
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This is retribution after all, they say.
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The pastor climbs the burning pit of disfigured corpses, of lost lives, of lost dreams and hope, and most of all, of lost morals. He emerges from the flames, welcoming him, caressing him, telling him he belonged here on this throne of amalgamation and horror. White robes dyed red and black, face covered in soot and blood, but his face ever clear. Clear with a smile, a smile so unholy, so damning that you can't help but be sucked in; sucked of fear and of time. Covered behind the clouds of smoke and smell of rotting was it.
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"Brethren."
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The Pastor looks around and takes a deep breath in savoring the smell. He bends down and grabs a fistful of liquid flesh. Melted and morphed in his hand, he raises it into the air.
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"We have liberated the sinners! We have granted them peace! May the Lord bless you all!"
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With that he squeezes, wringing the flesh of its liquid, its remaining life force into his mouth. 95Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdBx3w9hnBX
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It cackles.
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