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Curled spikes arch my path, only to form a heart shape; only to appear broken. Fire blazes around the chords of deadly sins, each replaying in front of me, every little sin I committed forcing that pang of guilt upon me. Welcome to the never-ending down-spiral of my new home. What may appear as sky rages like a bull at a hundred miles an hour, the red hot fury angering the apparent skies above. Clouds that cannot be contained in Heaven pour tears, acid tears, onto my skin. The acid burns into my flesh repetitively, I'm used to it now.
Rip-roaring snarls and gasps thunder through the airwaves, tremoring my torn eardrums into a pulse of horrendous pain. The ground is above boiling, above melting, as hot as the Sun. Layers and layers of skin are thrown off the soles of my feet. Every step I take the forceful, negative energy from Satan himself courses through my burning path of destruction. What The Bible ever portrayed of this ultimate force is nothing compared to the reality. Such disfigurement, such deformity, such aura. My throat wraps tight with the barb-wire of suffocation, the mere presence of Satan was enough to stop you from breathing.
A small chuckle escapes my parted lips, disbelief and arrogance fuel my dual-mindedness. I should of known I'd end up here.
Sinful acts are displayed so brutally in the depths of Hell. Consumption of food, a fistful of cash, a head held high, skin on skin, power overcomes weak, my eyes turn green, my body lay motionless on the sofa. Every moment of guilt you felt, every spider you killed, every heart you broke, every life you shattered; you can't escape the truth in Hell for the truth will find you in the end. To Satan, forgiveness is what provokes the living of a lie, to suspend all truth to save the human from pain.
Save me?
Ah, Satan has heard my prayers. Here she is, my beautiful wife in her blood-stained dress, her eyes full of anger and lust. Such a complicated expression to read. Her body gets closer to mine, the sexual tension at full force, my hand reaches out for her face and as my burning, Hell-consumed fingers touch the angelic, soft, fragile pigments of my wife for that split second, her body turns to fire in my grasp and my body is once again, engulfed in deeper burns.
Satan doesn't answer prayers.
The fire swirls and twists into another image, one I dread to see. A bed, another man, steamed windows and my wife’s bony wrists held by his slithering touch. She's enjoying his company, my mind consumed in this image, I cannot look away, my eyes fixed with hatred upon the man leading her into this. But she is allowing it, allowing every second. My eyes flash green, as the image becomes larger, the negative thoughts come rushing in. An urge, a deep murderous urge to lift the knife and drive it home coarse through my veins and suddenly the fire burns the image and rushes forward, nearer to Satan.
No, no more.
A knife forms on the floor in front of the fire and dances. It thrusts in a stabbing motion into the searing flames and they split to reveal another flickering image of my empty hand. The knife largens and slips into place in the image, in the grasp of my clammy fingertips. Moans become louder in the separate room and my anger burns a hole in my chest. No more.
I thrust through the door and into the room, without hesitation I drive the knife into the man's back, his vocals call out in pain as he jumped off my wife onto the floor. My wife crawls with the bed sheets dragging with her, she cries as she is overcome with heartache. My heart is torn in two.
The image disappeared again and my eyes fixate on the spiked broken-heart arch and the knife on the floor. I stumble forward, my calves and thighs pulsing with throbbing pain from the burns and emotion.
Tarmac engraves Hell's mark onto my skin, raining onto my body as if it were natural in the bowl of terror. Rocks, rubble, torn flesh, half alive humans, fallen angels cover the floor like Hell's duvet. Satan must feel quite comforted by this warmth. My eyes flicker in front of me to see him completely still in his curled throne. The throne changed images every two seconds, from blood to thorns, it reflected the subconscious of Satan. Gravity pushes down on my head, my shoulders and back and I fall to the floor, my skin slapped hard onto the searing heat of the tiles. Burns become worse but pain was a necessity in Hell. My fingers spiked and grew longer as I crawled my way closer to Satan, my body morphing beyond my control. My human glow deepens in a maroon red, my hair burns off my scalp to reveal the true essence and reality of what I truly am. Every pain I have inflicted on those in life are inflicted on me in this very moment. The knife flutters and lodges itself into my back and rests peacefully in the torn shards of pigments. I can still move, motivate myself to reach that ultimate force. This was the ultimate test to prove my worth. In Hell, I can go below or above. To be above was a blessing only Satan could offer - at a price.
Satan out-stretched his hand, veins, muscle and bone visible to the naked eye. His hand and arm burning over and over again, it was never-ending pleasure for him. My eyes couldn't lift to reach his, such energy fuelled the connection between us. My back arches as I thunder forward with all my remaining strength and suddenly, the feet of Satan appear in front of me, the heat raises off his toes onto my face, scolding it horrifically. I hear words, soft gentle words which are casually morphed into a sickening, bitter tone. My hearing is lost and I realise his voice caused me an eternity of deafness. His brutal, eternally injured hand grabbed my face and for a moment our eyes met, such anger and intense fury covered his iris' right down to his pupils. There was no hope in his eyes, no happiness yet not pain. What is white in a humans eye is red in Satans. He murmurs something I cannot lip-read and drops my head to floor. As if my body was a ton, the tiles split and the ground parted. Magma rushes to the surface and coiled around me like a cocoon and sucked me beneath the surface where my body was smashed onto a pile of bones.
My vision is hazy but I can see the creatures of the Night crawling devilishly towards me. Whispers, licking of lips and small cackles of laughter echo around the circular room and then I realise, right now, why my bed is made of bones.
I have fallen below the below.
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Comments (3 Comments)
- Lexi0927 - 12/22/2009
- this is really good you made Satin diabollically evil and the metaphor was right on the nose i like it
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- Locust Child - 11/27/2009
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An excellent work of prose, but it really doesn't belong in the poetry category.
The imagery and metaphor is really fantastic though. - Report As Spam
- Greeneroo - 11/26/2009
- This is simply...amazing...
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