The shadows that dwell in the Abyss

This road is silent and lonely. It begins long before you have the ability to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil… The seed of corruption takes root before you even have the chance to defend yourself. Then, you’re ostracized, invisible – dwelling in misery where the lightest colors are just mere shades of gray. And feel it too. There’s something profoundly different. And you are taught about love and happiness, sincerity and humility – yet you are ridiculed as weak, weird and wrong. You can feel their drilling looks on the back of your neck, oozing venom. And then, you decide to walk the whole nine yards. Just do away with everything that makes you human, and embark on a murderous rampage in the valley of the shadow of death. The final plunge into the abyss where’s no return therefrom.

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When all is said and done

When all is said and done, listlessness remains. It is the hell of dispassion, in a very real form. It offers that heavy peace, the peace of the graveyard – no beasts, no passion, no fury.

We were lied to. Be honest, be beneficent. Such treachery of the soul. It’s not the beneficence that makes this rotten world turn around. It’s our unadulterated malice and capacity for destruction. 

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Memento Mori

“We were caught unawares – nevermore, never again. To show mercy to the Janub is to profane humanity.” – General Torgald, before the slaughter at Yirnam

What is it to die? Does some immortal part of us pass through the invisible veil of this material realm, to the great unknown – or is it just a simple cutting of the thread, an end of a story, a flat-line? What is it to commit suicide then, to consciously end the state of being of oneself?

The thoughts rushed through Bartholomew’s mind like a hurricane. Semi-coherent, unformed things that slashed at his psyche like razorblades. A tall, slender man of pale complexion, he sat on the unkempt bed of his one-room apartment staring at the small glass table with an empty glare. His eyes were light brown, but the spark of life in them was not present. If someone were to look at his expression of utter resignation illumined by streetlamps, would cause them a great discomfort. Clothed with simple jeans and a t-shirt, his ash-blonde hair disheveled, the sharp lines of his visage adorned by a several-day stubble, he resembled a grotesque statue of once-a-man. A man, who in all essential sense, was no more. An empty husk, devoid of that untouchable, immaterial thing which makes one human.

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Vivid Nightmares

Dreamer oh dreamer, you –
who are paralyzed in terror by the conjurings of your mind –
whose mind’s eye sees the blood yet to be spilled –
the cries yet to be heard –
the suffering yet to be felt –
Embrace the whole that is you –
Blinding light of the Angel –
The fire and fury of the Beast –
They are you, you are them

You are just a fleeting existence,

A daemon who stirred the ocean of unlife,
Cursed to see the truths beyond the veil,
Cursed to sample the suffering yet to come,
Dwelling in the cracks between shadows,
A soulless tool, witness it,
witness it all,
For you can bear this burden,
So others won’t have to,
Sleep,
Sleep

Photo by Heorhii Heorhiichuk from Pexels

The Lady’s Embrace

The man writhed in the sublime agony of the fever, slick with pearly beads of sweat glistening on his tortured visage. His gaze was empty and unfocused, searching restlessly for something in the distance of the poorly lit room. The veiled lady stood above him and chuckled slightly.
“My poor dear Will,” her voice a cold, ghastly whisper, “why do you torment yourself thustly? What is it you are trying to accomplish?”
The man turned his gaze towards her slender figure, trying and to recognize face beneath the veil.
“I… where’s… Layla…” he muttered, in the firm grip of delirium.
“She’s not here, Will. She never was.”
“You… lie…” Will accused her, “she… was… right..ther…” he said pointing towards an empty spot. “I… heard… her… voice…” he caughed and for a moment his eyes rolled back into his skull. The veiled lady enjoyed his suffering immensly. She loomed over his prone form on the bed and smiled with an ugly smile behind the dark veil.
“Aah yes, her voice. The damned echo that keeps me apart from you, my dear Will. How I loathe it,” she screamed in jealous rage and clenched her fist above him, “how I wish to throttle the life out the throat which births it!”
She was furious, mad with rage and her eyes burned with the red of arterial blood, like twin firestorms beneath the veil. It was Will’s turn to laugh but he could only manage  a rictus grin. Continue reading

The Blackwinged Butcher

The hulking giant walked inside the Sanctum where Cybel ministered to his blades, ‘Solace’ and ‘Absolution’. Her pale delicate hands cleaned and oiled the monomolecular edges with the attention a mother would give to her newborn children. Her Master, the supreme commander of the ship and the leader of The Covenant was mighty sight to behold. Clad in the crimson Heresy pattern Power Armor with his right arm and shoulder-pad painted in midnight black he strode with purpose. Behind him, a pair of black wings adorned his jump pack in remembrance of his long lost father. Marks of his former legion adorned his left shoulder-pad while the accursed mark of the Messiah of Blood was forged in bronze on his right shoulder-pad. Cybel had the misfortune to serve the followers of the Messiah of Blood and they were indeed terrifying but He was different. His visage resembled that of His father’s image painted on the murals of the Sanctum, his long golden hair gently falling over his unblemished face, and eyes as green as the jade visor lenses in his helm. A more naive soul would see innocence, beneficence even, in their depths.

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