The red.
The gold.
The orange.
Colors of the flaming goddess above them.
From the distance: people screaming. Their blistered lips peeling away, their bloodshot eyes searching frantically, desperately. Their children scuttled behind them, drained of color. The goddess trailed them, burned their skin, consumed their exhausted flesh.
She was ravenous. She indulged herself in their abandoned souls.
I saw the red.
I saw the gold swallow a wailing baby out of the hands of its mother.
The orange devoured the mother too.
I smelled their screams in the air.
Panic and hysteria.
They knew it.
They knew they were damned.
I liked to watch them scatter around their homes like madmen, racing against their lives. They were idiotic to try and pack their clothing, homes and sanity into what little they could carry. I laughed when the goddess met them outside of their houses. She made them wilt like a flower, useless and dead.
I used to feel guilty when I watched these kinds of things. Like when you watch women undress from your attic window, or when you are caught cheating.
Guilt rots in hell with these things burning on the ground, withering, trembling.
Dying.
I don’t like that word. Even though I use it, I don’t like it. There’s something about the darkness that surrounds those letters, those sounds, which make it seem formidable. Even before all this, before I was, I avoided using that word at all costs.
Now it comes with the job description.
Don’t get me wrong: I like to kill them. It’s the only form of entertainment I get.
I just don’t like watching them.
When they’re dead, it’s a whole other ball game. Then I can play with them. I can touch their bodies, and I can use them.
I used to.
I used to before all this.
I also used to kill because I had to. Now I kill because I want to.
Like I said, it comes with the job description. And it grows on you, like a cancer eating away at your body. Leaving you with nothing; not even your soul.
I don’t have a soul.
I used to.
I also used to love.
But those days are long passed, and now I love to kill. The goddess is always there for me. And when she is sleeping in the evening, I pray for her guidance to show me the right pathway to choose. The next morning, she rises and guides me: an answer to my prayers.
She reminds me of someone I used to know.
Before all this. Before I used to kill because I wanted to.
--
The screams are gone now. The goddess’ belly is full, and she returns to her rightful place in the sky. I step out from behind the trees and begin making my way towards the city of the damned.
****
I like this. I think, if I wanted to, I could expand on this and make it a bit more. Right now, it's more of just "get in the mood of writing" piece. But I posted it because I though it had some potential.
-Jared
