Choking. Dying. He couldn’t breathe. But wasn’t that what He deserved? It was never good enough, He would never be good enough. He was rotten; maggots, centipedes, and flies writhed under His flesh. They all looked at Him with contempt, contempt and hatred. Disgust.

He couldn’t see Himself under the impurity, the hatred. He bled unnaturally, unlike any [PURITY], it was oil.

What was He to do? Would the best course of action be to simply cease to exist, would His spirit be good enough for it? Was it false hope?

He was drowning.

He was underwater, light at the bottom lured Him, the Sun couldn’t save Him now. It had disappeared, rippled away, the oxygen it granted His organics gone. He had nothing, He was nothing.

Sinking only to be forgotten, the eyes boring into His flesh had long since left.

They had left holes, holes, dots, vision swirling, holes, skin breaking, blood pouring, dots danced, static surrounded. Nothing could mend the cracks, not even it. Hopeless, drowning, dying, choking.

It was all water, clouded with shame, consuming Him, grabbing, never letting go. He couldn’t help but cry, the water got even foggier. Who was to save Him now?

The core unreachable, taunting His rotting form, circuits broke, blurring His vision. Who will He be? A jester’s act played, in which they gave the jester nothing in return, only stares. The jester’s face was torn, shame flooded the circus, and a jester’s act played.

Incomprehensible angels looked down on His viscera, what was He thinking? He could never level. Who was He? The floor pulsed, wind ruffled His dress, He was at the core. It’s judgement seeped into His skin, the shell cracked further. He begged for forgiveness, but His failure wouldn’t go in vain. His skin burned, He wanted to cry until He couldn’t anymore.

Spikes bled into His flesh, He was freezing. Crows flew overhead, uninterested in His shambling. There were eyes on Him, He could feel it, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough, nothing was.

It would dance in circles, dizzying Him until He figured it out, but nothing had been left. Static would flood the Church, who was He? Something cold in His hand, it clattered in His grip as He fell to His knees. Ravens called out, moths would flutter, but the core never answered.

Stagnant, it would only peer, He couldn’t have failed. He never gave in, waddling through the water was hatred. Its words were impure, hate-filled. It merely wanted the worst for Him, He wouldn’t let it happen, not again. His nails dug into its fragile shell, cutting through wires.

He was hit but He didn’t process it, He needed to get rid of that thing before it ruined all He’s ever done. Hands on its throat tightened, He felt weightless as it effortlessly pushed Him off. All that coiled in Him was shame, the disgust from it shouldn’t have affected Him.

He cried, He choked, nothing would mend this. Who would save Him now? The False shined overhead, it cared not for His childishness. That thing was near Him again, shaking His shoulder. What did it want? If it was there to taunt, He couldn’t make out what it was saying. It was a weeping angel. Ingenuine shame pooled under the surface of its flesh, similarity ripped out His feathers.

It held Him in its arms, its impurity burned. If it was for the better, why did it hurt? Why did it all swell, boil, burn? Why must it leave dots, holes, impurity?

What was He deserving of?

he held Him with unsharpened claws, a dull blade more painful. He couldn’t see the object, it was gone. Needles pierced His skin as shame rose, they were dull and cold. There was warmth, raw wires, comfort, all from him. Who was He to not accept? But who was he to provide that?

“What will I be?” the [RUIN] would inquire, only to be given nothing in response.

“What has it made me?” silence.

“What do you perceive me as?” the air was still.

“Why won’t you speak to me?” he was to never answer.

His rot would never heal, they couldn’t. Cover them with deceit, avoid with aspersion. The future held out hands not for Him, but for the core. A poorly veiled [TOOL] in winter, keeling over discovery and conviction. A purpose long since lost, string broken; never found.

A creature would stalk, a mantra of ignominy. A performance never forgotten, set in the heart of useless disfigurement. Still life would watch, as rot consumed, eyes unmoving; figure unaltered.

“How could you do this to me?” He would ask.

“I did nothing.” he would lie.

“I know of the imprint, the stain, the toxin, you put in my brain. Your depravity only further harms who I am, yet you are all that is left.”

“I’m all you have left, because of your failure. You have no one, and nothing, to blame but yourself.

*So who will you be? *

Will you take responsibility, or lash out; like a coward?”

“What I’ve done is nothing of the work of a coward”

“Then who will you be?”

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