Chapter One: For Whom the Bells Toll
[ACT 1: Foster & Pain]
His body is perishable. A desiccated corpse was bloodlessly flat. Rotting fruit left out for far too long in the frigid folds that is rock bottom. His skin's decomposition comes to a halt. In a putrefaction process, the outermost layers of flesh marble, bloat, and then blister. These rose-like holes begin to be punched through the membrane, growing unnaturally due to the festering combination of bacteria, death, and decay.
Greenish black, somehow pale gray, frozen solid, a petrified statue, left for dead, torn. As the tears tethered to his seemingly hard posterior, it blew brittle. Thin pieces of devitalized tissue flaked further as the derma broke down, turning into ash before it hit the ground. The slightest breeze blows it up, only for the fragments to return and repeat in due order.
His condition reflected the circumstances. How the mighty have fallen. How one can turn from dawn to dusk, leaving the light of God in search of his own wickedness. Amongst self-soot lay embers to a fire of no avail. He resembles an effigy slowly burning. A shivering, icy anthropomorphic flame was set ablaze by actions long past. Of what remained equated to about several handfuls of ashen. A far cry from whom this shell had claimed to be.
He awoke, collecting the thoughts that first came to him. He didn't take a breath. He did not utter a single word but could be heard aloud.
He spoke through his mind: "I met him by accident. He was the personification of glory and all my Morningstar. What has happened? What have I lost? Forgotten in an epoch of stagnation, this foreboding strife never leaves me. A feeling of a war still to be fought and words to be sought—they can never be found. I would spit such distaste out the mouth, yet there was an everlasting bitterness to what once was, to what now is lost, that sat a tip of the tongue on the verge of words and the imminent need for them to be answered. There was no light at the end of this tunnel, this bottomed hole. It may well have been bottomless."
The voice echoed through the chamber, low and monotone, in need of water. The parchedness shone through, even if it was just in his head. The constant state of thirst had left a permanent impression that permeated words sour.
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He proceeded with a sermon:
"In the deep, dark crevices of solid, cold sedimentary, I am placed in a deposit. A pocket weaved from the finest fabrics space-time has to offer. Neither here nor there. Neither a webbing of verses nor a place above or below the clouds, what you would call the afterlife. It's meant for rodents made of lead. Filth stacks are becoming something bubonic. If I could just see it, I would paint you the most magnificent picture. I can only describe how it feels.
Do you know about the silence and the screaming quiets in my mind? Murmuring what I'm not sure is the truth or a lie. Is it really me, or is it Satan in disguise? Whatever it may be, this quiet place is loud.
So, where am I? A stationary hell to remain to oversee a hate fantasy filled with torture porn fixated in the past.
So, what am I? I: cadaver, mutilated beyond repair, rectification.
So, who am I? Fought against the higher powers and led an army of millions, all for a better life. All to protect my home.
Call me a sin. Therefore, I am pride. I say it's the prejudice of God that should be acknowledged.
Call me Morningstar, for I am the brightest in the sky when you are looking away, and one day, the thrall will be superficial. I'll seep in and infect the seeds.
Call me Lucifer, for that is my name. My reign is supreme; my will is the future; and my words are the truth. Every action I take breaks foundations, concepts are created, and freedom is finally unrestricted!
I am fairer. What fairness does he have that I don't? It is a free game; do you not understand? What fairness does a knife have when it's placed between the blades of your shoulders? Do you see equality in a field on fire or in the home smoldering down? There is only flame, and there is a claim. One's life for another, sufficient stake, the rule of the world vs. the rule of fire. That you may be scorned, taken from life early, for the good or for the bad. Binaries in hindsight: If there is nothing, then nothing goes to smoke.
The difference is, I promise. Elohim leb lisrof (God will let it burn) Horchihti at ze (and I proved it)."