And it's such a weird sense of freedom, really, and that's
the only thought that runs through his mind. It's freedom.
How everything really turns into slow motion and goes
"Memento" on him. Memento. Funny. When he first started
taking Latin classes, the first word he learned was memento.
Memento Mori.

Flashbacks of black and white flash through every fiber of
his crushing soul. Like one mental push is enough to drop
your spirit from heaven, just as your strongest wish is
powerful enough to push you from the roof of a church. One
powerful wish is all you need, and the faith in everything
and nothing altogether, and you can finally fly, sore, dive,
crash, burn, die.

Words that rhyme: Fly, cry, high, try, die.

Not that it hurts. Just the impact, really. But saints and
martyrs suffer for the cleansing of their souls and it's not
really all that different when you think about it. It's
piercing through him, the realization that no cause is good
enough to die for, unless it's totally selfish. And what
would his blood change, in the running course of the world?
Even if he had a higher cause to die for, the only cause he
needs is him. And really, isn't that enough? When they tell
you that all you'll ever need and ever have is yourself. And
then you lose yourself, or when they bind you and tie you up
and cage your soul in their tiny chambers that only fit a
hermit. They do it to fit their needs.

Religion in covered in blood.


Funny. He wonders now if the church really did save his
soul, in the end. Is a free soul better than a living one?
And what does the pool of hopes and dreams and wishes and
desires that he's bleeding on the side-walk change? Nothing.
The house of god is blind to his fallen children. People
often forget that Lucifer used to be an angel before he
chose the wrong path.

Wrong path indeed. He couldn't hold on, and what does it say
on those who tried to hold him? Probably was his fault,
eventually. Because we only care for you and love you when
you're good and strong. God hates sinners. Especially those
who can't find themselves. If you couldn't find god than
you're messed up, fucked up, not good enough. And
eventually, you're unneeded. He figures that he'll be able
to remember, when nothingness embraced him, if he'll be able
to remember departing from himself, but he can't. Sadness is
a sin. Crying in the middle of the night without an apparent
reason is wrong. Lying to yourself into believing everything
will work out is wrong. Craving sleep and craving in general
is wrong. Trying to forge a single damn feeling out because
you simply. Can't. Feel. Anymore. Is so goddamned wrong he's
surprise a lighting doesn't strike him when he holds the
razor to his flesh, closes his eyes, and pretends that the
pain makes it better.

So where did faith lead him now?

And just when he thinks he was able to solve every bit of
his problems. Just when he's too tired to hold on, to keep
pretending, to look up at them and smile. They have to shove
their books and symbols, their words and chants. And they
think that some higher being is sitting up there, taking
notes. He wants to laugh, but his lungs threaten to
collapse. God is the one that laughs at your dreams.

Then they say that god does not show you where to go. He
gets you to a crossing and lets you choose. And he wants to
scream, and cry, and kill. He wants to choose. Why don't
they just let him be? If heaven and hell are door by door,
then really it's not all that different. All he needs is a
simple step. He took that step and right now he's not hoping
for heaven and dreading hell. He just wants a blank numbness
that would wash over him like rain and velvet, and engulf
his tired, tattered heart with its choking embrace.

"Please, get the fuck away."

And he knows that all those people that surround him, with
their good intentions and their warm heart, are offended by
his selfishness and nerve. They take their good intentions
back for a moment, but then they return, because they feel
sorry for him.

He hates them all.

It's almost the end, he knows, he feels. For the first time
in his life he's almost sorry for going down the road he
picked, but when he sees their sorrowful faces, [Maybe
they're just figments of his imagination because he isn't
sure his eyes are working anymore] he knows that it's time.
And finally, he knows he's almost free. Visions creep in
front of his bloodshot eyes. Of his mother, and father, of
his cat, of the girl with the thick, black, braided hair
that he used to adore from afar. He can see them crying,
imagine them at his grave. He can almost feel their mourning
screams. Maybe he did wrong. Maybe he shouldn't have.

Maybe they all brainwashed him completely, because the only
thought that runs through his head, when he finally got what
he wanted, is- 'what have I done. I'm going to hell.' But he
knows, deep inside, that hell is what he's escaping.

And really, you don't need demons, and pain and pools of
sulfur to feel hell. Hell is in the smallest gesture, the
push, the evil smirk. Kids, being evil as only kids can be,
and grown-ups, even more vicious than honest kids because
they lie. Oh, how they lie.

And then, it's dark.