Pact. [Dark Creative Writing]

[Auriel_ 651]

[uh it's dark so y'know read at your own risk who knows idk]

 

The treachery of demons is nought in comparison to that of the betrayal of an angel.

 

“I’ll be good, I swear it. I really truly do. I’ll be the best  you’ve ever made or could ever hope for!”

 

“Drawing out the essence of myself, that which still remained, the ichor of life and death, that which allowed me to persevere drained me and drained until I were a husk. Nothing of my former self existed, save for the self loathing and the damnable horrors that resided deep in my soul, just like this memory which you have unfortunately found. I had made pact with the Lord of Lords and the Divine of Hell. For there is no greater cost for love then a piece of ones soul.”

 

• Epilogue;

 

Echoing moans throughout the chamber direct ones sight to a nigh-beating heart, rhythmic motions ebb and flow throughout it’s skin of skins; the rouge color a facsimile of that which resembled it’s innermost counterpart, a true organ which fuels Man. For one to pick up arms against it, guarantees the world a lesser evil dealt with, for if one were to spare it and put their blade in’st the scabbard; I say unto thee, you’ve allowed It to feel on it’s own- at the cost that it continues its sufferings..

 

In the reality of it, he never truly wanted to continue. He wanted to run away, or die, or something, that got him far enough away that would not allow him to feel anymore, something that would just remove him from existence. There were things though, powerful things, that allowed him to feel once more, akin to the positive of a battery, that which allows power to flow- Magicks, something that would.. Make him feel alive again, something that would .. start his soul anew, in a great manner.

 

        With such, a loud rasp; a blade exiting it’s scabbard, steel drawn in great length and sullies itself on the blood lecherous damnation; of a heart of melancholy existence, echoing moans throughout the antichamber are heard, a burning pale light emblazoned on those whom have committed vaticide:   

 

     Trae’Esse, Vou’Alae’K’Eeli

        “You, slaughtered the life of a Soul.”

-Enochian, First of Angels, XII.

 

-= Part I =-

 

The clink and clambering of one such being; the thorned rose as he was called, was a venemous stinger in everyones ass, so to speak. He didn’t mean to be, he just was. He was an inconvenience to everyone he touched, to everyone he loved. The reality was, and what people found most oft; was that he was a degenerate, a fool cloaked in black- as if he was truly any harm to people. Deep within those eyes of his were something to be hated, an annoying confidence which only shows to those who can seep deep into his soul.

 

However, one thing, beyond his sickness, his hatred for himself, something was so powerful within him: A lust to care. A lust to love. Nay, he didn’t want money, or power, or sex, drugs, nay, he wanted love. He would do anything for it, he would destroy the world if it meant eternal love, eternal bliss and happiness. Except he wouldn’t. He is anathema to himself.

 

“Did he ever..”

“What?”

“..die.”

 

No, one could not say. Surely his .. human carapace still walks the earth, his soul is probably out there. But who knows to what state? His ..mind was nowhere near at full capacity last I saw him- which I suppose rises there- what was left? His regard for humanity was seeping to the pits, but he still ‘loved’ their existence, he knew that in the end, if they were happy, cared for, and loved, they may know salvation. He would be damned for hell, and that was okay, he loved them. He didn’t care the consequence. If he could go to hell for all of their souls to meet Heaven, he would.

 

The state of the decay of his heart and soul were a rapid one, it took less than a decade, maybe an overshot; the loved ones he lost were his only support, for when something was wrong, he was always the cursed child, he knew not right and wrong, not yet. He learned with time, but the cycle always continued, it was always rotten. He was that cursed child no one wanted to deal with, people knew at one point he would be more of an inconvenience, sooner or later. They just didn’t want to think about him. At times they would kick him to the curb.

 

In the Eve of Our Lord, he would’ve been reaved by distant relatives, at gunpoint with a stick of fire, the barrel pointed directly at his chest: Some will go to say this is exactly the point in time where stuff really got into his mind, others wager that it was other times, when he was stabbed by his first love, a razor blade shoved into his arm, and once more into his chest- violated their very soul, really. He never told anyone. He kept it a close guarded secret for so long, he never knew what love was. He didn’t care. He thought that love was keeping her safe, happy.

 

Despite her nigh-literally stabbing him in the back.

His faculties, the angel of healing- had no guard here. He had no healing. His heart had just tasted at tainted blood for the first time, lapping it’s wound- it continued without a second thought. Unfortunately, so did the Thorned Rose.

 

(you're clear to reply if you want idc, vent writing)

 

Edited August 8, 2018 by Raphael Payne