CW - Blood, Violence
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A crimson twilight cast the arid lands in a baleful light. To the Wayfarer, it conjured thoughts of desolation and exaltation. The red eye in the sky shone like the hand of god, bloodied with his judgment of the world and its sinners. Yet try as he might, he could not feel his presence. The omnipotence of his former deity seems lacking in this place. No, that wasn’t right. It was wholly devoid. God had abandoned these lands.
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Freedom reigned supreme in this rugged country, with it, the cruelties of man and the uncaring judgment of nature. Something crunched underfoot, and the Wayfarer saw that it was bone. Whether man or beast, he could not say.
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Wiping his foot in the parched yellow soil, he made for the dark side of the mesa that towered over the desert like a lone judge. Two others were ahead of him dressed in simple robes adorned with flowers of all makes and colors. He did not know their names, for they would not give them.
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“If you are awarded favor,” the female of them said, “we will give you our names. Until the time of her pronouncement, we are nameless. And you are nobody.” And so it was. They bade him follow but would not acknowledge his presence. It was hard going, made harder by their neglect. No food was allotted to him, drink given, shade shared, or kindness displayed or contempt. When they rose, he rose. When they moved, he moved. When they rested, he did the same. He became a shadow. A phantom. A dark mirror image of their actions yet completely separate.
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When he hungered for food, he ate what he could. Bugs that would scurry across the face of the cracked earth, the small spaces between each plot a terrible chasm. Or he fed on shrub berries, bitter and poisonous. The fruit turned his guts to water, giving him no choice but to shit himself like an animal in the open country.
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When he thirsted, he dug holes into the earth in search of water. Waking before the sun was high, he would search for porous stones, placing them in his mouth and sucking the morning dew from their bodies.
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In his pocket, rattled finger bones, his last tether to the life he once led. In the nights, when stillness came upon the land like a plague and living things retreated to the comfort of their dreams, the Wayfarer shuffled those bones about with hard, blister-riddled hands. Thinking to himself. Always thinking. His only companion was a pained ache in his chest at the very feel of them. Yet it became a ritual, the only means of fading into sleep.
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They traveled until his shoes fell away, until his feet grew slick with blood, until his lips resembled the scorched lands he roamed, until his skin reddened and peeled away, until his head pounded with every step, until his eyes sunk deep within his skull, until his heart quickened, until the fat from his body evaporated away, until his last bead of sweat dropped, until, until, until…..
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Until they entered the shadow of the mesa. This plateau of yellow-orange rock presiding over all of creation, uninterested and dejected. In its umbra, both man and woman stood, their pristine robes flapping in the wind, petals of the flowers riding waves of wind never to be seen again.
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The Nobody touched his fingerbones, unmoving. Blistering day gave way to hibernal darkness. Not even the full moon's light reached that place, the Tower of Stone greedily hoarding it all to itself.
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He had long since given up on speech. It seemed useless, bordering on arrogance, to waste energy on such frivolities. Yet he was tempted now, the ache in his knees, the pain in his spine, the cramps in his belly pleading to him to say something. Anything to end his waking torment. Looking up at the sky, the stars blinked, ebbing in brilliance. They seemed to speak to him in a way they had not during the whole of his journey. Each blink, twinkle, and glimmer were pleas for help and cries of pain.
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“Is this where I am to be judged?” The Nobody asked, croaking out his query.
Stark silence was his reply. He remained silent, knowing neither man nor woman would acknowledge something that was not there. Statuesque, they both resembled effigies of people, not actual people. The Nobody staggered and faulted throughout the night, yet They stood poised and unbothered. His body weight, meager though it was, bore down on him like sacks of grain on his back. When the first traces of sunlight painted the horizon the color of blood, his stomach dropped.
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A lump grew in his throat. If he had tears to spare, he would spill enough to flood this desert. Rays of morning light marched their way along the Heavens.
“Is this where I am to be judged?”
Silence.
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Looking back out at the open plain, he grew disquieted, worried the last of his strength would leave him if the sun's rays lashed at his back one more time. His journey would be for naught. His pain being for naught.
“Is this where I am to be judged?”
More silence.
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The sun now crowned the horizon, ready to cast its burning eye on the world. The Nobody touched his finger bones, searching for courage along their tiny length. He squeezed hard, all five of them fitting perfectly in the palm of his hand. Finding his voice, he shouted,
“Is this where I am to be judged!?”
Silence again.
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Gripping hard on the bones, his jagged nails sunk deep into his palm, drawing blood. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he examined his fist. Seeing the last of his body’s moisture dripping awakened a rage. A river of hatred and fury bubbled forth with the letting of his blood. The land had taken so much; now, it drank his life’s essence with perverse avarice. He wanted to scream, to yell, to cry.
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Shadows played and danced across the face of the Stone Tower like a pit of snakes suffocating under the weight of their kin. His anger abated, retreating under a paper-thin surface, tempered by curiosity. Something was writhing in the mesa’s shadow.
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He stepped forward, moving in tandem with the shadow of the Mesa, going past both man and woman advancing on a section of stone wriggling like some antediluvian puddle of creation. This formless shadow made the silhouette of a person.
“My Lady of Flowers.” The Nobody said, voice quivering.
The blackness turned to pallid flesh, lithe and supple, breasts bared naked, her red swollen nipples dripping with blood. Her head was a fleshy polyp pulsating like a beating heart. Carrion scent was one with the smell of budding roses. The fresh floral aroma perverted by death.
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He squeezed his hand over the naked lady. Droplets of crimson trailed from navel to chest, reaching their endpoint at the crest of what would be her scalp. The Polyp blossomed, displaying large flowery petals stained red, sticky with gore and viscera. She spoke.
“Why is it that you are here?”
“Retribution.”
“By what means do you wish to seek this retribution?”
“Violence.”
“To whom shall you inflict this violence unto?”
“The world.”
“As you speak it, so shall it be. You may begin, Wayfarer.”
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He turned around to face the man and woman, their stoic countenance unmarred by the grisly sight before them. Looking down, he saw that he was naked, being stripped of his rags during the course of his journey, his pilgrimage. There was a rock in his hand now, having picked it up in the haze of his revelation. Focusing on his hatred, he resolved what to do. What needed to be done.
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Rushing forward, his indignation guided his steps, malice his hand. There was a wet smack, and the man was down. A gout of bright red blood and ribbons of blue-gray brain matter splattered forth, landing with a sickening plop. The man's skull lay in the dust and sand like a cracked egg leaking out. The only evidence of his person was the limp pile of flesh now twitching at his feet, slowly returning to oblivion. The Woman gasped.
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He lunged at her, pinning her to the ground, dust framing the scene of savagery. The woman’s eyes widened in fear, the whites of them drowning out both sclera and pupil. She made to scream, but the Wayfarer only used that as an opportunity to drive the stone well into her gullet. Teeth splintered, gums cracked, her jaw dislodged.
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The heat of the sun licked at his back, and still, he continued, pounding away at her skull until his hands were caked in jellied flesh and coagulated blood. Dragging both bodies with the last of his strength, he placed them at the feet of the Lady of Flowers. He began to dig.
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A hole was made in the earth for which there was to be sowing. The sowing of finger bones watered with the blood of his victims. Looking up at his new God, he spoke.
“Please accept this. I offer you all that I have left in this world. My life, my love, the seed of my loins.”
She pointed down at her disciple in judgment, making her final proclamation.
“And you!” in her hand, a single thorn.241Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3yMhMlNNtR
The Wayfarer knew what was to be done.
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Slicing open his belly, pink worms burst forth, coating the burial ground in blood and slime. The waters of his life giving his seeds of death the sustenance needed to blossom in full. A river of blood gush from his mouth, his sensations muted and dulled. His vision grew hazy, and soon all was black around him. 241Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5nHVnV7uxL
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The Wayfarer awoke on a bed of flowers at the base of the mesa, embraced by the light of the sun, its shadow now banished from this earth. Pinning him to the ground, a sword, bleached white and smooth as bone, jutted out of his belly. His navel wrapped around the weapon, perfectly sculpted to fit the blade better than any man-made sheath. He smiled for the first time in years, knowing that soon, all would feel the kiss of his wrath. 241Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy78WID5SKR
