Voices call from beyond a building off to the right, it towers high into the sky with great gargoyles perched on its corners and raw iron bars mounted on its windows. Stone wraps the frame, a grey blob pressed against black. It rises to touch the star but is so far from reach that it screams and calls to the heavens for something which will never come. A sense of pity washes over me as I think about the architect who planned this city, probably thinking of its beauty, but never knowing of the unholiness that would become. Or, maybe they did know, and that is the precise reason that the city has such beauty, to mask the evil which hides behind it.
It's strange to hear these voices shout at each other, fighting among common folk. They would be better off working together against the doom that looms over their heads. But they are either oblivious or ignorant of this city's workings. Of the church that hangs above them like a god.
I should go to them, try to convince them to help me, but that will be in vain. They will only attack me, and I will have no other choice but to kill them, painting the streets with their blood. If this were a sport, then that would be fine; however, this is life, and I will not put innocents to rest so easily.
I walk the lonely streets, screams ride the wind like leaves in autumn. A burnt smell is carried into my nostrils, lingering like fresh-baked pie. It infiltrates me like poison, I taste the burn on my lips, and am weakened to know that which I smell.
Burning flesh. A stench that will never leave me. It is ingrained in my soul, chisled like stone, driven into my core. I hate that I will forever know the smell of fresh burning meat as it's turned to ash and falls from bone. It is a different smell than that of cooking; it is more putrid, pungent, and almost rotten. You can smell the humanity withering away, writhing in the flames.
Should I turn the corner to meet the mob? People are burned at stakes, on crosses, in the street. There is no salvation for either those burning or those igniting the flames. But I could ease their pain, put them out of their misery, and give them retribution. I could punish the sinner that have turned from god and condemned others to die.
It's a harm turn down an alley of cobblestone. The only light is that of the fire which rages in the street on the other side. The screams are loud, they echo inside me, they linger in my mind. I will never escape from the horror of this city. Their screams will live on inside me forever. The building of the alley rises high, the windows reflect the flames, and the gargoyles watch my movements.
You're never truly alone in this city; something is always watching.
Someone turns to see me walking from the alley. A man, dressed in black with a hat of straw and a pitchfork coated with blood. His face is scared, and his eyes are black marbles. There is nothing in his blank stare, no life, no soul. His smile is weathered, his teeth yellow or missing, his shirt missing buttons, and his boots soiled with mud.
He lets out a groan, and the other turn to face me. A woman dangles from the cross, and a raging inferno touches her feet. She is slowly burning, her white dress just now starting to catch. Nails secure her to the cross. Another sits behind her with a man hung from it, he is dead, no longer screaming, and the flames have devoured him. More crosses are erected through the streets, each holding someone either dead or close enough to touch it. All the townsfolk hold weapons. Some have pitchforks, others swords, shields, and even a few with gas-powered rifles or pistols. All hold a gaze of evil.
All must meet their maker or be sent to hell.
I draw my pistol and fire a shot, which pierces the man's head. Blood splatters, and the sound rings through the town like a bell. If they weren't all looking before, then now they are. The pistol slides back into the holster at my side, and I draw the sword from my back. A quick and easy death is undeserved by these monsters; I will not give them that luxury. I will hack them to pieces and leave them to wail and rot.
My movement is as swift as the night is long. Each step is smooth, like I am gliding over ice in the street. The blade moves like another limb, slicing through bone, muscle, and cartilage like it was hot butter. The first man does not see me coming; I'm too quick. I cut away his hand, which holds a pistol. As his arm drops to the ground, I take the pistol and fire it at the woman who hangs from the cross. Her blood evaporates, and her screams fade. I twirl on the man releaseing his insides with a single move. His body leaks and curls forward, collapsing onto the ground.
The next man holds a shield, which I bash. As he stumbles, I pull a dagger from my thigh and throw it into his neck. Blood sprays like a fountain, and he falls backwards onto the ground. I pull my dagger from his neck as two men rush towards me. One is holding a sword, the other a pitchfork. The man swings the sword with fury, creating a barrage of blows that I side-step to avoid. I stab through his spine and spin as the other man runs with the pitchfork extended. I leap into the air like a frog, and the pitchfork stabs the man in the back of the head. I kick, and the man falls to the ground. My dagger slides into his eye socket like a keyhole, and I don't stop until the blade knocks against his skull.
"Good. Good. Kill the heretics!"
Moving like an angel from hell, I dispatch another group of men. Their bodies drop like apples from a shaken tree, each making a loud thud as they hit the ground. Some bounce while others lie still. The scene is a brutal nightmare that not even the devil could have conjured. I no longer feel like a man. I'm more demon, swinging blades and spitting flames.
Those who burned on the cross are now silent and still, slowly molding into ash to be scattered in the wind. My way is paved with blood, flames, and body parts. I lose track of time. I lose track of everything surrounding me.
Lost to the madness.
The walls around me sing songs of my heroics, but I am no hero. I was not sent to be a savior. I was sent to level this city, destroy the rot that has infested it for so long. Burn away that which is unholy.
I am no hero.
A bullet penetrates my skin, but I expel it with fire, shooting it back at its master. It slides into his chest and pierces through his heart. Blood pours from the hole and coats the ground like water after a light rain. I rain fire onto a group of monsters as they run towards me, their bodies burn, and they scream louder than those who hung from the cross. Everyone screams in terror after I've discarded them and moved on to my next toy.
There is no speech, just the wails of pain as they lie on the ground. It is as if their tongues have been cut from their mouths, the way they groan before I slice into them. Mindless animals here for me to slaughter.
With each kill, something inside me is lost. Burned away slowly with fire that is cool to the touch. My humanity is fading, I feel it. I feel myself losing to the demon inside. I hear him laughing as I free a man's head from his body. I feel his claws dig deeper into me as I cleave a man's arms off and kick his body to the ground. As I stomp on another's face, turning it into mush. As I dismantle another.
Each death is another piece cut away from my soul.
A ball of fire explodes, causing blood and body parts to rain from the sky like snow and hail. Dancing in the rain, I continue my conquest. Flowing like water through the bodies and blood, until there is nothing left and the city is lost to silence under the pale moonlight.
I stare at the state of the city. At the horror that lay at my feet. At the carnage that I have caused. What have I done? Have I truly brought hell to this place, or have I been the eradicator of some evil force? It is so hard to tell when standing upon corpses piled like a throne, dripping, and drowned in blood.