Scarred
One
Hell.
The screams. The pain. The fear. It seeps into your soul and grips you tightly until you can’t move, can’t breathe. Like quick sand. You try to cry out but its white noise and no one hears you, no one cares.
In the seconds they’re not carving you into tiny pieces, you beg for it to end. Sometimes, you even wish you’d never made that deal, wish you’d been a selfish bastard and never offered yourself up in the place of someone you love. You only see their face for a tiny instance, but it’s all you need to know you did the right thing.
They let you watch, let you peak through the veil. They know it rips you apart to see him, to know you could have let him die, could have left him for dead and know that he’d be the one down here, bleeding, hurting, screaming, but never reaching that absolute end.
Time means nothing. You try to count the hours, the days, but it’s just one big blur of carnage. Each slice blends into the next, each plea goes unanswered, unheard until all you can do is wait and pray that you’ll ware out, burn up and be thrown back into the pit to be ripped up by the masses trying desperately to get out.
They eat each other alive down there.
But you’re not in the pit, you’re on the rack and it’s never ending torture because each time you’re close to nothingness, they fix you up and make you better just so they can start all over.
They spit on your tears. Laugh at your pleas.
And always, like clockwork, offer you the razor.
“I’ll put down my blade, if you’ll pick it up. Take my place and end your torment.”
And for what feels like years you refuse. Spit on their offers and insult, back chat, give them sass. You’ve always had a way with words.
For what feels like years, you’re strong, you’re resilient. But then you’re not and you can’t stop yourself from agreeing to the terms. Slice up another soul, and keep your own from the chopping block.
You can’t stop yourself from letting out that sigh you’ve been holding in. You’re finally off the rack.
And then you’re standing there, razor in hand and it’s your turn to do the damage.
She’s young. Really young and beautiful. She’s exactly what you would have gone for back when you were alive, and you can’t help but know that they picked her just for that reason.
She’s screaming and crying and begging you to let her go and you want to. For a split second you want to let her go and take her place, after all, you’re known for sacrificing yourself. But then you remember all the pain you’ve gone through, all the blood you’ve had bled from you and you glower.
Fuck it, it’s your turn.
She never stops screaming as you carve into her, slowly, piece by piece. She cries and begs as you’re wrist deep in her insides, her blood splattered all over you but you can’t bring yourself to care.
They don’t make you repeat on her, once she’s done, she’s thrown to the pit, after all; she’s no one to them.
One after another you slice and dice and hack and cut until you’ve gotten yourself a reputation. They’re impressed.
And you’re not disgusted anymore. You’re not put off, you don’t apologize anymore. You don’t even wait for them to start begging, you just stab and slash.
You’ve become a monster.
And you like it.
It’s when you can’t get enough of the blood, can’t rest without the screams of the tortured lulling you to sleep, that you’re being gripped tight and yanked out.
It’s like fire that burns from the bones out and shoots through your body like acid or lava, heck, maybe both and all you can do is gasp for air as you wake up in a black box that stinks of death; thrown back into a body you haven’t been in for an eternity.
It feels like you’ve swallowed a pitcher of sand paper, your insides blaze and churn as you struggle to breathe. You bust out only to be crushed by the weight of an ocean of dirt and weed and when you finally break free, the sun burns your eyes and leaves you blind as you stumble on legs that think they’re still dead.
Some how you manage to stumble your way to a small corner store in the middle of no where. You try to call out but you still can’t find your voice, as if it’s been left in Hell. You settle for smashing the window to open the door. The water you skull is freezing and it causes your head to spin but you can’t bring yourself to care, it’s water and its fighting off the thirst you’ve had for an eon.
It isn’t until you spot a newspaper, the date like a giant beacon that you realize time must be fucking with you. Four months, that’s it? You’ve only been gone four bloody months when all that time in Hell felt like a thousand life times. It’s then when everything decides to speak up, to make its differences known.
Every thing’s changed now, but at the same time, nothing has. You check everything, you wonder. Lifting your shirt you even discover you’re different. No more marks of old wounds, no welts and raised skin, no scars. Your bodies as smooth as the day you were born and it doesn’t make sense.
It makes even less sense when you find a hand print burned into your shoulder. You can’t remember that ever being there. Did you get it in Hell? You don’t think so. But you don’t stick around to ponder the why’s and how’s. You just go.
And months pass before you finally settle on the reasoning for the differences. It’s not the empty feeling that follows you around like a stray dog. It’s not the constant screams that wake you in the middle of the night or the constant lies. It’s not even the demon blood your own brothers sucking down or the demon slut he’s screwing and constantly siding with over you.
You tell yourself it has nothing to do with him; you’re broken for your own reasons.
But it hits you when you’re alone, your soul staring right back at you in the mirror and telling you you’re a changed man, you’re not that man that slaughtered all those innocent souls in Hell any more. You’ve changed.
It’s the fact that while the whole time you stare at your body and see no reminders of the hunt before Hell, you know you’re not so baby soft, not so virgin clean.
You are different.
You are changed.
But not for the good.
Because no matter how many times the Angels heal you, no matter how many times they patch your wounds up and sear away the evidence, you’ll always carry one mark they’ll never be able to get rid of.
And it eats you up inside. The realization that Hell didn’t do this to you, it just kicked you while you were already down.
And it’s the knowledge that you’ll always be this way; that no matter what anyone does, you’ll never change.
You’ll always bear a scarred heart.
The screams. The pain. The fear. It seeps into your soul and grips you tightly until you can’t move, can’t breathe. Like quick sand. You try to cry out but its white noise and no one hears you, no one cares.
In the seconds they’re not carving you into tiny pieces, you beg for it to end. Sometimes, you even wish you’d never made that deal, wish you’d been a selfish bastard and never offered yourself up in the place of someone you love. You only see their face for a tiny instance, but it’s all you need to know you did the right thing.
They let you watch, let you peak through the veil. They know it rips you apart to see him, to know you could have let him die, could have left him for dead and know that he’d be the one down here, bleeding, hurting, screaming, but never reaching that absolute end.
Time means nothing. You try to count the hours, the days, but it’s just one big blur of carnage. Each slice blends into the next, each plea goes unanswered, unheard until all you can do is wait and pray that you’ll ware out, burn up and be thrown back into the pit to be ripped up by the masses trying desperately to get out.
They eat each other alive down there.
But you’re not in the pit, you’re on the rack and it’s never ending torture because each time you’re close to nothingness, they fix you up and make you better just so they can start all over.
They spit on your tears. Laugh at your pleas.
And always, like clockwork, offer you the razor.
“I’ll put down my blade, if you’ll pick it up. Take my place and end your torment.”
And for what feels like years you refuse. Spit on their offers and insult, back chat, give them sass. You’ve always had a way with words.
For what feels like years, you’re strong, you’re resilient. But then you’re not and you can’t stop yourself from agreeing to the terms. Slice up another soul, and keep your own from the chopping block.
You can’t stop yourself from letting out that sigh you’ve been holding in. You’re finally off the rack.
And then you’re standing there, razor in hand and it’s your turn to do the damage.
She’s young. Really young and beautiful. She’s exactly what you would have gone for back when you were alive, and you can’t help but know that they picked her just for that reason.
She’s screaming and crying and begging you to let her go and you want to. For a split second you want to let her go and take her place, after all, you’re known for sacrificing yourself. But then you remember all the pain you’ve gone through, all the blood you’ve had bled from you and you glower.
Fuck it, it’s your turn.
She never stops screaming as you carve into her, slowly, piece by piece. She cries and begs as you’re wrist deep in her insides, her blood splattered all over you but you can’t bring yourself to care.
They don’t make you repeat on her, once she’s done, she’s thrown to the pit, after all; she’s no one to them.
One after another you slice and dice and hack and cut until you’ve gotten yourself a reputation. They’re impressed.
And you’re not disgusted anymore. You’re not put off, you don’t apologize anymore. You don’t even wait for them to start begging, you just stab and slash.
You’ve become a monster.
And you like it.
It’s when you can’t get enough of the blood, can’t rest without the screams of the tortured lulling you to sleep, that you’re being gripped tight and yanked out.
It’s like fire that burns from the bones out and shoots through your body like acid or lava, heck, maybe both and all you can do is gasp for air as you wake up in a black box that stinks of death; thrown back into a body you haven’t been in for an eternity.
It feels like you’ve swallowed a pitcher of sand paper, your insides blaze and churn as you struggle to breathe. You bust out only to be crushed by the weight of an ocean of dirt and weed and when you finally break free, the sun burns your eyes and leaves you blind as you stumble on legs that think they’re still dead.
Some how you manage to stumble your way to a small corner store in the middle of no where. You try to call out but you still can’t find your voice, as if it’s been left in Hell. You settle for smashing the window to open the door. The water you skull is freezing and it causes your head to spin but you can’t bring yourself to care, it’s water and its fighting off the thirst you’ve had for an eon.
It isn’t until you spot a newspaper, the date like a giant beacon that you realize time must be fucking with you. Four months, that’s it? You’ve only been gone four bloody months when all that time in Hell felt like a thousand life times. It’s then when everything decides to speak up, to make its differences known.
Every thing’s changed now, but at the same time, nothing has. You check everything, you wonder. Lifting your shirt you even discover you’re different. No more marks of old wounds, no welts and raised skin, no scars. Your bodies as smooth as the day you were born and it doesn’t make sense.
It makes even less sense when you find a hand print burned into your shoulder. You can’t remember that ever being there. Did you get it in Hell? You don’t think so. But you don’t stick around to ponder the why’s and how’s. You just go.
And months pass before you finally settle on the reasoning for the differences. It’s not the empty feeling that follows you around like a stray dog. It’s not the constant screams that wake you in the middle of the night or the constant lies. It’s not even the demon blood your own brothers sucking down or the demon slut he’s screwing and constantly siding with over you.
You tell yourself it has nothing to do with him; you’re broken for your own reasons.
But it hits you when you’re alone, your soul staring right back at you in the mirror and telling you you’re a changed man, you’re not that man that slaughtered all those innocent souls in Hell any more. You’ve changed.
It’s the fact that while the whole time you stare at your body and see no reminders of the hunt before Hell, you know you’re not so baby soft, not so virgin clean.
You are different.
You are changed.
But not for the good.
Because no matter how many times the Angels heal you, no matter how many times they patch your wounds up and sear away the evidence, you’ll always carry one mark they’ll never be able to get rid of.
And it eats you up inside. The realization that Hell didn’t do this to you, it just kicked you while you were already down.
And it’s the knowledge that you’ll always be this way; that no matter what anyone does, you’ll never change.
You’ll always bear a scarred heart.