10-02-2013, 03:14 PM
A heavy weight clung close that Jensen could not cast off if he wanted to. Unmoving as a corpse at their own Wake, hollow and cold, he was washed in the blood of those he had slain, not in the blood of Christ. No tabernacle of the Lord did he protect, only a shell waiting until time finished and it returned to the earth from whence it came. From dust to dust we are. Over how many funerals had he presided? How many families had he comforted with promises of eternity. Did he ever believe his own promises? His mind raced with doubts.
His throat ached to cry out as David to the Lord. To fall to his knees and lament, but it was not to be.
He glanced up at the wailing screech of the train, squeezed the bridge between his eyes and drank in the breath of underworld air. Robotically, his limbs carried him aboard, and beneath the glow of halogen and the flash of view-screen advertisements, he held on, swaying, as the train shifted forward.
"Open my mind to what?" He asked solemnly. What good could come of anything sourced from Satan? For where else were these powers derived if not from the Son of the Morning? He who sows to his flesh will reap from the flesh corruption.
As though stirred by the name of Lucifer himself, that shining light, painfully beautiful, flourished at the edge of his senses. Always there; always tempting. Lucifer clad himself in beauty and majesty. What else was more thrilling, beautiful, and powerful than these powers? It was perfectly clear to Jensen. That he was drawn to it every waking hour was a constant battle, or only to give in at great need, because he was giving in to temptation in the wilderness of his soul.
Ironic then, he'd used the power of Satan to drive away demons. He thought back to the thing lurking in their building's basement. Tormenting him. Giving him an excuse to wield such sweet poison one more time. How much longer could his willpower hold?
Anguish cast a long shadow across a man that once gleamed with hope. "What else do I do?" he forced himself to utter the question, to ask for help, "but try to resist? You said you lost everything? How did you grieve? How did you deal with it? For I have no purpose to achieve. No reason to live..," his voice trailed off, watching the flicker of tunnel lights blur by as blazing white streaks. They might as well be years of his life.
And his voice cracked, "..if only to avoid hell a little longer." It was a cowardly reason to not end his own life, but he knew what torment awaited, and the idea of it ran his blood cold.
His throat ached to cry out as David to the Lord. To fall to his knees and lament, but it was not to be.
He glanced up at the wailing screech of the train, squeezed the bridge between his eyes and drank in the breath of underworld air. Robotically, his limbs carried him aboard, and beneath the glow of halogen and the flash of view-screen advertisements, he held on, swaying, as the train shifted forward.
"Open my mind to what?" He asked solemnly. What good could come of anything sourced from Satan? For where else were these powers derived if not from the Son of the Morning? He who sows to his flesh will reap from the flesh corruption.
As though stirred by the name of Lucifer himself, that shining light, painfully beautiful, flourished at the edge of his senses. Always there; always tempting. Lucifer clad himself in beauty and majesty. What else was more thrilling, beautiful, and powerful than these powers? It was perfectly clear to Jensen. That he was drawn to it every waking hour was a constant battle, or only to give in at great need, because he was giving in to temptation in the wilderness of his soul.
Ironic then, he'd used the power of Satan to drive away demons. He thought back to the thing lurking in their building's basement. Tormenting him. Giving him an excuse to wield such sweet poison one more time. How much longer could his willpower hold?
Anguish cast a long shadow across a man that once gleamed with hope. "What else do I do?" he forced himself to utter the question, to ask for help, "but try to resist? You said you lost everything? How did you grieve? How did you deal with it? For I have no purpose to achieve. No reason to live..," his voice trailed off, watching the flicker of tunnel lights blur by as blazing white streaks. They might as well be years of his life.
And his voice cracked, "..if only to avoid hell a little longer." It was a cowardly reason to not end his own life, but he knew what torment awaited, and the idea of it ran his blood cold.