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Purple skies shattered.
Like a stained glass of an old, abandoned cathedral, with a loud crash, as the endless corridors of the divine maze, made in the image of His Garden, made with His Paint, follow next. Their walls crack and wither, as if hollowed out, devoured like apple by worms squirming inside. Stone turns rough, cutting the skin of another sinner, on their hands, their back, their knees and bare feet, that dared to defy His Will.
Drawing blood, until red blossoms on sinner's clothes. Such a beautiful sight. The Sin just cannot miss it, when It finally lands down, when the cloud of Its body pours below in ringing air to the ground from its prison, — a maw in the sky, now seeping with black and pinkish fluids down, the rot, that made the saints cower in fear, as they ran away, leaving sinner alone, always alone.
Sin surges forward, gliding through the labyrinth, pushing off the walls as though the maze itself tilted towards its hunger, even as stones and bricks groaning under the sheer unholiness of Its Self. This place was never made to hold It. This was His test, a mimicry, His foolish attempt to make them feel closer to this redemption, a naive belief, a reminder of how Lovely it will be to follow His Will, bathing in His Love. Love that will never be there in Sin, that corrode and twisted until it was only an echo of what it was supposed to be and resemble. And echoes always doomed to fade away.
Its many eyes graze against the shattering walls, but one, the main and the biggest remains locked in on the culprit, Its culprit, a sinner. Sin could spare a thought to wonder on how could this place looked like, sound like, smelled like, before It entered. How wonderful must have it been to be surrounded by His Love.
It could, like it always has, piecing together by pieces, as it had done all the time from every first moment as her teeth pierced into the sweet flesh of the fruit, as he savored it and the piece stuck in his throat as he lied leaving a mark on his throat. It always leaves a mark.
It knows hunger. It knows the endless Want for sustenance, Want that twists your insides, leaves you trembling and crying for more, always more, always more, until you wouldn't know when you end and the Want begins. It knows the questions. Was it wrong? Just this once? I will stop? This isn't that bad? I am still a good person?
It knows the questions never mattered. The Want will come anyway, this never ending hunger, as Sin gnaws and rips apart every soul. It's what It always was. Its rot is what iT always was. IT had no choice. ThIS oNE, on the other hand...
Its eye follows a mortal, an unworthy flesh with feeble mind and soul, as they ran and ran and ran, as if the corridors, twisting and turning and breaking apart, could've hidden them from iT.
The hall pulls past like a throat, rough walls slick with flashing lights making sinner's skin crawl and head spin, just like the terrible stench of rot — that sick, sweet, meat left on hot day under the scorching merciless rays of the sun, forgotten to the point it covered in mold, a smell so thick it felt like it coated their tongue and wrapped around their throat, choking.
It remembers the green leaves, as it tore the flesh, the air, once clean and now tainted and ringing from Its presence, just like now, beautiful sounds of chirping birds, mingling with their sobs for the Father, that now could never come to help them, as they were left to themselves and their own free will. It remembers blue sky, endless and unstained, like here but not quite. He could never just simply copy the Heights of His place for someone so little and low as this human, sliding and skiing through these halls.
Humans. It knows them so well. It knows how easy it is to LOve WaNT them, their widened eyes, their salty tears, that sting and redden their skin as they dry, their warm embraces and guilty laughs, their moans and jiggling of their golden coins or rustle of stupid fiat papers, their tongues as they lie and their teeth as they bite in rage, their cowardice as they ran from their own nature. It knows their Want for love and for pleasure and how it twists so much. Love is not enough, never enough. Nothing is ever enough, just like it is for Sin Itself.
It used to humans running from It. Seeing fear in their eyes, priests, monarchs, valetry, sick and healthy, as they FELT it. As they felt the crack widening, as they realised they never were as untouchable as they thought. As the Its bottomless Want closed around them, their skin and below, as Its teeth sank down, just ripping chunks and swallowing, as the hunger grew too restless, hunger only to swallow without taste or pleasure. Humans were always iTS.
But this one, however, keeps pushing on and on, further and further through the halls, flying high into the endless, once has been purplish and peaceful skies of this parody on His domain. They escape Its clutches, once, twice, making It growl, as Its hunger and something else, something fluttery and spinning, start raging more and more, giving It strength to pursue, extending Its flowing limbs that were all twisting into the wrong directions, before stretching to sinner that once again only jumps into the skies, their ropes fluttering behind. Just like a bird with its wings broken, full of hopes, despite all the disadvantages. Delusional, oblivious to the fact that it can only last for so long.
Below them the labyrinth slowly disappears into the pinkish flashing mist and sinner begins to fall once again, pushing themselves forward. Away from It. Again and back into the halls. As if the maze's crying and withering walls could've possibly saved them.
It observes sinner hurls themselves forward, sliding faster, knees skimming stone through the mist, no longer soft but now tearing at their face, curdling into almost black, obscuring their vision and dragging their breath out of their lungs, coppery, sharp with rust.
But they don't stop. But they keep running, and so It keeps running as well, just to finally catch them.
Even as they cursed It for Its hunger. And as they prayed, naïvely so, to Him for salvation.
Oh small human,
What a hypocrite you are, It thinks, as It twists Its form, filling up the space and pushing off the walls of the labyrinth, rushing forward, like smog filling the rooms of burning house. Do not tell IT you want a help from Him, after you failed? Turned your back on something that is the closest you ever would have gotten to Him, something that felt safe? You took the fruit, didn't you? But you knew you shouldn't so why did you do it why di dyou do it whydi d youdoit why yo udid that whywhywhywhyHEaskedyOU NOT toDidn'tHE?
And now you choose to run. And now you choose to jump, flying once again so high into the flashing skies as you only can, just escape It. You can't, don't you know that?
What a coward you are, It snarls, dozens of its teeth clattering and grinding, something that could only be described as tar dripping out of its maw, corroding the stone further and further, crushing it into dust, mixing with its fluid form, a parody to a body just like everything around them both. It is a mere consequences of your actions, of your misdeeds, did you really think you could do anything that pleases you and nothing would happen?
What a fool you are, Its voice booms inside their head, displacing all thoughts they possibly could have had, as It closes Its hand on sinner's neck, as the others countless and wrong, so very wrong and inhuman, unholy, go to their legs, and hands and face, their eyes and cheeks.
You mustn't cry now. Whatever you had in your head was doomed to fail from the start. Just as His plans.
You cannot escape IT. Not after you've done. Not after anything. You know you couldn't, do you?
You are so tired, ITS LovE. Shaking with fright, with shame. Blinded by the hopes that He had inflicted upon you, weighted down by His expectations, believing that this time perhaps could be different. That you could be different.
It isn't your fault, ItS LOve. You were always designed to be that way, weren't you? It was never your fault.
And you look at IT. Was it truly what it took you to do so? Your eyes widen, so wide,
You are so fragile.
Your features contort, melt away, eating your skin and viscera, revealing nothing but bones. Bones of your soul, stained and rotten.
Do you feel IT? The pleasure? The regret? IT entering your soul?
Good.