Content Disclosure: Graphic Violence, Depiction of Self-Harm
It is to be unable to breathe but never to suffocate. It is to be unable to eat but never to starve. It is to be unable to drink but never wither. It is to scream until the vocal cords are torn to shreds, leaving the anguish to reverberate through the cranium for eternity for the ears that never stop hearing, the eyes that never stop crying, and the body that will forever know pain. That is the fate of the damned.
The writhing body, unblinking eyes wide and bloodshot, rolled off the end of the wagon into the maw in the earth. Its arms snapped and contorted horrifically in a way that vaguely resembled a spider flipped on its back—if the spider laid on a stovetop and, burning, so desperately tried to right itself that its legs bent in every wrong direction. The fact that the body had two left arms, its damning sin, might even go unnoticed by an ignorant onlooker. The body clawed at its face with those two left arms, at its throat, tearing its own skin apart and bleeding but never, never bleeding out. The infinite stream of thick, hot blood was absorbed by the soil, turning the damned into a headwater for an underground river of liquid fire.
“Praise the merciful one, our creator!” Father Barnabas cried out. He held the Almighty’s holy text in his left hand of flesh and blood, though his eyes didn’t need to grace the worn pages—the words were more a part of him than the straw arm hanging limply on his right shoulder, with its burlap fingers poorly guised in a black leather glove.
“Praise the merciful Almighty, our creator!” the collected faithful repeated, as several among them flung shovelfuls of earth over the wretched form. It didn’t even try to spit out the first dirt that filled its mouth and throat or try to rub away the soil that landed over its open eyes. No pain inflicted by a mortal human, flawed and weak as they were, could be perceived amid such divine punishment. The faithful standing around the grave knew that the dirt wouldn’t stop the cries, only silence them, but the silence was still better. At least they wouldn’t have to listen.
“Praise the infallible creator, our savior!” Father Barnabas declared.
“Praise the infallible creator, our savior!” the collected faithful echoed, as enough dirt accumulated to finally begin to weigh down the body’s thrashing arms. Mercifully, it was quieter now. The faithful knew its muscles wouldn’t stop spasming, it