push-ups in drag

13; it's a fucking deathwish

I open my eyes, adrenaline crawling through my skin like ringworm. It's almost entirely pitch black. No source of light. Whatever is under me is lumpy and unstable. I try to move and push myself up but when I put my hand down, something touches back. Skin. Bodies.

My heart, already fast, sprints out of my chest as I push myself away, down. The bodies around me collapse slightly. I start to roll down the hill of corpses. My side scrapes by fingers and limbs, covered in ripped cloths. Scratchy fabrics unsettle my arm all the way down. I hit the cold floor hard, along with the wall. When I step, trying to avoid bodies, faces, skulls, and legs, it's impossible. There's barely and ground for me to step of, but I try to not to trip regardless. My hand traces the wall for support and search. I try to feel any difference in the wall, just in case I get a door. My eyes adjust as I walk the length of the walls, reaching the corner.

I repeat what's kept me walking, only this time with two hands on the wall. I'm not familiar with this room and it shows. Not that anyone is this damn room can see.

The sound of something, or someone, snapping makes me jump. I lift my foot and don't bother to repent. I keep walking.

A straight Crack presents itself and I push my hand over the where the doorknob would be, and it lands. I jangle it open frantically.

The light that pours into the room doesn't make me hesitant, it only increases my pace as I don't wish to look back. It's not much light, but it's more than was there. It's enough.

The halls are illuminated by minimal light, only streaming in through red and yellow stained glass from the impossibly ceilings. I know this hall, which makes me question where this room was, when I look at the door before closing it, it's the same as the wall. Not a single crack to show is as an entrance, or in my case, an exit.

The extensive area is vacant, not a single breath other than mine, though I'm barely breathing. The poor light stream occupies the allowed reflectance, and I start to walk along the wall, keeping close, watching.

My eyes throw over my shoulder again and again. My steps are silent. The feeling behind my eyelids burns and makes me want to cower. I desperately want to ball myself up and cry, Andres is dead, I'm alive, that fucking noise of his neck, I lied to God himself.. What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I want to come back? I've lost everything, especially the church. A public execution literally killed me, I can't just be seen around.

But I won't, because if it was enough to trick God, then it's enough to keep myself alive. I'm damned to hell already, what's the harm in doing the necessary without fear of it? The church didn't like me before, they damn sure won't now.

Everything is quiet, I try to remember if there's an even going on past my haze of memory, but I can't recall shit. I don't even know how long I was out. For all I know, it could've been minutes, days, months, years, even decades. I'm light on my feet regardless, now eased into a quiet jog, still along the wall. The wide doors aren't too far away. The fear of being caught leaves me; What are they gonna do? I'm back from the dead, they'll be too scared to kill me again. I stop running, leave the wall, and walk in the middle of the hall. Each of my steps now pronounced.

If anyone sees me, they can't do shit. I came back, they won't. They value themselves too much to sacrifice their own lives for my second perish. Ego and pride infect the church everyday, a one off resurrection won't change that.

The massive doors opposite of the ones that the bishop opened what feel like so long ago stand before me. Cold radiates from behind them. I grab both handles.

I swing the doors open and out. The night sky touches my face, I feel the glare of the moon grace my eyes. Columns on either side holding up a marble overhang block most of the stars, it's evidently later then midnight. Large stairs poured out of the door reflect the miniscule light. A small town, influenced by the Romans and those before them rests just as it did before my hanging. A large population of residents turn their heads.

Their eyes land immediately on me, some stand shocked, some fall to their knees and pray. Yells swell below the stairs. I stand just as I would behind a podium. My face is as cold as stone.

"Where is the bishop?!" I exclaim in a snare to no one in particular.

Men that used to attend my service flinch back, women cover sleeping children in their arms' eyes as they wake. I almost feel bad.

Almost.

One of the children, no older than ten points toward a building I used to frequent. Their father yanks their arm to their side, panicked. He whispers something in their ear semi-angrily and pulls them closer. The wind is stationary as I walk down the steps, I don't waste my energy running. Some people walk hastily toward others, ushering each other away. Those on their knees either stay put or are pulled away. Some weep, some hold their crosses in their hand.

I recognize each and every one of them; from around town, from mass, and from my hanging. Every step I take aches more, the noise a constant reminder of the walk before witnessing the hanging of the only person I could confide and be true in. The noise I unwilling memorized repeats itself with every stride, breaking me down one at a time. It only fuels my wrath.