Salvis Oneshots :)

Sin

Suicide hotline:

988 suicide hotline

Sinner.

Faggot.

Disappointment.

That's all I will ever be.

That's what he tells me, what scripture says, what is proven by God himself.

I am running, from what I don't know. Corpses litter the ground, but they no longer have human forms. They are missing limbs, intestines, skin. All lifeless, like I will be if I don't run.

A dead end.

A door.

The prayer room.

Candles light the darkened space, blood-stained floors familiar as always. Father is waiting by the makeshift alter in the front. It is pristine. White cloth, portrait of Jesus perfectly centered.

There's even a home-cooked meal as well.

Cooked might be the wrong word.

It is raw. Unidentifiable.

Just...meat.

Just

Meat

"Blood of the lamb spilt for your sins, face your fate, your retribution, your punishment for devilish acts , hellspawn , mutt , disgrace to my flesh;

Travis."

My father seems to scream, so loud in my head, I feel it will burst. Blood pours out of gaping wounds, now my own, guts spilled to the floor.

God is not merciful.

Death will not grace me.

I am thrown down, a new place. Dark. Damp.

And I am running.

From my sins.

From my Father.

From God?

Is there a God?

Would he allow us to suffer?

No.

I wake with a gasp, cold sweat running down my face.

Running.

I'm always running.

Only one thing can console me in my desperation.

I pry up the floorboard to the right of my bed, slightly under the top-most leg. Here is my secrets, my soul poured onto pages of a dusty notebook.

Confessions never said.

Songs never sung.

Pathetic.

Still, I write. I write until my hand cramps, until my scabbed knuckles tear open, crimson now splashed across the page.

The fruit of my labor?

A messy letter, to my mother.

Dearly departed.

It reads: