He looked exactly like this.. like me. The brown hair, once soft face, the lingering acne from his- our - teenage years. Did he get picked on and isolated? Did he have the urge to burn his world? Did he do it? Maybe he felt warm watching stars wink out.
He looked kinder. There was no furrow in his brow. His shoulders were soft and he dressed like a catholic school boy.
So we are the same. Raised on faith, a hopeless abandon.
I'm kind. What is kinder than helping
those leave this plane of hell futile existence. This land of power hungry gods. Gods who don't care about the subjects of their kingdom. Gods who don't care about the red angry sky. Dying trees. Animals gone to the wind and the ones who stay, changed forever.
I'm kind. I guide people to a better place. Before the ones the gods made for their cause to reset the world can steal their soul. Souls that go back to the gods, keeping them younger. Keeping them around to reset the world over and over again.
He looked like he never had to worry about soul being sucked out as his blood emptied on the brown Earth. He looked like his mother didn't have to watch her only daughter be mauled by the faceless voids. By teeth no one can see. He looked like his mother was still knitting on those humid Sunday mornings, her pot of herbs and veggie scraps boiling, making the whole house rouse to the smell.
No kingdom crumbling to rubble under the rule of gods. People who made themselves gods. People who forced good people to make them gods. People who made me turn them into gods.
He looked like he had nothing to atone for. Like he could sleep at night knowing he was perfect.
I'm not perfect. You can't be forced to live for hundreds of years and be perfect. You do things that keep you up at night.
I made the monsters. I made the gods. I am the monster, I am a god.
