𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

epilouge || resurrection

If the oracle was fake, and the game was used to placate the fake oracle by being used as a tool to bring people in, where did the oracle come from? What were the origins of the oracle? Why was there a need to make a fake oracle? And why was there a need to bring people in, aside from the fact that someone would be landed with the title of the "Chosen one" from the oracle?

Why did the person need an oracle to cling on for sanity?

Who was the person?

There were so many questions.

—

There were some things that perhaps Anton had forgotten.

The day of the exorcism.

The day he had snapped.

Oh, poor, poor Anton. He was so unaware of the other host of the body.

The day his mother tried to exorcize him, was the day another being was summoned.

.

.

.

"You devil..."

"This isn't from the bible." Anton smiled at his mother, "is this another stage of madness?"

He did not expect her to reply.

She did not.

Instead, she continued a series of chants. That irritated Anton; and all over again, the familiar rise of hate bloomed in him, and his beautiful, cerulean eyes darkened with unadulterated fury. His jaw was taut—yes, it was amusing, yes, his mother was going crazy, but oh, how embarrassing. This was no heaven for him, no throne for him to sit. Everything should have been handed to him on a silver platter—not this.

He stared at the flickering candles.

Verses six, seven, and eight show that the innocent lamb must be bled to death, and the bones were not to be broken—it had to be roasted whole.

A smile curled on his lips—penance. Anton would show his mother what true release of sin meant.

.

.

.

There was something distorted in his memory.

It was after Anton had skinned his mother, after he had slowly and methodically used a blade: a small blade that required great deals of patience to work through her body, bit by bit— he had taken in the sight of how seeping in great blooming stains, the blood looked grape-skin black. It was limp, vulnerable, and Anton realized that it was still more tender than the meat of the lamb.

There were reams of intestines within her, and his hands had been stained with blood when he had reached his ribs, carefully tearing that flesh from it. It was then he had innocently looked up and stared into a presence. He could feel, more than see, and instantly knew who it was.

"After years of my mother saying your name, you appeared."

It was the devil.

If there was God, there was Satan. If one believed in one, the other existed in their faith. It was how it worked.

"How messy it is." The devil had no name. It did not have horns, or a tail. It was simply a flickering presence. "What a child. Born twisted."

Anton stared at it.

"I've been too long without a body. I'm festering. Fading. And yet everyone has a conscience: the cruelest of the murderers can still reject my soul, still have that tiniest bit of guilt in them. But how strange? That the perfect vessel for my soul belongs to a young boy."