I am waiting.
So much work I did to bring the end of days about, unearthing old texts and translating them, then gathering to me those who could do my bidding. There was not a joy in it, really, but it was something that had to be done. It has all gone on far too long for all of us, this world, this existence, and I could not bear to pass my way through it and let it decline irritably in on itself, biting its own ankles like a tiny dog impotently furious at it’s physical stature. No, this world deserved an end of true greatness.
So much to gather, so many to have slain – not only the ones that were required for the rituals, the removing of their hearts, the feeding of their small intestines into their own mouths as they were made to swallow and swallow and swallow, but the ones who did not realize the beauty of what I meant to do. the ones who came in with guns and fire and thought to stop me. I was warned. I marked the entirety of the old inn in which I had been working with the symbols, and filled the basement with the powder – carefully, so carefully! They became so many sweet pieces of offering, sizzling as they fell into the sea.
So far to travel, carrying my notes with me to scribe the bloody sigils into the foundations of those false and stupid churches, full of pompous assbiters preaching asceticism and forgiveness and love and don’t forget the bake sale next Saturday, as if that would make any difference in the great and dark Beyond, beyond the here and now of their knowing.
So many graveyards to seed with the powders on the headstones and the ichorous salves smeared into the graves fresh and old, and the crypts and mausolea with their heavily sealed preservations of ancient meat, all of them a forgotten meal waiting for the right words, waiting for the smoke, and the blood, and the maddening song to call them forth and vomit them out.
So many driven forth from their plastic and wood houses, when finally the sky began to crack and the winged horrors fell through, when the ground cleaved and the terrible beasts burst forth, flesh and claw and screaming hunger and far too many eyes. One by one and then many by many they fell to be food, or to the madness, or both. Theirs was the sacrifice, the last sacrifice needed.
So much death scents the air now, the slaughterhouse smell of blood and meat and shit and ash overcoming even the rotting salt of the ocean by which I stand. It is enough now. He will smell it, it will waken Him like some of the madboys once woke for bacon clocks, and He will rise. The sea shall boil forth around His great and unknowable visage, and I will greet Him, and He shall reward my by consuming me first before taking the world bit by bit and bite by bite into that unfathomable maw. I will fall into his gullet and no more be this meatwoman in this black dress of mourning for the world that once was, and there will be peace.
I am waiting.
This piece of Nightmare Fuel was inspired by this picture by Shapovalov on DeviantArt, shared with permission.
For more info on the Nightmare Fuel project, click here.