Archivial Architect

I acknowledge that this is my original work copy and pasted from my notes, keep in mind that it is still a work in progress and will be something I’ll be working on for a long, very long, time. Music makes the reading even better.

WARNING: This story contains graphic scenes and descriptions that may make the user uncomfortable. I would exercise caution when reading, this is intended for mature audiences.

It was known as the “Second Wound”. The Second Wound is what you could describe as a clear and defined split in the sky. A crimson stain upon the blanket of the heavens, light ceased to shine from any hole in the clouds- all quickly being swallowed up by a lingering storm of unimaginable malice. But those below, the Town Of Salem, viewed this as a sign of redemption. Quickly they gathered, like maggots to a corpse in the middle of the town square, cowering beneath a statue of a fair maiden. Each of the townsfolk caressing the onyx figure, her gaze fixed upon them- stone unmoving, it’s as if she was giving her sweet love back unto them but without motion. Yet the maiden could not view the world as they did, so, as any loyalist- they gave to her. Their eyes. Bliss filled their orgy of madness, seeping from their hollow skulls a red fluid. Each offering both observatory orbs detached from their nerves to the beloved woman of black. Gurgling moans, ancient phrases being uttered between the popping bubbles of infested saliva. The people moved in unison, almost operating their limbs in unruly fashion to please the one whom bathed in crimson. Imitating sexual intercourse yet not, passionately throwing themselves at one another and unto the rock of the abyss. Then, they stop- Like time itself froze in a single moment. All is still and quiet, the fleshy monsters that once resembled humans, even they did not twitch. The clouds above, stained with the essence of the children’s fathers- rose in appearance and deep as the trenches of the ocean, nothing breathed of life. A horrific scene, a painting, brush strokes of death upon the canvas of sacrifice. The tears of the unborn fall, infantile in nature- they’re skin tears apart slowly like the pulling apart of muscle fibers. The wombs of mothers spazzing with the movement of twisted love. Yet cruel babies are made, cynical, unholy. Like disfigured abominations, grins as wide as one’s could be. From ear to ear, they rejoice and dance upon the empty tombs of the depraved women. Eyes the color of the deepest depths of water, they cry tears of darkened sea. Yet they smile and continue their prolific ritual dedicated to their rebirthing, screams of the unborn radiating from each gruesome stomp. Brains like static television screens, one musters before the other, branding their putrid husks with the bones of the cadavers. Long gone they be, for thou has sinned, nature of man violated, blessing of woman tarnished. Shortly thereafter, a primordial groan of ecstasy leave their slit vocal cords.