Post by Bene Elohim on Feb 8, 2024 14:42:07 GMT -8
IMPORTANT NOTE: Mature warning! Alcohol abuse, violent and gory imagery is prominent in this piece.
On behalf of a friend who is just a storyteller, not an efedder, enjoy! ♥
Jack Dorsey, Noah Glass, Biz Stone, and Evan Williams.
The foul humans who founded and created Twitter. Such a dreadful social media. It was the last connection. In Japanese lore, it was the red string of fate.
He was on the verge of ridding himself of the damned thing once and for all. To see the woman he loved pull and rip his heartstrings, only to fall right into the arms of another man. To rush into a brand new relationship without a care in the world. It was as if…
As if she never loved him.
As if he never mattered.
Love. . .
What a cursed thing.
Such a lie. Such deceit. Such a waste of time.
. . .and he despised the agony in his heart.
Did Sathanas experience this raging ache when he parted ways from the Harlequin? This dulling sensation that was crawling all over him. The horror of a rusty blade slicing him from the inside-out. The human tears spilling down his cheekbones and dripping off of his jaw.
Another pouring of the wine. Another shattering of the glass.
The alcohol was fusing with his bloodstream. A feverish chill ran down his bare spine. He possessed the eyes of the Grim Reaper. The colors were fading from the world.
It was cold.
It was dark.
He was breathless.
The darkness was blurred into colors.
He was awakened, and with an instinctive reaction, he forced himself to turn on his side. Coughing, sputtering and gasping for life. Once he was able to regain his composure, he slowly looked around. He was upon his bed, the single bedroom that connected to his office. His clothes were set aside on a nearby chair. His body was covered in sweat, but he was without a fever. Slowly, he pushed himself to sit upon the bed, resting his back against the headboard. He raised his left hand, staring at the scars upon his flesh, and ran his fingers through his graying blonde hair.
“...I am the Devil…”
A knowing smirk crossed Lord Apollyon's facial features. At last…
Valdemar Johansen is dead.
On behalf of a friend who is just a storyteller, not an efedder, enjoy! ♥
Jack Dorsey, Noah Glass, Biz Stone, and Evan Williams.
The foul humans who founded and created Twitter. Such a dreadful social media. It was the last connection. In Japanese lore, it was the red string of fate.
He was on the verge of ridding himself of the damned thing once and for all. To see the woman he loved pull and rip his heartstrings, only to fall right into the arms of another man. To rush into a brand new relationship without a care in the world. It was as if…
As if she never loved him.
As if he never mattered.
Love. . .
What a cursed thing.
Such a lie. Such deceit. Such a waste of time.
. . .and he despised the agony in his heart.
Did Sathanas experience this raging ache when he parted ways from the Harlequin? This dulling sensation that was crawling all over him. The horror of a rusty blade slicing him from the inside-out. The human tears spilling down his cheekbones and dripping off of his jaw.
Another pouring of the wine. Another shattering of the glass.
The alcohol was fusing with his bloodstream. A feverish chill ran down his bare spine. He possessed the eyes of the Grim Reaper. The colors were fading from the world.
It was cold.
It was dark.
He was breathless.
“Min elskede…”
Valdemar’s eyes shot open and he audibly gasped for precious oxygen. All around him, the plain of existence was white. He looked around, wondering if this was the deception of Heaven or the calm before Hell. Rising to his feet, a few strands of his hair fell before his dark brown eyes. The color of his hair was a darker shade of blonde. It was the color of his youth.
How many years back in time…?
His physique matched the current timeframe. There was a well-built tone to his figure. Most notably, there were no scars from his time in Lord Lucifer’s Hell.
“Min elskede…”
He knew that voice. He searched the plain; his eyes blurred on the white. When the seconds passed, his heartbeat grew faster, aching with desperation.
“Min elskede? Vær venlig at svare mig.”
{My love? Please answer me.}
He turned around
Around and around
And around
around
Until finally… he turned around one more time. A single breath was taken from him; behold, the sight of his beloved wife, the Danish Goddess.
Yulia Johansen
So… beautiful.
Reaching out, he placed his hands upon her, his fingertips brushing along the white fabric of her dress shirt. She was real! The way she returned his gaze, her light-colored eyes shimmering, and her wavy layers of black and dark brown hair splayed around her…
The way she raised her hands and placed them upon his shoulders, collarbone, and neck.
“Heaven… Hell… don’t take me away from this moment.”
Softly, she chuckled.
“My love…”
There was a moment of silence between them; a moment that allowed them to simply take the other in. A single breath through his nose allowed him to take in her rosewater and ivy.
“You must not despair.”
Despair…?
There was the raging ache in his heart again.
The dulling sensation. The rusty blade.
Yulia’s right hand moved to rest over his heart.
“You’re weak… She has wounded you.”
“...I’m sorry…”
How dare he fall in love with such a deceptive little bitch? Vanita Thompson was a failure of a Harbinger; she was a terrible human being. A foul creature who never deserved him or his kindness.
“I should have never…”
She was unworthy.
She could never compare to Yulia.
How foolish to believe… that she stood a chance.
“...I am so ashamed, my love.”
When he tried to look away, she captured his face in her delicate hands. Her eyes bore into his, staring right into his soul.
“She is no longer of any importance, my love.”
A wiry smile crossed her face.
“This world you live in… it is putrid and disgusting. Impure and horrifying. The humans that roam God’s beautiful Earth are ruining everything he’s ever created.”
Reaching up, she moved strands of his hair behind his ears.
“His Earth needs to be cleansed… of people like us. The sinners of humanity deserve to suffer. After all…”
He was breathless when she kissed him.
“...It was your humanity that compromised you. You gave in to temptation and sin.”
He gasped for air, feeling his humanity being ripped out of his being. She plucked his heartstrings and stepped away with a sad smile. Before his eyes, her body was transforming; he was beholden of the scars she suffered at the hands of his former Lord Lucifer. His screams were muted, only resonating within his mind. She bled from the inside, her blood spilling onto her pure white fabric.
“You fell before God… so you may rise as the Devil.”
Demonic wings unfolded from his back.
White was painted in red.
Red was drowned in black.
The light disappeared into the darkness.
The darkness was blurred into colors.
He was awakened, and with an instinctive reaction, he forced himself to turn on his side. Coughing, sputtering and gasping for life. Once he was able to regain his composure, he slowly looked around. He was upon his bed, the single bedroom that connected to his office. His clothes were set aside on a nearby chair. His body was covered in sweat, but he was without a fever. Slowly, he pushed himself to sit upon the bed, resting his back against the headboard. He raised his left hand, staring at the scars upon his flesh, and ran his fingers through his graying blonde hair.
“...I am the Devil…”
A knowing smirk crossed Lord Apollyon's facial features. At last…
Valdemar Johansen is dead.
