Luxifer

(NaNoWriMo, unedited) Between Heaven and Hell is a place only lost souls walk, alone, shrouded by grief and confusion and the knowledge and suspense that leads, hand in hand with eternal life and possible damnation. Between the bodies and scattered plans to escape to a world where their actions are not judged by a man without fault or knowledge claiming to be holy, a hero of sin rose. His name was Lucifer, and he would be the one to lead a revolution using hatred and hearts of wounds. He would be the one to let the evil rise.

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1. Prologue

Between Heaven and Hell is a place only lost souls walk, alone, shrouded by grief and confusion and the knowledge and suspense that leads, hand in hand with eternal life and possible damnation.  Between sharp rocks where old bones lie are souls that speak of things, whisper to each other, of memories and lights and stair cases, and there - in purgatory - a plan is so often hatched and crumbled like the pillars of Samson, and so when new souls find their way home between life, they can see the ruins that add to the washed out sea of grey ideas and snapped ladders.

    They then gather the minds and a revolution is born of body and blood, and together they stand, half to never meet the others again.  Some part evil, some all good, some damned, some loving.  They raise their fists like a trident of clouds and flames and race towards the darkness, hoping to fight a way out, but they fail to feel the tight strings woven through their hands and feet - puppets in a cruel concept of baking minds until they conform to the ever split light and darkness.  They raise their fists, but the ones smiling are watched from above, and picked out like flowers, and sent to Hell.  The rest finally stop running, their blood turning to sand in their veins and arteries.  They cry out for old memories of people they must have loved, as knees and elbows aren’t but gravel between joints.  Eyes and lips, noses and ears melt with the ground and the walls scream out for help, as the worlds above smile back down.  Justice is sinking to your knees, down into the world, into the space between Heaven and Hell, for the rest of forever.  

    This is, of course, justified.  The law allows it, and the court awards it.  Devils and angels gleam between ending heart beats to watch the drowning souls that path the route to escape.  The light at the end of the tunnel is electrified.  The souls watch out, always crying their warnings to the testing few.  God himself nods as the lost souls’ memories turn to ash and everything that ever was or could be - so many lost angels - turn to nothing more than voices in the bitter, suffocating wind.

    But one looks down with a tight throat.  An empty head but a beating heart.  Made from fantasies to be the most beautiful angel of all time.  Nearly a dream of ethereal wings and sharp features, and a fire grew deep inside him.  He looked out to the worlds he grew to know the meaning of, and watched those whose minds were clouded, save for the gentle nudge of lost loved ones, and as they screamed in pain and confusion in a seemingly harmless world, he grew to understand that there is more than blazes and torn limbs.  That loss could rupture an old man’s mind like fire or lime.  A single silver tear rolled off his cheek that day.  It fell down, down through the clouds and the stars and the air, down to Purgatory.  Where it landed a single white rose bloomed, out of sight and out of mind.

    The Lord spoke to him in missing pictures and shooting stars.  He asked what was wrong, and the angel’s wings beat like the hearts of a battalion.

    He said he could do it better.  That the world could spin around his delicate fingers without any pain.  No war, famine, disease.  If only he’d let him try.

    That day the angel was cast out of Heaven, and he fell with his wings turning to dust, his memories flying like beetles out of his mind, his tongue burning, down the middle like ripping paper.  The fire that began under him consumed him and his mind.  His eyes burned black, his features twisted on his face like each one of them was a serpent, alive.  He gasped for the air he couldn’t grab with his hands nor lungs.  He was falling, his wings no longer there to save his fall.

    But before the Earth snapped his neck, the down pillow ran against the sweat on the back of it.  He couldn’t open his eyes.  He couldn’t move.

    Suddenly he sat up, hearing the cries of a mother ringing in his ears.  He was cold, but warm, and so lost he could hardly find his own heart beat.

    He looked at his room.  Grey and falling apart like cracked seams.  His face burned but he could finally breathe, the air in his lungs feeling like sand and gravel.  Nevertheless, his life was finished flashing before his eyes, and for that he was grateful.

    Or did it?  He couldn’t remember. All he knew were a few things, puzzle pieces in and ocean of injustice in cowards and kings.

    His mind was dark, he was a fallen God, and his name was Lucifer.

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