p style="text-align: center;"Red flashes through the eyes of those who cannot see. He is blinded by the nothing that is there, the sin that has overwhelmed him. She is blinded by her lack of eyes, her insight to what she perceived as life's beauty, before she took it. Blinded with nothing but red to look at for eternity; a grin; these are my sins. Violent are these who pass through my circle, violent against nature, against God, against others, and mostly; against themselves. Here within me lies torment and torture. To those who inflicted pain on others in life shall now have nothing but pain in death. He hears a voice, the insanity, the one who falsely accused those in life shall know no sanity in my depths. I am the seventh circle. Know me and fear me, for if you choose violence in your life you will be within me every day for all /br /The children in my pen see nothing of the world around them, feel nothing but the pain of my wrath and hear nothing but the screams of each other; a smirk; she screams. She screams and screams as my harpies, my pets, rip her apart. My pen's children see nothing but red, the blood they have shed. They can see nothing but the pouring crimson blood of those they harmed. Another scream pierces, blasting shrilly throughout the would-be silence. I will tell you their stories, write them here if you so wish to read them, be warned though, they are not happy /br /She was Italian in her life. She was beautiful and pious and for the most part, good: but it was not enough for her. She was jealous of those who possessed nice things and wore nice clothes and knew absolutely nothing but how to cook and sew and read. She envied those who were trained to be nothing but wives and mothers. She believed she was cursed with her smart remarks and her intelligence. Her parents despised her because they could not marry her off seeing as she would not hold her tongue. They sent her to a convent in Sicily, far away from home. She lit the convent on fire, not only did she kill herself but she killed part of her land, and her kin. She lies planted in the banks of my boiling river of blood and she shall never leave. She rots there, her trunk warping with eternal torment, the pain of burning herself alive, the curse of knowing, but with nothing but a scream on her lips, the scream of a Hail Mary /br /He was a Parisian in his short life. One could call him the most endearing friend of Monsieur Guillotine and anyone could say he had many affairs with Madame Gallows. Our Parisian was an executioner, he lusted to take the lives of others, he so took the lives of many and made money from it. He would smirk each time as a pious person's neck broke. He would chuckle heartily as he carted off the bodies. Now he has no sanity left inside of him, he is broken, broken like the necks of the innocent which he so loved to hang or sever. He stands just barely to his mouth in blood. Every time he screams he drinks in the boiling fluid that was once in his victim's /br /She screams again at the same time as he does. Their combined scream has no effect on me. I am violence, all I can see is red, all I can hear is screams, and all I can feel is pain. In these I find humor, these humans do not know what to live for until they have lived the wrong way. A smirk flashes through my whole domain. The poor pitiful souls who dwell here do nothing but /br /Red flashes through the eyes of those who are violent. They cannot see but the blood they did so shed. My violent delight is in a soul's beautifully violent end. Do not scream, do not open your eyes, and turn away; do not listen. If you are violent come lie in my pen, become my sweet, violent, deadly friend. You will not remember why you have came, but this is my violent circle my violent, beautiful, game. Have you seen any Red?/p