The first time he drank the God's aqua, there was a small ting in his throat, an imperceptible ache he blamed on the cold temperature of the drink. That's why he kept going. The sour taste of the drink lingered on his tongue the same way its effects would linger somewhere in his leg muscles. Never telling him that how he felt was not right, the man kept feeding his creation this liquid solution. It was kept under lock in a treasure chest. How could he even think about rebelling against his master?
I'd never.
Behind his confident expression, a single drop came down from the corner of his lips to the line of his jaw. He chose his path, he thought, the day he was diagnosed with an ulcer. Every time he drank it again, his mouth was foaming, his eyes crying, feeling the tear in his heart going up to his throat. The boy restrained from bending forward, he was afraid of choking on the drink, or worse, spitting it on the man's shoes. He was in pain, his eyes convulsed – red irises blending with popping blood vessels.
"Would you rebel against your creator?"
I'd never, he answered.
The liquid kept on coming down, bubbly, and it seemed to stick in every depression, crater that could be inside of his body – in his oesophagus, in the back of his mouth, behind his teeth. He couldn't breathe. He tried to push the man's hand away, and the liquid started to flow between the fingers. He tried to cover his mouth, tried to repress the nausea but ending up with his uniform – or he would rather call it, a tunic – stained with the transparent liquid.
"What are you doing?"
The man's voice was deeper, harsher than usual. But also, there was a small chuckle at the end of his question, and his teeth were showing brightly, even though the light shone on his back. The man also didn't try to suppress his laugh when the boy collapsed to the ground and started puking green bile. It flowed in the grout between the tiles. The boy's mouth, inside, was melting into some kind of expired blood – he felt hot, just like he had swallowed a flame, whole and ravaging. He wanted to drink his own tears to relieve the burn, but his mouth only spit more blood. The brownish merged with the green he just puked, forming a marble pattern – the ugliest marble he could have ever seen.
Drink it. Yet his oesophagus was tied in a knot. The man grabbed the boy by his hair and threw him on his back, poured the acidic solution on his face. A high-pitched scream echoed in the numerous corridors of the only Temple that worshipped fake Goddesses and Gods. His vision became a blur, and slowly faded to black, even though he forced his eyelids to stay open. He couldn't recognize the face of the man who brought him up – and he couldn't recognize his actions either.
"Your name, Afuro, sounds like the name of the Goddess of Love."
He who tried to become a God, felt his face hardening, just like plaster. He tried to move his mouth. It cracked. Bits of his skin fell apart, leaving open wounds, pink wound. It stung, it burned, and even though he could feel his heart racing just like someone who was well too alive, the only thing crossing his mind was his death.
This is how I die. This is how I die.