hey y'all. this is my first upload. frankly, i'm terrified. XD
anyway- it's a one-shot, inspired by Hannibal Rising which i just finished two days ago. just a bit of an experiment.
enjoy...?
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Whispers and sighs drifted through permeable air, sailing with them the tender plucking of a far away lute.
"My God." The voices whispered and sang.
"My God, my god." And they sighed with ecstasy.
The taste on tongue was of nothing, and entity that catered to all palates and stung the nostrils upon impact with a strange and bitter sense of relief. Colors were no longer, surroundings composed of nothing but swirling cloud and a glass clear window of opportunity which none took. There was no hunger, therefore no food. There was no fatigue, therefore no activity. There was no greed, therefore no competition, and therefore no movement.
In endlessly widening rings, people sat with their legs folded beneath them, hands clasped before them and heads bowed in an incessant pose of prayer. Their skin was bare, not obscured by clothing or hair, liberated from shame and self-consciousness. Skins of olive, chocolate, paper and coffee milled about, some scattered with freckles or birthmarks, lips of airy pink and lush red, eyes of pitch, conifer, endless sky or rusted copper. Smiles of the utmost joy and enrapture adorned every face though every eye was blank, absent of all humanity. Purity raced through veins like blood, faith pounding in chests like heartbeats.
"My God," they whispered, raising their eyes to the figure poised in the midst of these rings. His skin of the same toneless white of their swirling clouds, distinguishable only by the shining flecks of light sliding from the tips of His fingers.
"My God, my God." The lute's song became louder, sweeter.
In the midst of this perfection, the almighty God's flawless lips creased into a thin line, two convex nostrils flaring, two eyelids blinking shut once, the muscles beneath a hairless brow bunching into a frown. A frown- an imperfection. God's gaze flitted about Him in reassurance that His momentary lapse had passed unnoticed, though it had lasted no more than the smallest fraction of a second.
An infinity below this world, winds whipped through the quaking trees, feeding to God's patient ears every utterance of even the smallest voice. At the foot of a shallow grave, the bathtub within serving as a coffin, topped with roof shingles and surrounded by wildflowers, a twisted child stood, occupying the body of a lean, beautiful man. His fingernails were cracked and broken from digging, blood oozing from beneath them, dirt foraging into the scraps. Beneath the roof tiles and flowers sat the remains of a small child with dark hair, scraps of flesh clinging to rotten bones in pieces, the majority missing entirely. All her baby teeth were present.
"Mischa," the man addressed the grave fondly. The horse nearby raised its head at the sound of his voice.
"We take comfort in knowing there is no God. That you are not enslaved in Heaven, made to kiss God's ass forever. What you have is better than Paradise. You have blessed oblivion. I miss you every day." He filled the hole in the grave with earth, scattering pine needles over the top to make it appear simply another stretch of forest ground.
Above, God watched with reinforced aloofness as a young child named Mischa with dark hair and plump, innocent face blinked, her beseeching hand dropping to her sides. She spread her legs and peered down at the scene below between her knees with vague interest while the others about her whispered in awe,
"My God, my God."
Her face contorted with concentration as she fought to bring new, alien words to her lips, brimming with the ghost of a no-longer-present passion.
"Anniba." A few of her neighbors shifted with discomfort at the sound of this unfamiliar word, and redoubled in their prayers.
"My God, my God, my God." Mischa continued to regard the scene so far below her, the man rising from his knees and advancing upon another, uglier man bound the trunk of a tree. He spoke in a fluid, even tone while comparing an ID card to an abandoned dog tag.
"Herr… Dortlich. On behalf of myself and my late family, I want to thank you for coming today. It means a great deal to us, and to me personally, having you here. I'm glad to have this chance to talk seriously with you about eating my sister." He greased the noose with mayonnaise before bestowing it upon Dortlich's neck. The man babbled incessantly, desperate to save himself, but the twisted child would have none of that.
Down flitted a pair of impossible beautiful creatures, a man and a woman, one cradling the unseen lute in his strong arms. The only distinction between the deceased souls and the newcomers was the lute-bearer's wings, shimmering white and holding them aloft above the crowd of naked disciples. The pair hovered above Mischa's inclined head, the man plucking the lute with three long, musical fingers, and the woman began to sing. The sounds were so close and so impossibly beautiful that it filled the distance and silent hearts of those in close vicinity. Mischa slowly straightened her posture, shifting her body into the same folded position as her fellows, bowed her head and whispered with blissful joy,
"My God, my god." Below, the twisted boy's horse trotted away into the trees as he surveyed the detached head of Dortlich with disdain, twirling between his spindly fingers a makeshift spit over a spluttering fire. Hannibal Lecter rose from the ground to retrieve a knife and cap full of morels from beside the mangled body of his victim, still bound to the tree though absent a head.
God surveyed the array before him, the chanting embodiment of deceased souls, those whose time had come and passed, yet were still bound to their bodies and their earthly beliefs. He surveyed their blank eyes and empty smiles, their clueless whispers and their ignorance. He surveyed their perfection, and realized how he had been mistaken, for humility and admittance of one's mistakes is a trait only truly carried by a flawless being.
"What have I done?" He whispered in a honeyed tone that cannot be matched nor describes by any adjectives of spoken language, regarding with fear and regret as beneath his own feet, young Hannibal Lecter gouged free a chunk of Dortlich's cheek with his knife and speared it with his spit next to the morels. He grinned with pleasure, and licked the blood from his gloved hands.