Ensouled
It burns. It burns like the fires of a thousand hells, and there is nothing to quench it, nothing that can stop it. It burns from the inside, this spark that burst into flame, fed on guilt and recrimination, evil deeds thought and done. It burns, with the painful cries of a thousand lives extinguished, a thousand souls taken, a thousand beings tortured with whip and lash, fire and wax, heat and cold. It burns, and he cannot stop it, dare not stop it, to stop the burning would make him die, over and over, away from his reason to be.
It freezes. Ice encases a dead still heart, chilling feelings thought long dead of a love whose time thought was past, but lay still and frozen inside the mind. So cold inside, so dead, so lifeless, without her, without love. So cold, the bones ache and the mind aches with the aching of the bones, and the pain, the pain as the hypothermia inches across your skin and across your mind, numbing and freezing and aching with cold, cold, cold, no life no love no hope only cold.
It feeds. It feeds on guilt, on unspeakable acts of violence, of bloodshed, of torture, of rape, of death. It feeds on regret, for love unspoken, for needs unmet, for broken lives, for broken hearts, for broken bodies left after a night of rampage. It feeds on remorse for all left undone, for acts committed, even acts of love. It feeds, and eats from the inside, all the good eaten away by the acid slowly dripping inside the mind of the one.
It is fire, burning, consuming, purifying—a crucible of the heart.
It is cold, freezing, icy, numbing—a chill reminder of what was, and still is.
It is hunger, rapine and ravenous, overwhelming with need—a memory of why.
It is what he bargained for, and won. For her. To be loved.
At this moment, body bruised and bloody, heart broken, mind afire, all-consumed, he wondered if it would make any bloody difference at all.
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