jokerisatan
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There is great hatred. You feel it, and you feel it because it is at your fingertips, in the grooves of your fingerprints. Your languid fingers clutch Silco's windpipe and you feel the man's breath rise and fall rapidly. You don't have enough strength to choke him and you would need both hands to cause total asphyxiation, but you know you're not talking about the physical sensation.
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Hospitality is a field of work that is difficult to endure, everyone says that it is very beautiful and that you must have a great vocation to dedicate yourself to it. But the truth is that most people who are there either don't want to be there.
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What had you done? Who knows? You had no idea, you didn't remember. Maybe it was because of the blood coming out of your nose, a deep and excruciating pain that grew from the hole where you breathed to the nerve closest to the brain, but you couldn't remember it.
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When you pray to God, you have to entrust yourself to him in soul and body, that was one of the first commandments of the Church. The shepherd of the sheep only exists for God, he is his guide and God the only light that can shine in his eyes. Now you were part of God, of his ribs and of his blood, you ate from his body, the bread, and drank from his eyes, the tears of his son.
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Dressrosa wilin at night!
Late after work, you find yourself in the worst part of the moonlit city you could be in... the practically abandoned ruins of Dressrosa's history. And worst still, it feels like you're being watched from the shadows cast from said ruins...
Bookmarked by jokerisatan
21 Feb 2023
Bookmarker's Notes
Buen horror cósmico, y lo mejor que es el autor no es racista! Eso ayuda a la inmersión y narración. Mhh, seré ahora monsterfucker?