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Alistair knew divine grace, had known it in the balmy fires of hearths and the cold of tiled floors. He had never been religious but he knew them, somewhat. He knew their hymns, knew their songs, knew the prayers like he knew his rules. When he thinks he knows it all, they whisper more in his ear. He listens to them speak. Sometimes, they tell him of one God, other times they tell him of many. They tell him of kindness unmatched, of humanity in a deity who is anything but.
If there was such a God, he prayed for damnation worth the blood on his hands. He begged for a fury so bright and powerful that he would drown in its anger. He prostrated himself, like he was never meant to do, and wished for fire in his lungs. He wishes for it to tear him apart and rebuild him; pull at his broken parts and force himself together so that he may feel destroyed in his own body.
As a boy, no older than twelve but decidedly old enough to kill, he dreamt of divinity. Dreamt of how they would look, of godly arms holding him and whisking him away. He imagined the soft hands of mothers feeding him berries, closing his eyes, and letting their warmth carry him through worlds. He dreamt of angels cradling his name and tearing it away from him, he dreamt of infinity as best as he could comprehend, greater than any mind could. He stared up at spheres, looked into their thousand eyes, and whispered questions into their unlistening forms. Help me. He demanded of them, but who was he to demand such things? He was no one in these divine fields and he could do nothing but pray.
He is no stranger to worship, has known for as long as he can remember. For every life he took, he knelt. He prayed after he took his first. He prostrated himself after the hundredth. He sang their names, voice breaking in between, and knew their warmth. He knows better than to wish for something he could never have, so he doesn’t. Devotion brings him comfort yet he knows no heaven waits for him when he dies. He hopes hell onto himself for it is nothing but fitting.
But for all the things he knew, there were things he would never come to learn. It is with sudden frustration that he pulls at his hair and bites his lips bloody. There are things which he yearns to know, like a life outside of crime or a hand unstained with blood. His hands were like that once, he supposes, or maybe they never were. Was he born a sinner? Born of blood? Baptized with fire and drowned in the heaviness he carried in the six letters of his last name. He settles in believing that he was pure once because things are easier that way. If that was the truth then he mourns the forgotten feeling of light hands, ones who grew up with candy ring-pops pulling at their fingers instead of the striking cold of a trigger at the pads. There are days where he wishes for that, he has never felt weaker than he does on those days.
There had been a time, once, where he strived to chase away the madness brought by his ignorance. He knows better, so instead of wishing for peace, he decides to play god. He had known many names which sang of divinity but now he wonders if there was one named mercy. If there was, he never knew it. He watched life and death pull at a man’s soul and searched for answers. They never came. Despite himself, he grew addicted to the feeling of divination dripping through the gaps between his fingers, like liquid gold. He was young then but, if he were given the chance, he would not change what he did. There is an inner war within himself because of this. He blocks them out on the best of days, listens to them on the worst. By then, he stopped playing god because, had he not, he’d have bled himself dry trying to find answers where there are none.
There are things Alistair knows, like prayers, hymns, and a hell he wishes upon himself. Among these, there are things he does not know. Truths he will never find. A paradise he will never reach. He manages to find peace in that, somehow.