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The hallway air slowly entered his bloodstream. It felt cold, concentrated. It got into his ears, slowly making all the sounds around him feel softer. He breathed deep, oxygen getting to his brain. Twisting the nerves.
It was nothing like before. Every inch of these catacombs felt heavier, as if his guilt was sipping out of him, devouring the space all around. Nausea slowly emerged in his gut.
“Oh, John. You poor soul. Your faith faints, I can barely hear you these days.” The voice took over him, soothing his muscles. John shook his head, tilting it to the right, leading the words out towards the world.
“My dear, dear boy. I never wanted to hurt you. Only death awaits you further.” It was sickening. He grimaced, slowly pushing his nails into the skin on his head.
It was no place for a human. His existence was a mistake, a miscalculation. Whatever guided him here was noble. Pushing him back into the Earth’s core. There was no way to prevent the higher will, he was but a smudge.
When John was younger - much younger at that - his mother showed him a painting of St. John. It looked nothing like a man he was taught so thoroughly about, the man behind his name. Apostle’s face was slightly covered by curly, flowing hair. Nothing like John’s own stiff, short ones. His cheeks vere flushed, befitting his robe. His eyes looked at something behind the still frame. John’s mother always told him that Saint’s eyes were looking at a heretic, who tried to poison the holy figure . When she told that, her finger pointed at the glass of wine in his hands. To John, his eyes were averted, hiding his guilt. When John looked at the painting, he felt as if the hands holding the wine glass weren’t truly his.
John shook his head. This is no place for memories, this labyrinth doesn’t hold any trace of the past. Leaving his haze behind, he looked around, examining every corner of a small room. Red, much like everything else in this man made hell. He briefly wondered how the rot never managed to overtake it. He felt mold spores residing on his skin. When nothing picked his interest, he headed towards the exit, stopping when he heard the words.
“WHAT YOU ARE, WE WERE JUST LIKE.”
He ran, only finding himself in a loop.
“WHAT WERE WE?”
John felt as if the whole sky fell on his head. A hungry being met his eyes. John held out his cross, sweat staining the metal.
He opened his eyes, the view was all the same. If the beast he read so much about truly had a physical form, John was in his belly, slowly crawling through the innards. John was never cut out for this. He was never a brave man. He was a coward, crawling on the corpses of heroes and saints. He came here as an example, a collection of all the weaknesses and sins the humanity had gathered. He was never supposed to get out of this place alive. Humans should have averted their eyes from the sky a long time ago.
“My beautiful boy, what bothers you know? This is no place for doubts and emotions. You are one foot in the grave, there was never any other place for you.” John clenched his fists. God help him, if his screams can be heard from down below.
x
“John? I haven’t heard this name in a while.” An old man sits near the fireplace. It’s slowly cracking, sparks flying dangerously close to his hair. The atmosphere is warm, sweet, almost syrupy. The air could rot your teeth.
“It used to be a common one, you know? Until, well…” The man trails off, eyes drifting somewhere. His fingers twitched, trying to form some sort of expression.
“Well, everyone has to learn eventually.” His eyes regained focus. The chair creaked. “What was that story we’ve read recently? By Ursula Le Guin…” Old man’s fingers tapped the armrest, settling into a familiar beat. “The ones who walk away from Omelas”, right. One hell of a storyteller she was.” He cleared his throat and continued.
“The truth is that there’s no such thing as divine suffering. It’s an excuse. Man’s creation to get people through a particularly harsh winter. But people fear pain. It’s a limiting factor, a line, a trench. We throw stones down there to see its bottom. And we believe that there’s something there, beyond all that agony. Something truly divine. Something you wouldn’t be able to look away from. Well, is there, John? How would you ever know that? You think you are at the ninth circle, nearing the end? Aren’t you daring. If this place is a beast, you’ve barely touched its teeth and you’re already dripping with poison. And guess what, John? His mouth is already closed. It’s so dark here, John. A kind of darkness your eyes would never comprehend. But I know you can see it. Right there, out of the corner of your eye. You are no human, John. No human would ever reach this place. You aren’t here as a savior, we sent you to dig your own grave. Poor boy, you can’t even distinguish a cross from a shovel.”
John opened his eyes, tears trailing down his cheeks, mixing with sweat. He lifted his head, suddenly realizing that he can see the sky. Empty of stars, only moon looking back at him.