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Wastelands



Please note that I wrote this several years before I ever read Clive Barker's "The Revelations of Johnny John." Although I agree that the two peices are similar, I feel that mine is original enough to be published. I include this disclaimer for those of you who will notice the similarities.

And there he stood and stared, awestruck at the depth and breath of his own undoing. Fear circled him like some black angel.
Emptiness consumed his very existence. He was the tool of his own demise, and the though of it maddened him all the things he once believed vanished like so much mist into the darkened void.

He stood there, atop a pillar of his own construction, so high he could not see the earth beneath him, and with every passing moment, his pillar crumbled a little more He had no escape from his fate. His destiny seemed sealed.
He was consumed by the sound of the impending destruction of all he had done, it filled his ears, filled his heart and filled his mind to overflowing.

He became insane with the though of repairing the damage done, sleeplessly he toiled, and all the while the decay continued and slowly it overtook him.
He realized just a moment to late, fate took him by surprise, his work crumbled to dust around him, and he fell headlong into the pitch-black abyss.

Tumbling through the darkness his life came before him. Too late he gained clarity. The things he had worked so hard to achieve were all of naught. The essence of life had escaped him. As he fell, the poison of his own making ebbed from his blood and for the first time, he clearly saw what life was. Tears meant nothing now; the sorrow of his waste was deeper.

Regret tore his soul apart. But it was too late. He felt the true embrace of doom. It smothered him, embalming him, preparing him for his eternity. His guilt grew with every passing moment, and as he descended into the abyss, he could blame none but himself for his condition suddenly the pangs of regret and isolation became euphoric. He wanted, no, more he needed the pain each wave of agony cleansed him somehow.

The intensity of the suffering grew. As did his feelings of cleansing. The pain racked his body and with it his mind grew more euphoric, nearly orgasmic in nature. This torture he knew he deserved. He welcomed it. It was just retribution for his life of wanton apathy.

Suddenly he realized he had stopped falling

He had been so consumed with his own thoughts he had not realized that he could not breath he picked himself up and took a gasping breath.

Slowly his eyes became accustomed to the hue of this new world. Red. Everything was red. Looking down, he realized he was in a pool of blood, he reeled back in horror Falling back he collapsed. Only to recognize the new terrain as flesh, human flesh. Piles higher than he could see of corpses. The smell overpowered him. Somehow he managed the power to get to his feet, and ran. But it made no difference. Everything was death and decay. Broken corpses lay about like so many sticks in the forest; there was no escape from the horror. Vomit surged out of him, but he didn't feel any more clean. The sickness was inescapable. He stopped, and allowed his mind to embrace his disgust...

That is when it struck him.

This was hell.

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