this is pure bEau
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Heaven has many names, but people say it's only one place, a place that exists after death, after the end. People liked to talk about how cruel this beautiful place was, how pain couldn't enter, and people carried pain. They liked to speak about how someone (something?) opened heaven for humans, and everyone has a place there. They liked to explain how humans were above all creatures, and how they wouldn't come to heaven.
They pointed at him with their rotten hands, hands that had a place in hell, and spoke about how he would never enter heaven. How he was a
sinner.
Sinner.
That's what he was. A sinner, going against divinity, going against himself, against his human nature. His destiny? Hell. Never heaven. Heaven wasn't for him.
But he couldn't help but wonder… Wonder why he was the carrier of sin? Why was he the one being sacrificed? Why was he the one who had to carry his death sentence uphill and yet be sent to hell? Why were others' pain canonized? Why was he the agnus dei? Why was life a torture and yet a gift?
But he wasn't scared of the other side. Maybe he did deserve hell, but many others did. He knew their god wasn't real. It was the jewels they adorned their daggers with, the flavors they added to their poisons. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing capable of deciding upon his death. It was humans who decided over the death of others all the time. Why couldn't he decide over his?
Why would hell be waiting for him if he decided to feel the piercing wind in his hair, the gelid water in his lungs, his blood against the pavement? Why was hell awaiting?
Why was he, taking the only thing he had left, under others who took the lives of others? Who took his life as well? Why were they innocent? Why were they praised? Praised over blood on the pavement?
Because what is heaven?
Even if there was something on the other side, why does it have to be heaven? Humankind is doomed to suffer forever at the bottom of hell. Even the most beautiful innocence was a sin. Was stained with others' blood, with others' lives. Why is staining one's hands with one's own blood wrong? Why does someone else's god have to judge his soul before taking? Why can't he judge his blood himself?
Why can't he just…
Stop feeling and step into nothingness. Hell awaited; heaven wasn't real.
Why can't he just fall forever, drown forever, bleed forever?
Stop breathing but keep dreaming.
Without human sin.
To stop being human.
That was his only objective, his only truth.
Nothing awaits for nothing.
He wasn't enough to be a human already, but he was too much to be nothing. Dolls can't be stained with sin. He could stop eating, stop talking, stop blinking. Like a ballerina in a music box, that only comes to life when someone else, on a whim, opens it for a while before closing it again.
To only dance to the ones that wanted him to, to only smile to the ones that made him to.
To die for everyone else, to die to God.
To never be born again, to never see heaven.
Because what could be inside heaven? It would stop being heaven if a human ever stepped inside, if it ever existed. He had enough sin in his body to make its existence paradoxical.
He had enough sin to rot already, to die already.
And yet, he kept living, sometimes inside his reality, sometimes inside others'. Often, like a human doll. Dressed in white lace, limbs of porcelain and golden hair; spoon-fed by the ones who wanted him alive. He would sometimes be kept inside a box, sometimes on a child's bed, sometimes tossed somewhere. Always sentient, always dragging sin with him. Always dragging pain.
Because sinners can't leave, they must sin again. That's all he had ever been taught.
His only truth. His only heaven.