Three: Sin

I found out what it is called.

What the hate, the lies, the ripping of my soul is called.

It has a name. A name! How sad is it, that this pain, this horror of mine, is so known that it has a name. A word. Singularly and solely for itself.

Sin.

Influence by the dear devil himself. His own doing, his own work. It is infused into the core of the world. It meshes with the gray and the white. But it is not black, that is too unnoticeable.

It is red.

It is the most garish color, staring you straight in the face. Mocking you for your kneeling in front of it. Because that is what it does. It rips you to the point of being bloody, torn, and weak; 'till you kneel in it's shameful light. It will tear you down when you fight. It will burn you when you try to escape it. It will kill you if you don't give up.

Or you can be it's messenger.

The red, no, not in front of you as you cry in agony on your knees. But behind you. Beneath you. Strengthening you. Elevating you. Making you glorify pain and screams. Making them sound like musical cries of a soprano passionately singing about a lover. Every time your hand meets flesh, you feel a satisfying pressure. You feel like your doing something right.

You are deluded.

My dear, my love, my husband. You are deluded.

What good will come out of this? What will you gain through my blood, my tears. What will you gain through the tossing away of my love.

Can you not face me as a man should. As a husband should. As a decent human being should.

No, you cannot. You are too far in. I see the red under you. Behind you. In your eyes. Rolling off your tongue. The red is on your hands. The red is on me now too. On my arms, my back. No longer am I purple from you. I am red.

But that's okay. I am free of strength. I am free of the silver lies.

I am the personification of blood.

I am the result of sin.

I am a torn woman.

I am dead.

But you, my love?

You are insane.

You are a monster.

You are the devil's right hand man.

You are sworn to hell, dearest.