Stilled Beating
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The suffercating mass presses down upon me, I struggle, trying to breath, to live. I fail the fight. I begin to sink back, back into death, back into the place where I live.
Yes, I'm not alive. Death stifles your breath, ceases the pounding of your heart and yet it allows your conscience to live.
To live a castle, magnificent, yet plain, good yet dark. Turrents straining to reach the swirling sky of lost souls. They say, if you go to the top of the tallest turret, the moans penitrate your very being for the rest of eternity.
Every soul has its own rooms. Each room is decorated how that person wishes. But the most glorious event ever to happen to you is when you first enter through the the huge gates detailed with the death story of every who has ever lived and ever will live.
Once through there, Death herself greets you. Her large, violet eyes sweep up and down you, and even though her size makes her intimidating, her curled, black hair and kindly smile put you at ease.
But now something bad has happened. Death has vanished. In her place is Hell. He is cruel. He doesn't greet the new souls, but beats them. We are part of a slave trade. A slave trade between Hell and his minions. Hell gets the best. That includes me. But now, now, I can find a way to stop this.
From the inside out.
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