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Snuff [Angst] [Zihel]
🕑 Added 2021-01-04 21:16:26 +0000 UTC
*This story was written as a sonfic, inspired by Snuff's lyrics from Slipknot.
For Zihel, the last few months had worn off. At first like a slight drop, just a few details. Later, he began to forget to do things that he used to feel some kind of emotion about. He didn't go to church, he got out of bed only after noon, and that's only if the night had been benevolent enough. After the brotherhood tried to get him out of the third seedy bar in a row, he switched places. He still wondered basic questions such as: why, when or how. He didn't understand why he had this feeling of having been forgotten, when he had been the one who had betrayed the angel in the most cruel way.
His room was covered by nailed dirty boards that did not let the sunlight through, on the floor a mattress and a blanket and next to it were different substances, which he had been getting in an attempt to feel something again. There were also a motley amount of glass shards, paper and liquids. He wore dirty clothes but didn't bother to change them regularly. He would get up, wander until he ended up in the worst bar he could find and look for a fight. So it was night after night, day after day. It had become a mechanical function, like breathing for humans. If he fucked he did it with rage, if he drank he did it like someone who takes medicine, and if he did nothing, he could just... He could just spend hours doing nothing. He sought to regain lost sensations, like a numb member that felt alien. But in the end, it all ended up on that dirty mattress. In a feeling of emptiness that wouldn't abandon him.
A spiral of decline that he did not know when it was going to end, or when it had reached those heights, since it started naturally, but never stopped. And now he knew where he was, but not how to get out. He had understood, why or rather because of whom, he felt so dead, like having returned with a kick to the very underworld, his second hell. He could see his face, he imagined it in front of his eyelids, and what used to amuse him to beat, torment... now it seemed whimsically different. A fitting punishment for someone like him, a spawn of evil itself. He wanted him close to himself, irremediably, furiously, he didn't care in what way; his words, his hatred, anything but that dark night, that perpetual painful indifference.
He could imagine his eyes full of hatred, staring at him, judging him, filled with anger at all the evil he had inflicted on him and would probably continue to do if he were around. That last meeting hadn't been erased from his memory and he doubted it would go away easily. The way he had seen him... He would never have imagined that someone like him could... He couldn't finish the sentence, a pang returned to his stomach. A trace of guilt that he did not understand where it came from, because he believed that he had only done what was expected of him. He never thought what they were doing was real, at best a little spontaneous fun. In fact, he was waiting for the moment when Hasiel would have used their time together as a weapon. He just got ahead of his play...
When no one was looking, he curled up, hugged his legs and imagined hitting him with rage. Leaving his fists marked on his angelic features, while he bled and cried. That helplessness that he wanted to express through him, so that he would understand how his twisted heart understood him. Yelling at him everything he dared not say out loud. Why had he been given the ability to feel? To continue suffering? He was tired. He hadn't asked for all that. He was not manufactured to be a machine of waste, rottenness and misery. They molded him with sticks and stones. Explaining to someone touched by grace, what it is to be cursed, seemed like an impossible mission. No one like him could understand why he was like this, why he communicated with anger and pain, be it his own or others. And yet he still wanted to explain it to him, have a chance to be understood and forgiven.
Being dead seemed much better to him, but for someone like him there was no death, only agonies, stones, sins, punishments for eternities. He couldn't even imagine what would happen to him if he went down again. Now that he had become so weak, so easy to read. Even a dirty dog could destroy him with enough motivation. He felt that this had been Hasiel's true revenge. A subtle and delicate poisoned dagger that had paralyzed him until he lost all the essence of him.
He threw everything aside, the few objects he had he broke until his muscles warmed up again and when there was nothing more to break he dropped down and cried. He cried like he couldn't remember ever having been able to do before. And he still didn't know why, or rather who he was crying for. For that blond angel? Because of the fine contact of his skin? Or for himself? What kind of being had he turned him into? He hated him, hated him above all else. He hated him with all his agonizing soul and at the same time... He felt weak knowing for sure that all that anger would change only if the angel now walked through the door and looked at him. The damn hope that that door would open one of those nights was killing him.He believed more in him than in his own ability to get back up. But each day that passed and the angel did not return, it was a day in which more and more he sank, slowly fading like a spent candle.
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*Este relato fue escrito como un sonfic, inspirado por la letra de Snuff de Slipknot.
Para Zihel, los Ășltimos meses se habĂan ido desvirtuando. Al principio como una ligera caĂda, solo algunos detalles. DespuĂ©s, empezĂł a olvidarse de hacer cosas para las que antes solĂa sentir alguna clase de emociĂłn. No se pasaba por la Iglesia, salĂa de la cama solo pasado el mediodĂa, y si la noche habĂa sido lo suficientemente benevolente. DespuĂ©s de que la hermandad tratase de sacarle del tercer tugurio seguido, cambiĂł de lugar. AĂșn se preguntaba cosas bĂĄsicas tales como: por quĂ©, cuĂĄndo o cĂłmo. No comprendĂa por quĂ© tenĂa esa sensaciĂłn de haber sido olvidado, cuando habĂa sido Ă©l el que habĂa traicionado al ĂĄngel de la forma mĂĄs cruel.
Su habitaciĂłn estaba cubierta por tablones sucios clavados que no dejaban pasar la luz del sol, en el suelo un colchĂłn y una manta y junto a Ă©l habĂa diferentes sustancias, que habĂa ido consiguiendo en un intento de volver a sentir algo. TambiĂ©n habĂa una variopinta cantidad de fragmentos de cristal, papel y lĂquidos. TenĂa la ropa sucia, pero no se molestaba en cambiĂĄrsela habitualmente. Se levantaba, deambulaba hasta que acababa en el peor de los bares que se encontraba y buscaba pelea. AsĂ noche tras noche, dĂa tras dĂas. Se habĂa vuelto una funciĂłn mecĂĄnica, como el respirar para el hombre. Si follaba lo hacĂa con rabia, si bebĂa lo hacĂa como quien toma medicina, y si no hacĂa nada, simplemente⊠simplemente podĂa estar horas sin hacer nada. Buscaba recobrar las sensaciones perdidas, como un miembro entumecido que se sentĂa ajeno. Pero al final, todo acababa en aquel sucio colchĂłn. En una sensaciĂłn de vacĂo que no le abandonaba.
Una espiral de decadencia que no sabĂa cuĂĄndo iba a terminar, ni cuĂĄndo habĂa alcanzado aquellas cotas, pues empezĂł de forma natural, pero jamĂĄs parĂł. Y ahora sabĂa dĂłnde estaba, pero no cĂłmo salir. HabĂa comprendido, por quĂ© o mĂĄs bien por quiĂ©n, se sentĂa tan muerto, como haber vuelto de una patada al mismĂsimo averno, su segundo infierno. PodĂa ver su cara, la imaginaba delante de sus pĂĄrpados, y lo que antes le divertĂa vapulear, atormentar⊠ahora se antojaba caprichosamente diferente. Un castigo adecuado para alguien como Ă©l, un engendro del propio mal. Lo querĂa tener cerca, irremediablemente, rabiosamente, le daba igual de quĂ© manera; sus palabras, su odio, cualquier cosa, menos aquella noche oscura, aquella dolorosa indiferencia perpetua.
PodĂa imaginarse sus ojos henchidos de odio, mirĂĄndole, juzgĂĄndole, cargados de ira por todo el mal que le habĂa infligido y, probablemente, seguirĂa haciĂ©ndole si estuviese cerca. Aquel Ășltimo encuentro no se habĂa borrado de su memoria y dudaba que se fuese a ir fĂĄcilmente. La forma en que lo habĂa visto⊠Nunca se habrĂa imaginado que alguien como Ă©l pudiese⊠No era capaz de terminar la frase, una punzada volvĂa a su estĂłmago. Un rastro de culpabilidad que no comprendĂa de dĂłnde venĂa, pues, creĂa que solo habĂa hecho lo que se esperaba de Ă©l. Nunca pensĂł que lo que hacĂan era real, a lo sumo un poco de diversiĂłn espontĂĄnea. De hecho, estaba esperando el momento en el que Hasiel hubiese utilizado el tiempo que pasaron juntos como un arma. Solo se adelantĂł a su jugada...
Cuando nadie miraba se hacĂa un ovillo, abrazaba sus piernas y se imaginaba golpeĂĄndole con rabia. DejĂĄndole los puños marcados sobre sus facciones angelicales, mientras sangraba y lloraba. Esa impotencia que querĂa plasmar sobre Ă©l, que lo comprendiese cĂłmo lo comprendĂa su torcido corazĂłn. GritĂĄndole todo lo que no se atrevĂa a decir en voz alta. ÂżPara que le habĂan dado la capacidad de sentir?, ÂżPara seguir sufriendo? Estaba cansado. Ăl no habĂa pedido todo aquello. No fue fabricado para ser una mĂĄquina de deshechos, de podredumbre y desdicha. Lo moldearon a base de vara de esta forma. Explicar a alguien tocado por la gracia, que es lo que es estar maldito, se le antojaba una misiĂłn imposible. Nadie como Ă©l podĂa entender por quĂ© era asĂ, por quĂ© se comunicaba a base de ira y dolor, ya sea ajeno o propio. Y aĂșn asĂ aĂșn querĂa explicĂĄrselo, tener la oportunidad de ser entendido y perdonado.
Estar muerto se le antojaba algo mucho mejor, pero para alguien como Ă©l no existĂa la muerte, solo agonĂas, losas, pecados, castigos por eternidades. No podĂa ni imaginarse quĂ© pasarĂa con Ă©l si bajaba de nuevo. Ahora que se habĂa vuelto tan dĂ©bil, tan fĂĄcil de leer. Hasta un sucio perro podrĂa destrozarle con la motivaciĂłn suficiente. SentĂa que Ă©sa habĂa sido la verdadera venganza de Hasiel. Una sutil y delicada daga emponzoñada que le habĂa ido paralizando hasta perder toda su esencia.
TirĂł todo a un lado, los pocos objetos que tenĂa los rompiĂł hasta que sus mĂșsculos se calentaron de nuevo y cuando ya no hubo nada mĂĄs que romper se dejĂł caer y llorĂł. LlorĂł como no recordaba haber podido hacer nunca antes. Y seguĂa sin saber por quĂ©, o mĂĄs bien por quiĂ©n lloraba. ÂżPor aquel ĂĄngel rubio? ÂżPor el contacto fino de su piel? ÂżO por Ă©l mismo? ÂżEn quĂ© clase de ser lo habĂa convertido? Le odiaba, le odiaba por encima de todas las cosas. Lo hacĂa con toda su agĂłnica alma y a la vez⊠se sentĂa dĂ©bil al saber a ciencia cierta, que toda esa rabia cambiarĂa sĂłlo si ahora entraba por la puerta y lo miraba. La maldita esperanza de que esa puerta se abriese una de esas noches le estaba matando. CreĂa mĂĄs en Ă©l, que en su propia capacidad de volver a levantarse. Pero cada dĂa que pasaba y el ĂĄngel no regresaba, era un dĂa en el que mĂĄs y mĂĄs se hundĂa, apagĂĄndose lentamente como una vela gastada.
