Paradigm

Chapter XX

TW : violence, a bit of gore

✨🪐✨

Argentina, 1981.

The convent was deserted : it was prayer time for all the nuns. They were all old harpies with unfulfilled fantasies. The thing would never understand the interest these people found in repressing their desires, even the most shameful. What often resurfaced in their pointless explanations was "asceticism". Moral perfection, spiritual harmony... They were clueless about pain. There was no other justification for why they still dared to utter this repugnant word.

A shiver of disgust ran down his spine, and a stream of black liquid poured from his mouth onto the floor. Immediately, worms wriggled and scattered at a painfully slow pace around the building.

As for the building, it was built in a slightly medieval Gothic style, in cold, hard, soulless stone. It was a hostile environment. But not as hostile as anything he had ever known, anything he had ever endured. There was no reason why he should be the only one to suffer.

The monster instinctively headed for the small chapel. He could already hear the Latin prayers to a god that humans invented to occupy their lives or ward off the fear that prevented their little existence from being totally peaceful.

These sisters must have known fear.

His long, knobbly, skeletal fingers wrapped around the door's flimsy wooden handle. The latter rotted away immediately, as if in a matter of seconds it had aged a hundred years. He entered the room, interrupting the chanting of the poor sheep at his feet.

Each nun was holding her silver rosary in her fat hands. The metallic shine reminded him of his rings. He had once had a certain fetish for them too. Mechanically - he still had bits of instinct left - he tried to touch them, taking care not to graze his ribs, which had been broken into a thousand pieces and were pulling his skin apart.

Instead, he brushed against the gaping opening of the wound he had made by ripping out his piercings on a whim. He pushed a finger into the hole until his whole hand sank in and he touched his insides. Or at least what the worms had made of them. The pain was unbearable.

The nuns around him ran in all directions, screaming at the presence of Satan.

Satan. The name suited him.

"My name is Satan", he gurgled, spewing dark essence.

They all ran for the door, the only way out, calling out to their tawdry god. When he howled - a howl that pierced the soul - they were all struck down on the spot, their cries ceasing. All dead. Except for one, the oldest, who had not stopped praying since his arrival, had not given him the slightest consideration.

"You are no longer Satan. You're a martyr. Thanks to me", she affirmed, her voice quavering.

Quavering because of age, not fear.

Surprisingly, her words threw him for a loop.

"You're going to die !"

A sneer stretched the nun's withered lips. Then she did something he really had not expected : she held out her middle finger in front of him, which, according to the fumes of memory he still had, was a sign of profound disrespect.

***

Seoul, South Korea. September 1995.

That day was a decisive day. This day was the day of all accomplishments. A death, a rebirth, a mutilation, the destruction of the community, the grand release of his novel...