Chapter 12 - 4th Circle/Sloth

The Circle of Sloth was a living cemetery, a sea of decaying bodies that did not move but remained conscious. The ground was made of rotting flesh, exuding an acidic stench that corroded the nostrils. Each step felt like treading on a pulsating membrane, and the flesh gave way underfoot, releasing dark, viscous liquids that bubbled with grotesque sounds. Skeletal arms protruded from the surface, attempting to rise but always giving up before reaching the air.

On the horizon, towers of bone and flesh twisted into impossible shapes, as if constructed without purpose, only to be left to collapse slowly. The skies were an opaque gray, devoid of sun or stars, and the heavy air seemed to drain any desire to go on. The only sound was a low, constant moaning, like a chorus of souls resigned to eternal abandonment.

The first I saw was the lazy servant of Matthew. He was trapped in a deep hole, clawing at its muddy walls with bloodied fingers. With each attempt to climb, the earth crumbled around him, burying him deeper. The bag of coins he had buried in life was now sewn into his skin, the outlines of the coins forming grotesque protrusions that tore his flesh. "I feared and did nothing," he murmured, his lips cracked and bleeding. Mud entered his mouth and eyes, suffocating him slowly, but he kept trying to climb, only to fall again. He was the grotesque image of inertia: a deformed body and a mind consumed by the futility of its own apathy.

Farther ahead, I encountered the lazy man from Proverbs. He was fused to a rotting fence that seemed to be part of his own flesh. Thorns grew from his body, tearing his skin and blooming with pulsating red buds, as though his sloth had borne fruits of pain and decay. Weeds crawled from his mouth, wrapping around his tongue and choking his words. His voice was a drawn-out lament, muffled by the thorns piercing his throat. "I watched... but never acted." Around him stretched a desolate field, the plants that might have grown there now dead, dried up, a reflection of his barren soul. He was slowly devoured by his own roots, while his flesh was consumed by worms emerging from the ground.

The damned souls were scattered across the terrain, some buried up to their necks in living flesh, others trapped in cocoons of viscous webs that slowly tightened around their bodies until their bones broke. Their eyes were open but lifeless, fixed on something no one could see, as the flesh of their faces melted and dripped in an endless cycle of regenerative decomposition.

Further ahead, I saw a grotesque version of Sisyphus, whose punishment here was even more macabre. He was bound to an iron chair, his legs and arms chained with living serpentine links. Instead of a boulder, he was forced to push his own head upward with his hands, the bones of his neck creaking under the strain. Each time he managed to lift it, the chair sank into the bloody mud, dragging him down with it. "I feigned effort but never sought purpose," he whispered, his voice a fractured murmur. His sloth had become a prison where movement was futile, and every effort brought him back to the beginning. His body was a living metaphor: broken but incapable of rest.

In one part of the circle, there was a massive pool of black, oily liquid where bodies floated lazily, their mouths open to the sky. Green bile trickled from their throats, feeding the pool, while formless creatures crawled over them, devouring chunks of flesh that quickly regrew. No one resisted. No one fought back.

Moving forward, I came across a deformed imperial figure: Dom Pedro II. He sat on a throne that seemed to be melting, his flesh merging with the hot marble like wax. Around him, a crowd of shadows clamored for leadership, their voices echoing like muted thunder. He remained motionless, his eyes vacant and glazed, while a crown of molten iron slowly dripped onto his head, burning his flesh. "I watched... but never moved," he said, his lips nearly sealed shut from the heat. Each cry from the shadows caused the throne to sink deeper into the scorching mud, as he became an extension of the chair itself. His passivity had imprisoned him in a cycle of static pain, where even the leadership he avoided became an unbearable burden.

At the center of the circle, a mountain of dead flesh and broken bones rose, crowned by a grotesque figure: a translucent humanoid whose organs sluggishly pulsed within its body. It sat trapped in a rusted iron chair, whose spikes slowly pierced its flesh, yet it made no effort to escape. Its mouth opened sporadically, releasing a guttural sound that reverberated through the circle, like a silent command for everyone to remain still.

In the heart of the circle, I found Endymion, but his form was an abomination to the very idea of beauty. He was bound to a marble bed, his body covered in translucent skin that revealed insects crawling within. His features, once perfect, were now a mask of vacant complacency, his eyes open but opaque. He was aware of his condemnation but incapable of reacting. With each visit from Selene, the goddess of the moon, his flesh disintegrated further, as if her light burned rather than illuminated him. "I chose sleep... and now I am a prisoner of the void," he whispered, but his voice was a cacophony of buzzing, as if the insects inside him spoke in unison. His sloth had been transformed into an eternity of impotence, where even divine love was a form of torture.

Finally, I came upon Louis XVI, a terrifying vision of indecision made eternal. He was trapped in a circular chamber where every door was covered by guillotines that rose and fell repeatedly but never reached him. His hands were bound to a giant quill made of bone, and he was forced to write a decree on a table that constantly shifted. Each time he nearly finished signing, the quill broke, and he had to start again. "My hesitation destroyed my world," he said, his voice an empty echo. His fingers were blackened, the bones exposed, but he continued to write, unable to complete the task. Around him, the guillotines laughed, their blades louder than his own lamentations. His political sloth and lack of action had become his eternal prison.

They do not move, do not care. Each of these souls, if they had any will left, would try to fight. But what I see is not a struggle, not true anguish. What I see are failed, desperate attempts to act, but their bodies do not respond, drained to the last thread of strength. It is as if their very life force has been sapped, leaving only molecular husks devoid of any spark of action.

And the mud—it is not just mud. It seeps into their bodies through cuts and gashes, dragging pieces of flesh and bone, merging them with the infected, rotting environment itself. Every step they take sinks them deeper, every attempt at movement causes them to sink as if being swallowed by a giant mouth made of the void of inactivity.

From the walls of flesh sprouted giant eyes, always watching but never blinking, like eternally apathetic judges. In some places, entire masses of bodies were slowly dragged into the ground, consumed by something unseen. The groans would grow louder for a brief moment before disappearing entirely, leaving the air even heavier with oppressive silence.

Etched into the ground in coagulated blood was a single phrase repeated everywhere: "Eternal rest is no mercy, but a curse."