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 burned the nostrils. Each step felt like walking on a pulsating membrane, and the flesh gave way beneath my feet, releasing dark, viscous liquids that bubbled with a grotesque sound. Skeletal arms sprouted 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 they had been built without purpose, only to be left to slowly collapse. The sky was a dull gray, devoid of sun or stars, and the heavy air seemed to drain any desire to continue. The only sound was the constant, low moaning—like a choir of souls resigned to eternal abandonment.

The first one I saw was the lazy servant from Matthew. He was trapped inside a deep pit, trying to climb its muddy walls with bloodied fingers. With every attempt to ascend, the earth crumbled over him, burying him deeper. The bag of coins he had buried in life was now sewn into his skin, the contours of the coins forming grotesque protrusions that tore through his flesh. "I was afraid and did nothing," he murmured, his lips cracked and bloody. Mud entered his mouth and eyes, slowly suffocating him, yet he kept trying to climb—only to fall again. He was the grotesque portrait of inertia: a deformed body and a mind consumed by the futility of its own apathy.

Further ahead, I came across the lazy man from Proverbs. He was fused to a rotten fence that seemed to be part of his own flesh. Thorns grew from his body, tearing his skin and blooming into pulsing red buds, as if his laziness had borne fruit—of pain and decay. Weeds crawled from inside his mouth, wrapping around his tongue and choking his words. His voice was a drawn-out lament, muffled by the thorns embedded in his throat. "I watched… but never acted." Around him, a desolate field stretched out, the plants that could have grown there now dead and dry—a reflection of his barren soul. He was slowly devoured by his own roots, while worms emerged from the soil, consuming his flesh.

The damned souls were scattered across the terrain—some buried up to their necks in the living flesh, others trapped in cocoons of viscous webs that slowly squeezed their bodies until their bones shattered. Their eyes were open but lifeless, fixed on something no one could see, as the flesh on 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 strapped to a chair of molten iron, his arms and legs bound by living chains that writhed like serpents. Instead of a boulder, he was forced to push his own head up with his hands, the bones in his neck creaking under the pressure. Each time he managed to lift it, the chair sank into the bloody mud, and he sank with it. "I pretended to strive, but I never sought purpose," he whispered, his voice a broken rasp. His laziness had become a prison where movement was futile, and every effort only brought him back to the beginning. His body was a living metaphor: fractured, yet unable to rest.

In one part of the circle, there was a massive pool of thick, black liquid where bodies floated lazily, their mouths open to the sky. A green liquid, like bile, dripped from their throats, feeding the pool as formless creatures crawled over them, devouring pieces of flesh that soon grew back. No one resisted. No one fought.

Moving forward, I found a deformed imperial figure—Dom Pedro II. He was seated on a throne that seemed to be melting, his flesh fusing with the hot marble like wax. Around him, a crowd of shadows cried out for leadership, their voices echoing like muffled thunder. He remained motionless, his eyes empty and glassy, as a crown of molten iron slowly dripped over his head, burning his skin. "I watched… but never moved," he said, his lips nearly sealed by the heat. Every scream from the shadows made the throne sink deeper into the scalding mud, until he became one with the chair. His passivity had imprisoned him in a cycle of static pain, where even the leadership he avoided became a crushing burden.

At the center of the circle, a mountain of dead flesh and broken bones rose, crowned by a grotesque figure—a translucent-skinned humanoid, revealing organs that pulsed lazily inside his body. He was bound to a rusted iron chair, whose spikes slowly pierced his flesh, yet he did not even attempt to escape. His mouth opened sporadically, releasing a guttural sound that reverberated through the circle—like a silent command for everyone to remain motionless.

At the heart of the circle, I found Endymion, but his form was an abomination against the very idea of beauty. He was trapped on a marble bed, his body covered in translucent skin, revealing insects crawling inside him. His features, once perfect, were now a mask of empty complacency, his eyes open but opaque. He was aware of his damnation but incapable of reacting. Each time Selene, the moon goddess, visited, his flesh disintegrated a little more, as if her light burned him rather than illuminating 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 laziness had been transformed into an eternity of helplessness, where even divine love was a form of torture.

Finally, I encountered Louis XVI—a terrifying vision of eternal indecision. He was trapped in a circular room where every door was covered by guillotines that fell and rose repeatedly but never reached him. His hands were tied to a massive quill made of bone, and he was forced to try to write a decree on a constantly shifting table. Each time he nearly completed his signature, the quill shattered, and he had to start over. "My hesitation destroyed my world," he said, his voice an empty echo. His fingers were blackened, the bones exposed, but he kept writing—incapable of finishing. Around him, the guillotines laughed, the sound of the blades louder than his own laments. His political laziness and inaction had now become his eternal prison.

Sloth is the sin that makes you believe "tomorrow" is guaranteed while stealing from you the only time that truly exists: the now. Every day you waste, every opportunity you ignore, is a piece of your future that you destroy with your own hands. You are not incapable—you are complicit in your own ruin. And the saddest part? You know it. You know you could be more, do more, have more, but you choose the comfort of the couch, the illusion of "later." While the world moves forward, you stand still, watching your life pass like a film you never had the courage to star in. And when time runs out, there will be no excuses—only the emptiness of a life that could have been extraordinary but was reduced to insignificance. Wake up before it's too late—because the worst nightmare is not failure, but looking back and realizing you never even tried.

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

Oh, and the mud—it is not just mud. It seeps into their bodies through cuts and crevices, dragging away flesh and bones, mixing them into the infected, rotting landscape. Every step sinks them deeper, every attempt to move pulls them further down, as if they were being swallowed by a giant mouth—one made of the very void of inaction.

From the walls of flesh, giant eyes sprouted—always watching but never blinking, like eternally apathetic judges. In some parts, entire masses of bodies were slowly dragged into the ground, swallowed by something unseen. The moans rose briefly before vanishing completely, leaving the air even heavier with oppressive silence.

And on the ground, carved in coagulated blood, was a single phrase repeated everywhere: "Eternal rest is not mercy, but a curse."