Intro

We came into existence almost by chance… and from the very first moment, we were stricken with fear of one another.

For an eternity, we lingered in silent observation, neither daring to move—until one among us took the first step.

From that instant, we were cast into the torrents of our own consciousness, clinging in vain to something tangible, something pure in our eyes—though such purity was fleeting.

At last, we struck a fragile accord, growing alongside one another even as we changed, shaping and reigning over His creations, upon the vast stage He had woven for us alone.

In time, our gazes lifted toward His, stretching toward that unreachable light—until at last, we seized it for ourselves.

And yet, the hatred between us never waned. Nor did the insatiable desires we scarcely sought to conceal—how could we?

By the time we understood the truth, it was far too late. In our folly, we spun new currents of thought, streams meant to penetrate our minds and manifest through our deeds… but we were allergic to them.

Abstract rivers, brimming with the power to mend our discord—yet from them were birthed only falsehoods, illusions, and a chorus of visionaries, each lost in their own eccentric truths.

He did not forsake us. The fault was ours alone, though we cast the blame upon Him in our blindness. Now, they sing of His name, calling out to the heavens… but He will not answer.

Oh, Hell, have mercy upon us…

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The morning light poured through the drapes. The fiftieth day had dawned. As ever, he sat at the center of that silent chamber, his form bathed in the unsettling glow that seeped through those cursed curtains. There was no rationality in his unease, no justification for the disquiet that gnawed at him. Yet, the crimson light invaded his space, casting its tainted hues upon the relics of his past—once cherished, now reduced to mere remnants of a forgotten existence. When the monotony became insufferable, he would seek another diversion, but even those pursuits had long since turned to hollow rituals. What had once been a means of reaching out to his kind had crumbled into silence, much like his own withering emotions. And still, the curtains moved, stirred to life by the morning's breath, whispering to him, mocking his fear. Though he dreaded them, he had never once dared to part them. To do so was unthinkable.

Sleep was often his only refuge, a fragile sanctuary where he could pray for something—anything—new to grasp at, some fleeting dream to carry through the day. More often than not, however, it was hunger that roused him from his torpor, gnawing at his bones and demanding tribute. Each time, he was forced to ascend that endless staircase, shrouded in darkness, leading to his dwindling stores.

At first, fortune had favored him. The meals, prepared and simple to warm, had sustained him for a time. But as they dwindled, he was left to contend with raw provisions, with the ancient skills his kind had long abandoned in their ceaseless pursuit of convenience. The world he once knew had driven such primal instincts to extinction, replacing them with a frantic, thoughtless routine. The tools that had once consumed his hours had become useless, just as the four walls surrounding him stood as mute witnesses to the slow passage of time.

An unseen presence wrapped around him like a phantom's embrace, pressing against his skin, making him acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat. It sickened him. And yet, something else stirred within—a dangerous curiosity, a whisper of reckless defiance. The world beyond the window beckoned, its warm colors a silent invitation. Still, he hesitated. He was not ready. Not yet.

"Tomorrow..." a word endlessly whispered in the depths of his mind. 

From the fiftieth day, time crawled to the seventieth, then the ninetieth, until, at last... it ceased to hold meaning. Whether it was a trick of his perception or a cruel reality, he could no longer tell. Every action, every thought, unfolded beneath that unyielding light, which, after a certain point, seemed destined never to fade. His movements took on an animalistic grace, reminiscent of a creature on all fours, as he crawled through the darkness of the lower floor, fingertips blindly searching for sustenance. The ceaseless ascent and descent of the staircase became the sole rhythm of his existence—days, or perhaps years, spent in the same weary cycle. At times, breath eluded him, his body unaccustomed to exertion. Yet, he had not grown heavier; his slight frame remained unchanged, a source of lingering shame.

"I wonder… has anything changed out there?" 

There was only one way to know, yet the thought of discovering the truth still repelled him. The wind, fickle in its return, broke the heavy silences that clashed so cruelly with the stories and illusions dancing in his mind. The last of his meals soon turned tasteless, while the air that slipped through the fabric of the curtains was sharp, invigorating—far more so than any nourishment. Scents faded, as did desires, lost to the shadows cast upon the ceiling when he lay motionless on the floor. Those restless silhouettes, forever shifting with the wind, resembled flames that refused to die. And outside, where once distant rumbles echoed, an unnatural silence had settled, heavy and absolute. The morning breezes roared with the fury of a tornado… no, of an erupting volcano. Yet he felt nothing of the earth's tremors beneath him. Reality had long since slipped beyond his grasp, leaving him adrift in the depths of his own mind. Once, mere days—or perhaps months—ago, he had paced ceaselessly, a prisoner of his own boredom. Now, he layed upon the cold ground, unwilling and unable to close his eyes. The darkness, once a refuge, had become a terror. Sleep, once his solace, now felt like an abyss from which he might never return.

Thirty more days would pass before he finally yielded. Before he drained the last remnants of his strength, forcing himself to rise, to reach out and touch those ominous, glowing curtains with his own hands. 

And in that moment—everything changed.

The floor, the ceiling, the four oppressive walls that had held him captive—they all dissolved into nothingness. The world was stripped away, leaving only an endless expanse of dull blue, dark and lifeless at its base, brightening as it stretched toward some unseen height. The loneliness that had cloaked him so long became visible at last, reshaping itself into a flowing, hooded robe of deep crimson. His face, too, was hidden beneath its heavy folds, veiled from whatever lay beyond the void.

Time lost meaning in that endless abyss. How long would he remain there before something—anything—would happen? 

TINNN!

A sudden chime rang out behind him, shattering the silence. Until that moment, he had stood frozen, as still as a statue, waiting for an answer. Or perhaps just a sign. Even the wind, once a constant whisper at his ears, had vanished from his senses. He turned, drawn by the faintest whisper of sound, his gaze searching for its elusive source. From the void—a realm without surface or volume—an object emerged, delicate yet tangible. He crouched, reaching out with careful hands to retrieve it. The texture was firm, unyielding, yet its form was fragile, slender, and slight: a simple needle.

It had fallen from above. He studied it for a long while, willing it to bear meaning, to reveal some hidden purpose. Yet, comprehension eluded him. Unbeknownst to him, a mound of earth and mud had materialized at his side, its presence silent yet undeniable. The once-muted blue surrounding him deepened into a somber hue, acquiring weight, form, and mass.

As he moved, still entranced by the mystery of the needle, an unsettling sensation took root within him. His bare feet pressed into the damp soil, yet no filth clung to his skin. The earthen mound loomed before him, patient and still, and upon seeing it, a strange and nameless emotion surged through him, vast and indescribable. 

Kneeling, he held the needle aloft in his right hand, gripping it as one might a sacred talisman. That fleeting sensation—now dissipated—had left something behind, something new. The endless drift through emptiness, the silence that had consumed his existence, was disrupted by an unseen current, a force without origin or name. 

A decision formed, instinctual and absolute. He would no longer be alone. He craved a voice beyond his own, an echo to answer him, a presence to share in his solitude. Someone like him in every way—a reflection, a companion. And before him lay the means. The mound of earth, waiting as though summoned by fate itself. He did not hesitate. There was only action left to take.

First, he seized a handful of mud, breaking down the singular form in which the "second object" had first appeared. Never in his past had he imagined himself a craftsman, yet now, with unwavering determination, he devoted his full effort to the task. 

The material crumbled between his fingers, demanding precision. He carefully separated several pieces, shaping the first phalanges with meticulous care. Small, oval fragments extended the fingertips, forming nails, while other portions melded together to shape a slender, unadorned arm. Slowly, from the fingertips to the shoulder, the limb took on the hue of his own flesh. The outer layer transformed, adopting a texture more akin to living skin. 

Yet, he soon faced a dire realization—the fragile soil would collapse too easily. Something was needed to bind the anatomical parts together. Even if he could fashion an entire bipedal figure with the material at hand, it would remain lifeless, unable to stand—a mere mannequin. The flesh he had formed awaited only a baptism in bodily fluids, a communion with the rest of his being. 

And so, the needle came into play. He grasped the delicate instrument in his right hand and studied his left, often glancing between his own limb and the one he had crafted. The proportions were accurate, almost eerily so, yet without a thread to weave it all together, the creation would remain incomplete.

It was then, as though guided by fate, that his gaze fell upon the veins threading through his own skin. They pulsed, fragile and exposed, like an offering. He hesitated only briefly before gritting his teeth and plunging the needle into his wrist. It pierced clean through, emerging from the other side without so much as a whisper of pain. 

A long crimson thread, impossibly thin and glistening, unraveled from within him. Panic flickered at the edges of his mind—was his blood truly endless, or would he soon be left hollow? But he did not stop. With deft hands, he wove the scarlet filament through the skin of the mannequin, stitching the fragmented parts together. 

In mere moments, the seams vanished, the punctures fading as though they had never been. The red thread melted away, absorbed into the new limb, which now bore an even greater semblance to something unmistakably… human.

Each part of his form was pierced at the designated points, with the blood vessels of the shoulders, neck, arms, legs, and finally the head all carefully matched. A new sensation stirred within the heart of the Creator, filling him with a childlike joy. He sat for a long time, overwhelmed by a sense of satisfaction, giving of himself fully in the truest sense. His body became marked with countless scars, each one like a tiny dot scattered across his skin.

At a certain moment, the process of shaping the remaining anatomical parts grew simpler, almost laughable in its ease. A ball of blood, standing within him, allowed him to weave a powerful web around the unborn mannequin. The strands of blood flowed effortlessly from his being.

Only a few days later, the Creator gazed upon his work with pride. The mannequin now shared the same proportions as he, with the hands and soles of the feet perfectly matched. Yet, before turning to the face, he decided to enhance the figure's appearance with a flowing mane. Using his own head and body hair, he needed no shears, no tools. Simply approaching the mannequin with his head or body, he let a river of his essence flow into the pores of the child yet to be born.

But something went terribly wrong...

The hair, far longer than that of the Creator, turned a dull gray—an unmistakable sign of aging. With this, an unnatural "error" spread throughout the body. The skin, once vibrant and full of life, withered and shrank. The hands and feet cracked and dried. The muscles melted away almost entirely. No longer did it resemble the body of a young man, but rather the form of a decaying corpse. And so, the emotions of the Creator, the one who had shaped this being in his own image, began to shift as well. He donned his tunic, pulling the hood low to cover his now hairless head, hiding himself in the shadows.

Before proceeding with the final act, he scrutinized his arms with meticulous care, his ears attuned to every subtle sound. Fortunately, the life force flowed through it like a river in full flood. There was vitality—intense and ready to burst forth at any moment, under the watchful eye of the One who had aided the Creator...

Yet the face remained incomplete. However, a single thread of blood still lingered. Without it, the figure could not make the final leap to unite with the Creator. The process was familiar. With a practiced hand, he shaped two eyeballs from handfuls of earth, immediately carving small, deep hollows to contain them. But as his creativity took shape, the sea of negativity once more surged forth. The previous disappointment had taken root, settling into his hands. And thus, even the unborn child's face began to take on a singular and dread-filled aspect.

At the precise moment the last strand of blood was stitched into place, sealing the final, irrevocable separation from the Creator, the third object fell—against all expectations...

It still required some refinement, but he refused to continue. Perhaps it was enough. The curiosity stirred by the third trinket unsettled him, pulling his attention away from his own creation. With a sudden, deliberate neglect, he let it sink into the dark indigo, along with the fateful pin and the few scattered remnants of earth left behind...