killer_fields

They called him a monster. A mistake. A mind beyond saving.

Until the war came.

Now the killer wears a uniform, his blade baptized by state orders and national pride. For the same hands that once strangled in shadows now serve the flag in broad daylight.

He kills. He protects. He obeys.
And the applause rings louder than the screams ever did.

But how can the same act be sin in one world, and salvation in another?
As bodies pile and silence grows heavy, the question gnaws at him like rot beneath the skin.

What is good? What is evil? And who decides?

Told through fractured memories, visceral monologues, and a mind unraveling at the edges, Sanctified by Sin is a descent into the soul of a man sculpted by violence—now seeking truth in a world that only understands blood.

In the end, he won't ask for forgiveness.
He’ll demand answers.

Where Monsters Pray

I watch the smoke curl up from the cigarette I didn't ask for.

Jane offered it after work. I accepted. Strange how kindness slips in through the cracks. She thinks I'm shy. Maybe even sweet. Isn't that funny?

She smokes like she's trying to forget something. I smoke like I'm trying to remember.

"What do you think happens when we die?" she asks, eyes fixed on the orange tip, not me.

The question lingers between us, curling in the air like the smoke we share. I think about lying. I think about telling her something warm, digestible. A fairytale.

"Nothing," I say. "We rot. Fade. Get eaten."

She laughs, nervous. "God, you're dark."

If there is a god, He's a butcher. I've seen the way flesh splits under pressure. I've learned how little it takes to end a life. One twist. One cut. One silence.

Jane wouldn't understand. Not yet. Not until she sees the world without its makeup. Until she watches blood pool in a child's eyes and realizes innocence is a myth, sold cheap.

It's building again—the pressure. The need. It creeps into my limbs like electricity with nowhere to go.

Flash. Bones breaking like twigs. A whisper: "Please—" Then nothing.

I used to think I could control it. That I was the master of my urges. Now I know better. I'm not the master.

The world pours its filth into me. And I hold it.

Sometimes, I wonder what I'd be if I hadn't killed that first man. Would I be here, standing next to Jane, pretending to be human?

She asks about my family. I lie again. A brother in Chicago. Parents abroad. It keeps people from looking too closely. Truth is, I don't remember my mother's voice. Only her fear.

I think she saw it in me. Before anyone else. The thing I became.

Later that night, I sit alone in my room, lights off, heart ticking like a metronome for murder.

I line up the photos. Victims. Not mine—yet. Faces from news clippings, from the streets I walk, from the alleys I pass. A potential gallery. Each one selected for a reason I can't explain.

And one day, I'll give them their god.

Chapter 4: Communion of Ashes