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

It pulls me down when I try to be still. Keeps me tethered to this meat suit, this mask, this lie of a life. I wake up every morning not with purpose, but with pressure. Like a scream caught behind the teeth. Like something inside me is rotting from the inside out—but politely.

I left her on read. I don't know how to answer that question anymore. Okay is a costume. Okay is a performance. Okay is for the ones who still flinch at blood.

Factory. Machines hum like lullabies for the damned. I watch grease-slick hands move in rhythm, turning bolts, pressing buttons. Repetition keeps the rats sane. I've memorized the patterns of everyone here. How they move. How they breathe. How they'd die.

The man two rows ahead? Collapsed trachea, two minutes.

The woman by the control panel? Jugular, one swift motion, silence in twelve seconds.

They're all puzzles I've already solved.

Father's boots were muddy that day.

His mouth stank of old beer and borrowed rage.

"You think you're better than me?" he slurred.

I didn't answer. My silence was louder than his shouting. He swung. Missed. Tried again. That time, he didn't.

I felt something crack—not my jaw, something deeper. A split. A fracture that never healed.

That night, I stared at him while he slept. Mouth open. Snoring. Defenseless. I held the kitchen knife to his throat for seventeen minutes.

He's not special. Just another drunk staggering home from a bar. His breath fogs the cold night air, thick with regret and cheap whiskey. He doesn't see me. They never do. I'm a shadow. A footstep that vanishes before it lands.

He walks past the alley. I almost pull him in.

But then a little girl runs out from behind him. Laughing.

And just like that, the urge dies.

No music. No TV. Just the sound of my own mind, clicking like a loaded gun.

I open the drawer. My notebook is there. My confessional. My scripture. I flip to a blank page.

I don't write names. I draw maps—mental blueprints of every place I've considered painting red. Every alley, rooftop, dead-end road. A cartography of carnage.

…I'll finally sleep without dreaming.

Chapter 5: The Echo Chamber