The Devil You Don't

Who was to know there would be such a meaning?

Son-of-the-Morning pauses. A new thought forming in his mind.

Bah! Raca, raca, raca: Fool, fool, fool! he yells.

Remember what my Lord said? ‘Who ever says you fool is in danger of Hell fire?’ What is this, hey? This is Gehenna. This is that great burning garbage heap!

His despair more than evident, Son-of-the-Morning spreads arms wide apart, and laughs again. He takes on the image of Christ crucified. The anti-image repulses You.

‘How dare he,’ You think.

Then, Your attention transfixed, he does something much worse.

Flames seem to burst through image’s skin and such as had appeared to be flesh dissolves in front of Your eyes before You can avert them from the horror. Dissolves, amid his laughter, into blackened and then vaporized blood and gristle and on into skeletal remains before he slides back again into his quicksilver formlessness:

Internal organs expand and explode. Bloody entrails slake off like tar.

You barely catch the beating of his heart before it dissolves in the crematory flames. Ribs, his skull and vertebrae and hips. All his bones. Ignite. Before You, at last, see the hint of mercury.