My journey, my ghost, my unheard scream,
I write this on a piece of skin with a charred stub of bone. I am sitting beside the Gates of Hell. The gargoyles pinch and taunt, distracting me. Distant shrieks evoke spiders, alleys, approaching footsteps.
I was not afraid to come for you. Until now.
Soon I will tighten the laces of my boots and swallow the last of my water. Soon I will stand beneath the misshapen Gates of Hell and brace my soul against its own fear. Am I your seraph, your scar, your daemon lover? Soon I will set forth across the raw landscape that separates us, hoping a chasm will swallow me and spare me this passage. Are you my apple, my trespass, my true salvation?
A leering demon has offered to carry this letter to you, but I declined. No more emissaries. I will bring these words to you myself, and you will answer me.
Are you ready for me to come to you?
Are you ready for me?
Are you ready?