By the loving hand of hatred.

God's servants, sublime angels; the glorious broken ones, their beauty attained by the light they beamed unto the weary of the world, and with ethereal instead of Earthly grace, plucked them from adversity.

She was to meet them, she smiled, it was a certainty; the crimson gleamed in her mind, daring her to make it flow; too taint all that her fatal twists of honour could; those glares at the man packaged for her to fall in love with, bitter words to their family; a mouth sewn shut to the outside world and a life with no windows, she would not make herself look out; and the fate of any who looked in…well, it was all of their doing.

A voice, molten and charming, threatening to ooze through her crevice said one simple word.


A word that seemingly had taken on a shape where it could move mountains.

The voice pulled the knife from her wrist, but not from the ever tightening clutches of her hand.

''Don't; death is appalling; you think you can haunt, but you are trapped further within yourself; live and be free, and he shall not dismiss your haunting,'' he encouraged her, as her mind added, ''who can on a slab?''

More importantly, in hell?

Hell; a girls nightmare from storybooks, and a woman's chaotic reality, abounding with lost souls, set alight and cast into nothingness, caressed by screams and the bodies of demonic whores Satan pressed upon them; and where Satan had access into your darkest secrets and fears, sifting through them to get to the cavernous, the ones that would scar worse than the flame you danced in for his entertainment.

A suitable proposition for him, she found; and one far away from her place of rest, for all she had done none broke anything sacred, nor done more than make her human; and men like her own needed to be wiped out, did they not?

Human, that was all he needed, he licked his lips in anticipation; waiting for when her epiphany would come.

It came with visions of bloodied children on streets even the plague would not cross in disgust and found abhorrent; the smells of rotten dreams and hopes intoxicating the air.

They even reached him, not that anyone would care; they were his cause for being; he became parasitic where smells like that abounded, but the bounty was ruthless in what it turned him into; the sight of each decimated infant adding something yes, but leaving something gaping, something in which he thrived before the sight, and so he found his delight once more in sins.

Lust; any woman who sells herself, of course; so easy really, the bloodbath they craft themselves quite amuses him.

He leaves her with more than a broken heart and a chance; no, the promise of syphilis, but until she drinks her mind from her skull she will not know; and when the epiphany comes into her mind, blossoming like pox marks another gent takes his share of her, not caring that her flesh has not been virginal since her body could make a profit.

Gluttony; again, as easy a matter as flicking the right coins in the right establishment; a beast devouring meats, ripping skin and flesh from the bone, teeth coated in pristine darkness of dried blood and entrails, and still perfectly acceptable to a hungry man; and a waif of one at that, whose pockets seem to abound with money stolen from dead men's purses, but notheless money perfectly entitled to let him gorge as he did his favourite sin.

Greed was the shops in which he lost himself in various ways, beaming as he did to the lovely ladies that would not think of looking at the vermin he indulged in, and the very gates were incrusted with cleanliness not to be seen in the hovels

He tended to stay away from this one, with its prejudiced attitude when sin should have been free for even the rats of the sewer.

Sloth came about whenever the aristocracy declared themselves rich enough to lounge and when the poor thought themselves to destitute for hope; such a simplistic little flaw, one that filled him with glee at the mention anyways, classic and easy, subtle yet consuming.

Sometimes his powers that were seemed very creative to him, geniuses steeped in infamy rather than fame, and their ideas and concepts, if not execution all the better for it.

Wrath; a pub brawl, no more no less, in any station; and for his tastes far too simple.

Envy came almost naturally, after all, why would it not?

Pride was to be found in his work, even in its most challenging moments, the elegantly crafted webs of wondrous decay shimmering in splendour; and for the men who thought of him as a fellow who could not smile at their mention and lust for it after their second.

But enough of his games, as enticing and intricate as they were; she the human was ebbing towards him; moments of horror flickering in her mind; images of the man in his rightful realm and his family resting six feet under beckoned, in all their marvellous madness, the only thing which prevailed through each and every time and person.

The knife whispered to her, praising, not depreciating her as it had done, and finding her true potential, true calling in misery and anguish other than her own.

As he whispered to her, he smiled as if he were looking upon bliss and not an act of daemons; he loved it when they drowned within him; especially when they were this interesting…