The fervent cries of religious ecstasy hung on the night air like dewed cobwebs. Entrapping. Utter rapture. All false.

That did not stop the torrent of sound, crashing down upon you like dark waves at high tide, threatening your sanity. Ironically, this was the reason you were bound at the wrists, listening to the preachings of the hooded figure before you.

“You have been sentenced,” he states simply. The court of lies was quick to pass its judgement - “to rehabilitation in the Asylum until you are deemed worthy to continue our work in spreading Her word.”

The priest leans down, his rank breath and mottled hood tickling at your face. His blackened teeth glisten in the firelight as a tongue slithers past, grinning.

“You are starting to see things for what they truly are. Only the chosen. Only the righteous who are steadfast to Her mission should be allowed that honor,” he whispers. Rising jeers at his back would have ensured that this was not heard, regardless.

A quick motion of the hand and you were dragged to your feet. His lean straightened; the priest turns to the crowd that had gathered to watch your sentencing with hungry eyes. Bloodshot eyes that almost glow red in the covering darkness. The voices that carried were not the ones that belonged to them, rather, the ones that came from the flickering orange of the burning village.

Could they not see?

“Her kindness. The favors that She bestows upon us. Her eternal, everlasting love is wasted upon this… wretch,” he says, voice carrying with the weight of an executioner’s axe. “Stripped of name and title, the Asylum will make right.”

The practiced arms, locked tight around your own, move you forward. They belonged to towering men, steadfast in their belief. They knew Her will and they knew when the priest was finished all too well. Dragging you forward through the throng, you are able to take in the truth. Clothes that were little more than rags hung on skeletal bodies, worn like well-tailored garments by those who could not see. Beautiful faces, gaunt and smeared with blood like tainted make-up, shone in the light revealing what they were. You knew and they did not.

The village that loomed in the darkness grows as you enter, walking along with legs that wanted to turn into jam. The fires that burned in the distance roar like beasts now, the heat causing you to sweat. Was it the heat that caused that? People that are not the denizens of this place watch you like beasts themselves. Bodies strewn throughout the streets are kicked aside by your entourage, offal spreading across the ground in a fresh glaze.

A man standing too close to a broken window, a charred corpse hanging out of it desperate to escape the fire, is licked by the flames. His shirt smolders, having burnt out on its own before arriving, exposing an arm and shoulder blistering and crackling as he shifts. Blood streams down to his elbow, sizzling and evaporating. The smell of burning flesh and blood turning to steam causes you to turn your head away and hold your breath.

You turn your head to face a family watching you. They coldly condemn you. You, the heretic.

Their young daughter, having learned from her parents and the surrounding members of the community, does the same. In her hand hanging limply is her doll. The severed hand and forearm of a missing body. She squeezes it tighter and brings it up to her chest, the bloody sinew and tendons adding another layer to her sullied dress.

“You don’t deserve Her!” she shouts at you.

Could they not see? You do not want Her. This dark god. This god of madness.

You are helpless. Your mouth is both dry and wet with the threat of vomit at the same time. You cannot speak a word against the atrocity of this place. To defend yourself against the words of a child. No one could see but you. The way that your group had descended upon this village that stood no chance against Her flock. Ripped from beds. Butchered alive. The village refused to answer Her call. Now they answer to nothing.

A babe, cradled by its mother, bounces gently as you pass. The mother’s eyes stare at you in disgust. How dare you question the gifts of your god. Flies swooped around the baby, landing on its face. Crawling. Entering. Exiting.

Your stomach tightens, bile teasing the back of your throat. She looks away from you to coo at her infant, her hum tickling the layer of flies, causing them to lift and begin their cycle of flight and landing again. The gray face looks up to the sky, holes where the insects nested never questioning.

“They will make the wretch right again,” she reassuring her child, loud enough for you to hear.

The burly men half carry you at this point, your legs giving way and feet bumping helplessly along the cobbled ground. You cannot help but look up at them, surely you are not the one who is mad amongst this mob.

The one to your left, closest to the repugnant mother, nods to her. “Your babe will grow up strong and help us stand against the ones who reject Her.”

No. You are not mad. You reassure yourself, almost like a mantra. You will get out of this. You will get help.

As if reading your mind, the guard that spoke looks down at you with cold eyes. “This one will get all the help that’s needed.”