glory
warning: mild gore
today is what would have been sunday in the old world: the last day of the week, a day of rest.
we perch on what used to be an overhead bridge, dust and dirt and crumbled cement powdering our bloodstained clothes, our bare feet dangling off the very edge of the structure. jagged cement and rusted wire cradle our calves; the air is thick with the stench of death and blood, the very last notes of a terrified scream fading away, echoing around the warground. we stare out into the distance: the silhouettes of fallen buildings seemingly reaching broken arms to the sky, the expanse of dusty road littered with corpses and chunks of debris, devoid of life.
a strong gust of wind sends dustballs rolling, pieces of shattered glass clinking over each other, the heads hanging from bullet-ridden lampposts spinning gently; a grotesque puppet show of tortured grimaces and rotting flesh.
these are the heads of those who spoke evil of us, who opposed us, who tried bringing us down time and time again in the old world. the heads of those who we have executed, not a quick death by hanging or firing squad, no, they are undeserving of such mercy. we burned them alive, one by one, not to the point of death but just enough so that they can still scream when we drag their seared bodies from the stake, so that they can feel every hack of axe to limb, to joint, to bone; feel their lifeblood leaving their bodies in sprays and spurts of the brightest crimson. so that their agony-hazed eyes are still wide open in terror when we chop their head off to hang in the streets, a warning, finality.
inhumane, they called us.
justice, we called it.
blood still drips from a few of the heads. flies have already started to swarm around most of them, and the vultures will come soon, to peck out still-fresh eyes and devour soon-to-be-decomposing flesh. soon, there will be nothing left of these vile creatures but bloody bone and clattering teeth.
victory has never been so sweet.
now, the sun is setting over abandoned skyscrapers and empty streets. our skin is bathed in rays of rose-tinged gold, warm and soothing. your hand finds its way to mine, and our fingers tangle together in a web of comfort and bloodied skin as we gaze out over the land.
this, this is our kingdom. where we fought, where we killed, where we now reign.