Deicide

On the first day, I killed God. The molder of stars, giver of light, was dead by my hands, stained by his golden ichor. I had beaten and battered him black and blue with his own words, drowned him in his blood, and left him hanging from the apple tree with a noose of his own flesh.

On the second day, I approached the churches, mosques, and synagogues. The priests, rabbis, and imams were distraught. Some cowered, hiding behind their Bibles and Torahs and Qur’ans, while others raged, sharpening their own words, shredding their own holy texts in the process. But my words were sharper. I wielded the word “arrogance” and stabbed through their words and mouths. Who did they think they were? I had already killed a deity, right?

On the third day, I confronted the wall of Jericho, words in hand, alone in the desert. No army, trumpet, or marching was needed there. I blew a single word, “hubris,” into the great stone walls. The perimeter collapsed, revealing the now vulnerable city, to which I advanced. I emerged at midnight, hands stained with belief. I killed them all.

On the fourth day, I found the Ark of the Covenant, not in Jerusalem nor Ethiopia, but deep inside the mantle. I had cut open the skin of this planet, hot magma leaking out, and thrust the word “hate” into the viscous flesh, eventually cutting open the covenant, spilling its holiness. I emerged covered in this planet’s blood, the flaming lava, but undeterred.

On the fifth day, I flew up to the heavens. Without their maker, the seraphim, virtues, and archangels were disordered. Seeing my face, Archangel Michael, in his humility, alerted the other angels, but to no avail; there was no loyalty if there was none to be loyal to. I plunged my fist into the chest of Michael, hand on his heart. The seraphim, witnessing me crushing the organ of an Archangel, sent their flames my way, but the burn of Terra’s blood was hotter. I shot the word “obsession” with precision and pierced their hearts as well.

On the sixth day, I dove into hell. The sins were welcoming, demons with open arms. Satan praised me, but I had no room for the words of such a lowly being. I blew the word “wrath” into the underworld, cracking the burning rock and freezing hell over.

On the seventh day, I became god. There was no one left to oppose me, no more words to fend off. I raise my arms, ready for my crucifixion. Digging the word “god” into my hand, I’m met with…not ichor, but blood?