The Keep

The stone was high, but the marble of the temple was higher. Warm and smooth on the outside opposite the cold hard, un-sun touched walls within. Sleeplessly sleeping chained in the center of the smooth and vast dark consumed chamber was a lone figure visible only by the candles that led from the large inset temple door to the center of the Keep, leaving any person that enters nowhere to go but to the foot of the shadow cloaked figure.

As is clockwork the morning had come. It was time for the awakening. Time for the platonic cycle of self-destruction to recommence.
Awoken by the inaudible vibrations of its shackles the figure began to rouse as the chains began to slacken, allowing the figure its own slight freedom of movement. It rose to its knees. Tiredly followed by a time heavy rising to its feet. The floor under which it was shackled was stained with hints of crimson. Straightening and embracing the morning the figure was ready.

As clockwork the beginning had begun.

It was a line. A line of people stretched out that was never ending, only filling with more people at the end of every duty filled day. The sun would set, the moon would rise, and still all the while more people would be joining the file of men.

The people in line were of many different sorts, some filthy rich donning fine purple linens accented in gold while others were poor, covered in dirt, and dressed in rags, bearing time callused work torn hands. Yes, they were all monumentally different, only alike by the black-coal-carved-chalice that was in each and every set of hands.
Patiently waiting the door now opened.

The heavy marble slab of a door rose, allowing a man to enter. Allowing a man to follow the candle lit path to the shadow encrusted figure. The man spoke small quite words and the exchange began. He held out his black-coal-carved-chalice for his receiving. The figure heard that which was spoken.

Reaching over its shoulder the figure grabbed hold of its own flesh and tore off a strip all the way down to the muscle of its own body. Placing the skin without any expression into the chalice held in the hands of the thirsting man. And as the figure watched its own flesh turn to wine tears began to trickle down its cheek. The man drank every drop in the cup. The chalice disappeared from his grasp, and he exited from whence he came.

The enormous door rose herding in a small child. The child followed the long path, fearfully encroached upon by the darkness the tiny flame of each candle held at bay. No words were spoken as the child raised his chalice, starring into the figure with wide pleading eyes. Without hesitation the figure grabbed hold of the skin on its bicep and pulled, freeing a piece down to its own muscle and placed it in the child’s cup. Once again watching it turn to wine. The child drank it all leaving not a drop to linger. The chalice vanished and the cycle remained. The door would open. A person would enter. A few words might be spoken. Flesh would be painfully torn, wine would be drunk, and the door would once again usher in another waiting person.

This was repeated over and over and over as the sun carved its path across the scorching cloudless sky. It rose from the west, blazed above the top of the temple, and then began its decent into the east. All the while people still were entering, and the line was never shortening. The sun was eclipsed by the curve and the moon had arisen. The last person of the day walked out of the temple as the rest sat and began to sleep, awaiting their turn with the lone bleeding figure in its containing Keep.

As is clockwork, night had come.

The fleshless figure fell to its knees in its own pile of dried and drying blood, tears still slipping silently from its eyes. The figure knew it would be a long night of a merciless sleepless sleep. The pain was excruciating, unlike any hurt a person could bear. Laying down in the stickiness of unset blood upon its fillet back the figure starred up at the highest stone of the temple, waiting for the presence of the moon to accompany it.

As the highest stone slide out of place the light of the moon shone inside, exposing the nude fleshless figure in all its depleted glory. The chains tightened on its limbs leaving no possibility of movement. The light cast from the moon upon its helpless body was even more savage than the filleting of its own flesh.

Screaming and struggling against its own self placed bindings its throat grew hoarse and silent as the figure was overcome with its own dissociation from pain. Although the figure cursed himself with living the stars still shone. A beautiful hope filled Van Gogh of a most magnificent design. Staring up beyond the confines of its temple a sleepless pain filled sleep took hold.

As is clockwork, morning had come.

The awakened masses began to rise, praying that today they would get their turn in the figures hollow Keep. The figure arose to its knees, tiredly standing up onto its feet. The chains slackened allowing its own slight freedom of movement. The fresh flesh once again having been rewoven into its very existence. The door rose and an old women covered in time given wrinkles followed the candles. Holding out her black-coal-carved-chalice she watched is the creature grabbed hold of the flesh on its chest and tore. The freed blood dripping flesh was placed in her chalice for its transformation. The women drank all that had been made. The chalice disappeared, the tears began to slip, and it watched as the women walked away.

As clockwork it was the beginning of another new self-destructive day, awaited by a night of healing pain laced in a found-less hope. A sleepless sleep being the only solace for the lone bleeding figure in its sheltering marble Keep.