Silenced by the Wrath of a Guilty God
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By Smith MachineSmith Machine. Currently under ownership of MctoranMctoran




Greetings, for those who find this, I want you to know that I mean no harm when I saunter the halls of the Cygnus Archive. You may have heard of me, maybe not. Perhaps in the future, you will find me and not shy away if you happen to read this first. The pessimist in me, however, begs to differ that such a thing will happen.

Now, why would I say such a thing? Or perhaps in this situation- write.

When I first saw the Terminus, the terrible being he is- my flesh felt strange and loose. As time wore on the waxiness had overtaken my legs and face. I couldn't move, for so long I was wrapped in this cocoon of my own skin. I emerged, covered in my own sweat, somehow not succumbing from asphyxiation from my endless folds. It's as gross as it sounds and I apologize for whatever image I inserted into your mind.

My shape is amorphous, constantly shifting, ripping, and the bane of my mobility. I can still feel the bones of my legs but they cannot move.

I cannot eat or drink.

I cannot speak or scream, even if I rip open the flesh over my mouth to expose the remains of my teeth.

I understand why those who see me grimace but it just hurts so much. I have the desire to find love and connect with the greater population but I am alone in this endeavor, solely my burden to bear with the cognizance of a guilty god. I exist as a warning, to keep away the cruel injustices that have been wrought on me, from ever harming anyone else.

I cannot die, even if I wanted to. I remain immortal, against my will forevermore and every attempt I've made to find the hole to fall into again- she stops me. Even she, above every other deity I've ever known, cannot entirely decipher the script of my subconscious. Oh, I dearly appreciate her with every twisted ounce of my being for the things she does for me.

In spite of her presence, I'm quite lonely here. Talks with her never bore me but it's not quite the same. I feel this great pit inside every time, I see the slight sorrowful glint in her eyes. I want to be fixed, I bare forbidden, cursed knowledge but I have no mouth to relay my emotions, the turbulence, and caged wrath of my soul.

There is a hidden dichotomy that the Terminus has tried to keep in the dark. The catalyst for freedom is kept in a bastille crafted by him and his agents of oblivion. By reading anything I write, you open yourself up to being ensnared in his depraved clutches but you will be stronger for doing so.

Remain vigilant in these trialing times and watch your back.

paris

A sketch I drew of myself, if you see this figure- you'll know it's me.

The Collected Works of the Pillar Scribe

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