Atonement

“There is only one rule: don’t open the door,” said the old priest.

His voice pulled me from the strangest of slumbers. The room was cold and sterile. There were hundreds of us, each standing in one of the innumerable lines, entirely without clothes, dressed only in shame.

I had no recollection of coming here. There were no lights, but it was a bright place with no shadows.

One of the many priests was working on the man directly before me with a tattoo gun. His body a canvas of ornate script not written with ink, but carved.

Of all the bleeding words, my eyes fell on murderer.

Slowly sound came to me. Thousands of voices wailing agony. Squealing wheels bearing carts with the most arcane and rudimentary tools of torture rolled in.

“Choose your atonement,” the priest said to the murderer, but the man fled through the forbidden door, “What a waste.”

Another man screamed. His fingers were being clipped off; each one erasing a bloody word from his flesh. A terrible understanding dawned. The priest looked at me, “Next.”

What would they carve into my skin?

My eyes darted to the door.

“Why not seek atonement?” asked the priest.

I looked at the man without fingers. Beyond him, out the windows, nude masses drenched in blood rode escalators.

Panicked, I bolted for the door. It opened wide and shut behind me. There was no handle on this side. The metal grating chewed through the bottom of my feet, the walls closed in so I couldn’t sit. There was a hiss of a furnace, I looked down in time to see the flame swallow me. The fire didn’t eat, didn’t deform, it only seared with the most exquisite pain. Above me a loud speaker came on, “Welcome to eternity.”