Bartholomew (Part 4)

For those of you that responded "Short Stories" on last week's poll (80%), I will return to that after writing Part 6 (the end) of Bartholomew... Enjoy.


The last thing I remember before collapsing was the art of my craft looking back at me, the face of my decisions, the source of my pains, the price of my failure. The glare of eternity.

I wake in bright light. Is it Heaven or Hell?! Surely it cannot be heaven! It is night and when I wake a second time it is dusk. Is it the weight of blood or be it death? It is death. Be it death. Let it be Purgatory.
I wake once more.
Another
And I rise to face Lucifer
In all his glorified carrion
And my eye opens true.
For truly.
I am in Hell
i am in hell.

inhale.
Blood washes up my nose and open mouth and down my throat tasting like heavy rain. I gag and sputter and the forthcoming bubbles cloud my eyes; they sting. Drool and mucus and lots lots of blood have baptized my slumber, secreting over my body a thin paste of liquid defilement. Grasping the outcropping wall at my side, I manage to erect myself to a broken stand. I am all the more light headed and buckle at my mutinous knees after I vomit what remains in my stomach. I wait ‘till my retarded balance is restored before beginning the trek to the bathroom door. Why? I do not know. Yet the situation upon which I find myself in is without a goal, a sense of clarity, or a state of mind to find either. So I walk, and when I fall, I crawl. Following a moment’s rest with my back at the foot of the door, I lift up my left arm, turn the brass doorknob half a rotation to the right, wrap my right arm around my body and push wood to open the door. The sudden pressure instigates another round of blood and I wrap the finger in my cloak to stop the bleeding. Using my left hand, I drag myself to the sink and pull myself to my feet. I look forward.
It stares at me. Its face is divided with abrupt red lines that resemble the floor of a desert during the longest ever drought. Its eyes are bloodshot and the pupils dilated to such levels that Its former blue is found only trimming distant corners. Its mouth is red and parched, Its skin pale and yellow.
Veins upon albino skin form a complex pattern of bulging knots and colors.
Dying
Its fault. All. This PAIN. This TORTURE. This ABOMINATION FROM THE DEEPEST DAYDAMNED FORGOTTEN BOWELS OF HELL!
Decaying
AND YET STILL! STILL IT LAUGHS! STILL IT MOCKS! AND AS IT SHALL DIE!
The knife glares high above my head, a second time since.
I stab myself.