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Rated: E · Prose · Philosophy · #1990665
A prose about doing things for yourself.
Deus Vult


How many?

How many have I killed in the name of god?

Am I, myself, still alive?

What semblance of a soul do I still have after the atrocities I have wrought on my fellow man?

Why did I kill them?

What reason did I even have? Had they wronged me?

No. They had wronged god, the bishop told us; we'd be divinely absolved in striking them down.

Then why is it that I feel empty? 

Why do I feel like I have taken the lives of innocents? Have I?

Deus vult; "god wills it". Why did I follow? Why did anyone follow?

Where do I go now?

What wretched company would keep a monster such as myself?

The horrors I've inflicted, the pains I've dealt, the lives I've taken.

Is this truly god's will? For them to die? For me to suffer?

What wrongs have I committed that he afflicts me so?

Surely, I must have wronged him for my absolution to have faded.

It matters not. I cannot continue like this. My life ends, here and now.

Not for god, not for the world, not for country,

Just for me. Id vult.











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