The Father of Lies
I find myself in a dim room. On a pedestal of sorts rests a small cross of silver, inlaid with jewels, radiating light of unspeakable purity and warmth. I find myself approaching it, drawn by the feeling it gives me. As I am reaching out to touch it, I hear your voice off in the darkness, and turn to face you.
There you are, seated in a fine chair, catercorner to the glowing pedestal. As much as I hate to admit it, you are almost as gorgeous as the relic I had been walking toward.
Your beauty, in comparison to what little good looks I have, makes me feel akin to an ugly little slug. And honeyed words and false promises drip from your lips the way blood drips in rivulets from the festering wound in my shoulder, opened anew by your presence. You smile, reveling in the reopening of old scars, and the calling up of memories I'd rather forget.
I turn away from you, the Father of Lies, and continue on my way to the pedestal. As I approach it, I feel its light closing the gash on my s