Only he knows of the conflagration that is soon to transpire on the planet Earth. Only his trepidation can warn our global society of what’s to come. When he killed the men and women and harvested their blood for sacrifice to the many deities he revered, he was only saving their souls. Saving their souls from eternal flames, eternal misery. Saving them from the great apocalypse that only he knows is rapidly approaching.

Resolve to save his fellow beings assails the conscience of the man. His own volition is struggling against his unconscious, inhuman yearnings. His panic is expressed in the frantic waving of his arms, the anguish of his utterances, the self-hatred that encircles his congenital nature.

He wants to help them, to rescue them, to prevent the cries of anguish and agony that he is hearing in his very own mind. He needs to save them. Is it not his responsibility as the sole receiver of the Divinities’ message – the message to run, to escape, to hide?

He extracts a shotgun from his pocket. It glints under the luminous waning moon, silver columns ascending into the heavens above. He grits his teeth and when he shoots, he cries out in pain and self-hatred. When he collects the scarlet fluid that rushes like a forest stream, when he holds it in his palm and performs the rituals he understands he must, his head is pounding with anger at the gods that have forced him to such extremes. For it hurts him beyond any other can imagine. His agony is even more acute than those who suffer the rites of his faith. But he knows he must force them to suffer – for his cause is their own salvation.