I’m going to occasionally post snippets of writing, just a scene that pops in my head or whatever. Practice writing different situations.
Dark and tired, weak and weary he trudged through the neverending sludge. Blackness coated his Dockers and torn Cole Haans as much as it did his soul. His eyes shone glints of red, reflecting the hell spawned fires all around him. Coming up the hill of waste and refuse the two pinpricks of red in the dark shape could just as well be signs of the fiery hatred burning in his soul, yearning to get out.
Timbers from the remains of a burning building crashed to the bone littered ground. The ghoulish excuses of humans wandering the littered avenues moaned in an incessant choir of painful incantation. His sole purpose, the one thing that mattered anymore drove him on. Thickly his blood thudded in his heart. His jaw hung slack. He could barely drag his legs through the muck and debris. The trenchcoat he wore, torn and frayed seemed to soak up the filth, absorb into its essence. Much as seemed to be happening to his soul.
The burning cathedral stood on the next hill now, the pathetic excuse of a cross broken, burning, on the verge of collapse from the once mighty steeple. So close. It awaited him. Fate. Destiny. Closure. An end to the pain, or the beginning of a whole new, deeper pain?
Wincing from the sharp pain in his side, damn that scythe had hurt, he thought to himself, he pulled his revolver out. Die he thought. Just fucking die already!
Finally, he reached the door of the church, which hung loose on its top hinge. If there were a wind in this forsaken place it might have swung. A bead of sweat hung on the tip of his long nose, then fell, only to evaporate before it even hit the uneven concrete. Standing at the door, he pushed it inward, creaking horrificly. Darkness stared back at him, silhoutted against the opening with a backdrop of damnation behind him.
As his eyes adjusted, he could see into the interior. Yes, there. He could just barely make out the shape. He cocked the revolver and stepped in. Running a hand through his greasy black locks, he thought to himself, “Come on mother fucker. Let’s end this damn thing here and now.”