Here I am, surrounded by towers of sin and intoxication. I breathe the acrid air and taste the traces of rust dust. The Sisters cackle at their own jokes. They mumble and mutter their words as they chitter and chatter about their loves and hates and giggles.
The pounding hearts in the Temple of the Dead resonate across the air, feeding my ears the sounds of the multitudes. Their groans and moans punch their way through my skin.
I am distracted by the Sisters once more. They froth at the mouth and flick their arms around in some secret sign language. My brain fails to comprehend their gestures and ceases to function.
At the blackness, I catch a glimpse of one of the Sisters. She glances back, our peripheral visions crossing. I taste her lips, from a distance. They feel silky and small, taste of soft pink fruits. Light, sweet and not innocent at all. She gestures to her Sister and giggles.
I feel invisible, an intruder, voyeur, a fly-on-the-wall. Then I taste her warmth through the metal grille and I notice I had been holding my breath.
The wood underfoot hardens and grows and pushes me higher, enough to reach the sky. I watch the Sisters below me, as they chatter on amongst themselves.
The air grows heavier and my breathing slows down to an irregular rhythm. The chains around my throat and wrists and ankles, constrict and choke me. I regurgitate my words and my voice fades to a lonely silence.
For the rest of my eternity, I inhaled the Sisters' singing and muttering as the coldness tugged at my heart. I was left loving them all, and hating them all. They were the Sisters I hated or loved.
