All Have Sinned

1.

The face staring back at him could have been human once, but that time had passed, and now the monster reigned supreme.

Studying the mass of thin electrical wires that made up his mockery of hair, he cocks his head from one side to the other. The motion blur hangs in the air then slowly slips and curls to join the assembly of movement that seems to cover every surface.

He breathes. The air swirling in the chasm that was a mouth, howling, echoing before sliding thickly down his throat. His lungs expand to the size of a galaxy, aching, reaching for the drug they crave. Red. The fix does its work and the lungs sigh in unison, expelling a tidal wave of contentment. The detritus spreads out across the mirror, a redeeming shockwave destroying everything in its path before fading and revealing.

Movement. The thought electrified him, the prospect causing flashes of light to spin and weave around him. The anticipation that he could join the dance filled him with an unbearable nausea of euphoria. The first step backwards. Pistons slide, lubricated by oils of unmentionable origin, scales flake. Ripples flow throughout space and the sound of a thousand angels in rapture filled the air. The ground rose to seduce him softening his being and accepting him completely. Drifting through the honeycomb of a million feathers, swallowed whole by the serpent of time. His claws tear through images of stained glass windows causing them to shatter into a maze of jewels. Blue. Tender hands guide his descent, caressing his steel, his flesh. Words only heard in the womb comfort him. The warmth of a lovers arms surges through him sending shards of ecstasy spinning into space. Memories of strangers fill his mind, a father, a summer, a beautiful conversation of souls. Music once reserved for the gods is revealed; tears of beatitude flow through the canals carved into his face, crystals form and join the kaleidoscope of his eyes. Purple.

It starts in his stomach. Crawling. The visions of his existence wavering. A distant atonal chord creating a tension, an anticipation. The voices become legion. More memories reveal themselves, a house, a time, a look. His legs cramp, joints seize and sparks of blood create fountains of rust. Twisting. Cold tongues lick and webs of sinew drift over him. Glimpses of faces, distorted, anguished, flash into existence before being engulfed in screams. The sound of a thousand demons in despair fills the air.

His body is splitting. Stained metal and gnawed bone exposed. There is no pain. Thorns wrap around his limbs, pulling, tearing, taking him further down. Tunnels of diseased flesh cosset him. Thoughts of despair, wretchedness, inevitability scorch into his brain. Limbs gone, amassed into the dervish of devilish pride that consumes him. Black.

He arrives.

Broken-hearted.

2.

The bed is soaked and stinking.

Focusing on a point of artex on the ceiling Fleischer contemplates the latest journey. The Rapture was stronger this time, more tangible, unfortunately the same could also be said for the Damnation. There was something else as well, the memories. This was a new addition to the journey. They seemed familiar, but they were not his, he was sure of that. It was as if they were memories confided in him during some long forgotten conversation. Lifting his arm he wipes the tears from his eyes and pushes himself onto the edge of the bed, his naked body pale except for where it is smeared with fresh excrement. With a groan he pushes himself up and walks slowly across to the sink. Peering at himself in the mirror pulses of red light trace the outline of his features, dripping off his chin and splashing into oblivion as they hit the porcelain. His eyes sparkle with a thousand colours before vanishing, leaving eternity in their wake. His soul has gone. The comedown. Reaching down he turns on the cold tap, cups his hands and fills them with diamonds. Slowly he brings his hands up to his face and extinguishes the lights.

3.

Fleischer thought about what he was going to say. He was obliged to make his report after each journey but something made him feel uneasy about mentioning the memories. It had created a more personal experience for him, and had affected him more than he would have liked to admit. In all the years he had been taking the journey it had always followed the same path. The Rapture. The Damnation. Always a religious experience but never a personal one. If only he could place where the memories had come from, everytime he tried to remember they slipped further back into their lair, popping out to taunt him before scurrying away again. He decided to keep them to himself, maybe see if any of the other acolytes reported anything first. This would be the first time he had kept anything from The Committee and he was nervous about it. Would they look into his eyes, the eyes that have seen things that they would only see in death, and guess his secret?
The Committee had always existed, always watched. Fleischer still wasn't sure of the extent of their operation but they had always treated him well. They had found him, a diagnosed epileptic, approached him, convinced him. There were others like him, he had met a few of them whilst reporting, they rarely spoke but he could tell by looking at the drawn faces, the blank eyes, the pale skin that they shared a common curse. Blessing.
In the twenty years since he had been approached he had made 120 reports and everyone had been roughly the same, and he would deliver the same report again today. Scared that if he mentioned his own memories had infiltrated the journey they would discard him as no longer being of use, and that was something he couldn't risk. The Committee gave him a sense of duty, a sense of order, a way of coping with the visions.

4.

The elevator doors closed and with a jolt of obedience he rose heavenward. The illuminated floor numbers drawing attention to the fact that the ground was falling away rapidly. His stomach provided a clue that the lift was slowing and with a satisfied sigh the doors slid open revealing a long corridor in standard issue company magnolia.

Fleischer stepped from the lift and started walking down the non-descript corridor as he had done a 128 times before.

The walls started to melt.

Fleischer stopped. Looking around himself at the void left behind as the walls poured away, strands of gold blew against him as stars opened their hearts to reveal exquisite truths. He looked down at his hands, the claws long and slender. Colours formed clouds of purity wrapping themselves around his body injecting him with nectar. A Father offering him a seat. A tree in blossom, the branches making love.

Screams tear the blossom away, the branches hide quivering as apparitions of hate circle. His reptile skin slides like an avalanche from his body, raw, peeled. A house, its walls breathing, opens its maul, inside eyes of coal look. Black.

Sobbing, Fleischer opens his eyes, his clothes clinging to his body. What was happening? He had never had an unexpected journey in his life. They were always preceded by a period of intense anxiety and very rarely occurred more than every two months. Once again the memories had appeared and seemed to be the focus of the journey, the reason, the purpose. Sitting up against the wall Fleischer looked at his hands watching the red lights dance across his fingers, tracing the lines on his palm, highlighting his future. Scared for the first time in twenty years.

The elevator doors behind him opened.

Fleischer raised his head, turned and stared into the interior of the lift. Inside, sat on the floor, was his reflection. Drowned in sweat, shirt transparent, the eyes black and soulless, lights dancing over his body. Their eyes locked, recognising in each other the journeys they had taken, the sights they had seen and the fear they both now felt. After a thousand years Fleischer pushed himself up off the floor, ran his fingers through his hair and cautiously approached his brother. He reached the entrance to the lift and stopped. The walls of the elevator were pulsing, breathing like the house during Damnation. Looking down at the figure on the floor something was wrong, the skin was translucent, not quite solid and beneath things moved and laughed. Fleischer, still poised at the entrance, reached out his arm towards the form, offering him his hand. The changing figure looked up, its eyes filled with love¦¦and screamed. The walls of the lift blew outwards as the scream took over the world. Fleischer covered his face with his hands, screaming into them, hopelessly trying to drown out the lament that threatened to reduce his soul to a house of cards. Eyes watching him, studying him. Time crushing him, pushing him. The wailing became physical, a living wind that pulled at his hands with thin, sharp fingers. It tore at his mind with hooks of bone, searching, digging, gouging. He fell to his knees, eyes shut, hands clasped to his face, still screaming as his existence was exposed in all of its infinite purpose. The greedy fingers snatched and explored, hunting.

Father.

The quietness of a crypt crashed over him like a wave of sobriety. The figure in the lift was gone and the utter normality of his surroundings sent him mad. Staggering to his feet he stood, head balanced against the wall. Moaning. The echoes of that cry of dark inquisition escaped from his body to crawl and squirm away. Slamming his head against the wall helped to loosen the last determined survivors and they ran scurrying through his skin. Satisfied that all traces of the scream had been evicted Fleischer lifted his head away from the wall. Blood marked the spot where his head had been and reaching up to his forehead his fingers came away with more. Fear motivated him to move, panic provided his fuel as he ran down the corridor towards the large double doors at the end, convinced that the figure from the lift was approaching him fast. He could almost feel the thin fingers brushing against his neck as he threw himself at the doors, exploding through them into the refuge of The Committee.

He decided there and then to tell all to The Committee, to hell with the outcome this was too much for him to handle alone. He was terrified. After years of coming to terms with the journey he thought he was prepared for anything, but not this. The Committee would know what it meant, and if it meant that he was tainted, polluted then so be it. As long as they provided him with an explanation he could cope.

Gathering his thoughts together Fleischer stood for a while inside the dark anteroom. His relief at being out of sight of the lift started to be replaced by a nervousness usually reserved for a first kiss. He was anxious and eager at the prospect of talking to The Committee but at the same time worried that he would let them down. Long minutes passed as he stood, alone, raped, needing the comfort of kind words but frightened of rejection. Eventually his need for solace triumphed and he propelled himself towards the entrance.

5.

His first thoughts were of being a child. A gang of boys at school had played a trick on him. These were the cool boys, the boys with girlfriends, the boys who smoked and swore, the boys who answered back to the teachers, the boys who would later in life get successful jobs, beautiful wives, fast cars and sexual perversions. He desperately wanted to be like them, he was awkward, his epileptic fits provided a constant source of material for anyone who wanted to enrich their lives by belittling his, so when the cool boys asked him to meet them at the new building site later that evening to be sworn into their gang it was a revelation. He didn't stop to analyse the offer because if he had he would have realised immediately that it must be a trap, instead he revelled in it, revelled in the feeling of being wanted. He waited nine hours for them to show. He waited until the police his desperate, frantic parents had contacted, found him sitting on a set of half finished concrete steps, his clothes long drenched by the constant drizzle. He resisted any attempts to take him home, screaming, hitting, biting, the cool boys might still come and what if he wasn't there? His dream of being part of other peoples lives, of being liked, of being important drained away like the rain running down the grey stone steps and soaking into the earth beneath. That was the night of his first journey.

As Fleischer looked around the empty hall where The Committee had been for the last twenty years, the same feelings ripped their way into his body and soul.

Sunlight streaked through the large room, illuminating nothing, the echoes of the cool boys bounced around the room, laughing at him, triumphant in their ability to fool him once more. Fleischers world stopped. The prospect of being alone, imprisoned in his cage of beauty and horror was unthinkable to him. Looking around him at the bare floorboards, the damp stained walls, the plaster ceiling full of holes his eyes filled with tears. Sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his bent legs, he rocked back and forth until the experiences of the last few hours drained him of the will to resist and he plunged into the darkness and relief that only complete despair can bring.

Red. The blossom of the tree was red. Moving like a flock of birds, scenting the world with beauty. Beneath the branches were two chairs, in one sat a figure, in the other a large, clear plastic bag, its contents glistening. The figure was not obvious, obstructed by a treacle rain of scarlet. Fleischer walked slowly towards the seated figure, blossom swirling around his body, dressing him in the robes of kings. The figure started to take form, the features becoming clearer as he approached. A man. A Father. The man beckoned him to occupy the second seat, Fleischer bent over and lifted the plastic bag, its contents, the colour of the blossom all around, churned and shuddered sending slow thick ripples splashing against the sides as he lowered it onto the shining pool of grass. Descending into the chair he turned and for the first time studied the man opposite through the living, multiplying air. His face was formless, the features merging with the falling flowers to create a shifting, shimmering pool of calm.

Only the eyes shone through.

Infinite, all colour, all movement, all love¦..unconditional. Fleischers soul wept with rhapsody his body submerged in the love of ages. There were no claws, no metal this time.

"Take my Heart

The voice caused Fleischers body to spasm ,no longer obeying his thoughts or direction. Every part of his body elated as the voice penetrated his core, muscles dancing frantically, his mind hot sparks of euphoria. Black

Solid reality hit him with the force of an angry rejection, he was still on the floor, on the stripped and sliced bodies of oak. The light had changed colour, blossom red. Next to him sat the bag, the contents difficult to distinguish through the condensation. Tentatively he reached over and placed his hand on the surface. The warmth of existence unmistakeable his hand caressed the tight skin of the bag. Twisting his body he placed his other hand on the bag, running his fingers lightly over its welcoming flesh. He could feel the contents reacting, sighing, smiling as his caresses became more urgent, closing his eyes he focussed his entirety on touch. The body under his hands moved, pushing gently into his fingers, moaning, trembling from his exploration. Warm hands covered his and pulled them gently upwards towards the familiar feel of a woman's breasts, Fleischer held his breath and surrounded them with his fingers, feeling hardness pressing into his palms. Soft moans filled the space around him, his heartbeat joining them in a concert of wanting, blossom fell against his face, its touch sending shockwaves through his body and down to his fingers, each one causing the body beneath him to rise into his grip, pushing, hungry. Engulfed in devotion his body lost shape. Formless, free, his essence joined the sighs and flew. The tempo increasing. Spinning, swirling, sharing, his being becoming part of the ballet of souls. Sweet words of love. Sweet abuse of lust. Unity, at last, shades of blue emanate outward as his spirit expands. Welcomed, encouraged, the gravity of desire pulling him inside. There is no boundary, no distinction. Songs of elation breathe warm currents of comfort over the glowing sighs, shades of red pulse throughout as the air is charged. One soul, one heart. The chorus of passion raises its voice, pushing, forcing, violent movements cause a baritone to join the choir. Purple flashes shimmer as the dance intensifies, drums pounding as the world folds into a single point of existence. Past, present, future exist within the oneness of the unity, all is held captive inside for an instant. White light rips through the air, an exquisite tone sings out in release as stars penetrate the brightness. The chord is complete, the missing notes are found and the music of creation is born.

Parting, sliding apart, the stars fade, the choir disbands and the soul returns to the meat of the body.

6.

The bag held a key, The key.

Rising to his feet, his head in heaven, Fleischer lifted the now tiny bag. Its contents angular, metallic, warm. Tearing at the sac, his fingers slipping as he forced his fingers inside and pulled the glistening contents into the world. He dropped the empty skin onto the floor, its job done it was already starting to stiffen and cloud over. Slipping the key into his pocket Fleischer walked, stumbled, out of the delivery room, a cloud of red blossom swirling in his wake.

Taking the stairs he pushed himself from wall to wall, descending towards a different world, a world of cause and effect instead of Rapture and Damnation. His eyes aching to see people, needing it. Points of red light traced the outline of the walls and ceilings as he flung his shocked body downwards, onwards.

Cold darts of rain shocked his system as he stumbled out onto the pavement. Standing still Fleischer allowed the noise and activity around him to slowly seduce him back to some semblance of normality, and lifting his hands to his face, the last flashes of red leaping from his fingers, he brushed the rain from his eyes and up through his hair. Reaching down to his pocket he could feel the hard outline of the key through his jeans, sliding his fingers inside, the warm metal yielded under his scrutiny and waves of pride threatened to suffocate him. The street scene before him pulsed and swayed until he pulled his hands out of the cradle and everything snapped back into relief. Around him city life was penetrating its brutal way through time as people rushed from birth to death as fast as they could. Thousands of faceless drones all heading in the same direction, rippling out in waves from a central point. The Beginning. The End. Fleischer stared, his eyes like starving dogs greedily snatching at the vision that threatened to smash his soul into three pieces. At the centre of the expansion of lives a vertical river of gold pissed down onto the earth. Twisting and pulsing as it fell, the golden umbilical cord relentlessly pummelled the ground. Looking up to try to see the source, Fleischer realised that what he was trying to see was beyond his capability to comprehend, his sentience simply faded out the higher up he looked until his mind was nothing but fog and glue. His head slumped forward, the fog burning away as it fell and his eyes focussed on the scene where the river crashed into the ground.

As it hit, the colour changed from gold to red to purple and huge droplets were forced and expelled away from the column of warmth, clinging on till the last possible moment before separating and throwing themselves in concentric circles outward and upward. As they arced through the air, Fleischer could see life. Inside each drop existence was forming, foetuses curled like prawns before stretching out adolescent limbs and screaming silently. At the apex of their journey faceless men and women punched and kicked at the leathery skin of their flying prisons before collapsing breathless as the final descent began. Aged, twisted bodies spilled out onto the earth as the wombs burst on impact and amniotic fluid soaked into the ground. Immediately each life rose up and walked outwards. Wave after wave of blank, ageless bodies poured forth in all directions, unceasing, beautiful. Fleischer pushed his way through the living resistance, soft bodies yielding under his fingers as he swam through this tide of time. His feet sank into the ground, wet with the water of life, but he had to see more, had to get closer, the key in his pocket pulling him, leading him. The bodies stopped coming, his hands floundered in still air and his feet once again found firm purchase. Looking around he could see the great river crashing into the ground in front of him, creation flew over his head in giant drops and began behind him. Red lights swarmed over his skin, and the sound of crystal pierced his skull with daggers of diamond. In the centre of the maelstrom stood a tree, its branches pushed downwards by the force of ages yet still they bore blossom. Red. And at the point were the roots first took the Earth were five keyholes outlined in glimmering threads of red and gold and purple.

Fleischer took the Key from his pocket and felt it wrap itself around his hand, feeling the warm metal pushing itself into his skin, elongating itself along his fingers and pushing itself into his palm. Fleischer watched as the Key sent out feelers that encased his hand in a glove of fine mesh, there was no pain, instead a feeling of utter belonging and gratitude swept over him as the Key finished its work. Walking slowly towards the river Fleischer felt euphoric, his face smiling, his footsteps purposeful he was in love. The ringing, droning sound grew louder as he approached the downward rushing wall and the keyholes in the tree sang for him and pulsed their colours brightly, illuminating the golden movement surrounding them. Louder, louder the ringing, threatening to split his mind as it entered his body from all sides causing his arms and legs to spasm. The five part harmonies from the tree grew in volume battling the cacophony of the torrent in a vicious fight to the death. Swirling around his body the sounds battered and pierced each other, retreating and then advancing with swift and vicious movements and all the time Fleischer edged closer to the golden curtain. Lowering his head to look at the ground he prepared himself to enter. The droning grew monstrous and grabbed him, twisting his body and causing him to fall to the ground, so close. Curling up Fleischer felt himself fading becoming part of that hideous, huge sound that was becoming his universe. Then it was gone, the sound fleeing, retreating, as a warm chorus flooded through him its complex harmonies reaching into every corner of his being, its gentle rhythms cleansing and strengthening. The energy of the divine raised him to his feet and without a pause he ran head down into the source of everything.

Silence.

7.

White.

The tree stood before him its branches nodding and approving, the blossom swam to greet him, swarming around his body and laying themselves in a path at his feet, leading him towards the throbbing pulsing keyholes. Fleischer floated above the ground and with a backwards jerk of his arms drifted forwards. The holes were inflamed and pulsing, their thick rims alive with light and lust. Fleischer reached out his key hand and allowed it to pull him towards its sweet goal.

The moment so close, his arm straining, the tree pouting, panting. Gold and red swirled and danced together.

Black.

The eyes, the tree opened its eyes and the five mouths withdrew and trembled. His hand drew back in shock and Fleischer sank to the ground. So close.

Gold and black twisted and teased in front of his eyes, the vision of the tree starting to obscure, the once eager, now terrified keyholes were disappearing from view, obscured by the light from the eyes. The black light. The droning. Fleischer lay flattened against the earth, his body compressing. Around him the blackness solidified, trapping his body like a fly in amber and all the time the eyes grew larger, came closer, filled his existence.

Somewhere in the background five voices called out for him, the sound frail and weak barely alive and then they stopped. He could feel himself being torn apart, watched by the blackest of eyes, a glint of satisfaction apparent in their eternal, infinite stare. His thoughts slowed down, nonsense mingled with knowledge, spinning. His sense of self was being extracted, pressed from his now destroyed body, and with a final sickening lurch his conscience joined that of the myriad. Red.

8.

The members of The Committee cast their eyes downward. Failure. Again.
In the middle of their circle lay a naked, lifeless body. Wires ran from its eyes, its fingers, its feet, disappearing up into the blackness overhead. Out of the shadows a figure dressed in red robes, made from the sweetest smelling blossom, appeared. The circle of Committee members parted allowing the red figure to move silently through them and kneel before the broken body, red blossom swirling in its wake. Slowly the figure tilted its head back, the sound of air rushing through the room as it opened its mouth, inhaled and then screamed. At the sound of the scream the wires retracted from the body like burnt fingers and withdrew into their dark lair, the Committee members wailed and pushed their palms against their ears as they fell to their knees. A brilliant red glow emanated from the screaming figure, pulsing, twisting, enveloping, and then. Silence.

The robed banshee stood and turned. Silently it walked through the still stunned Committee members scattering the floor, and vanished once more into the shadows from where it came. The Committee composed itself. Their attention drawn to the doorway that now existed next to the failure, its outline traced by red and gold twisting threads. Their disappointment was absolute, he should have known how to react, all the clues had been given, the guidance provided, the preparation perfect. So close. Two members moved forward and lifted Fleischers body, the blood from his eyes, his hands, his feet poured down onto the ground before being absorbed into the ever hungry earth and as the rest of The Committee began a mournful chant the body was carried through the pulsing, grieving gateway.

The fields of marble and flesh stretched forever. Row upon row of naked, bleeding bodies lay upon white beds of stone. The ground was burnt red, stained with the blood of two thousand years and the sky boiled black. Gently, the latest to join this army of the failed was placed onto his eternal bed, face down, his arms outstretched to form the shape of a cross, the blood from his fingers irrigating the living marble. The pall bearers retreated slowly, their heads bowed in respect and passed through the doorway, joining their comrades with an exultant cry. Behind them the doorway faded, the defining lights losing their purpose and scattering onto the ground. Forming a single file, The Committee retreated into the darkness, their job beginning again. The selection of the next candidate must begin immediately, Immaculate conception was not easy, even with the technology now at their disposal, if only the architects of the original had passed on their techniques before taking their place in the stars.

The work begins again.

Blue.