Bob
The light hunkers down in the corner, as if unwilling to illumine anything it doesn’t have to. There’s stuff out there beyond that turbid puddle of light you don’t want to see. This is not the sanctified darkness of the confessional and you’re not standing at an altar; this is the darkness of slow-dripping corruption and what you have to confess, nobody wants to hear.
Those shapes shuffling off in the shadows are seeking out the boundaries of their own sins. Leave them be; they’re seeking an event horizon, the tipping point at which sin slides irrevocably into damnation. The trick is to see how close you can come to the edge without toppling in, how long you can stay there before it becomes impossible to draw back. How long until it doesn’t matter, how long until drawing back is just another sort of damnation.
Stay or go, flip a coin. Either way there will be hell to pay.
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