Level 4 : How to Become a God

High ceiling. Stained glass bleeding light. The choir sings, voices echoing off the stone, spouting holy words like ancient spells. Mystical. Sacred. Performative.

The people rise when they’re told. Kneel on cue. Close their eyes and begin to sing. Identical faces. Identical gestures. Like a ritual rehearsal. Like a trance. What they’re experiencing is what sociologists call Collective Effervescence. Emotional Contagion. One spark of faith ignites the whole room.

They think it’s the Holy Spirit. But it’s just neurochemistry and social mimicry.

They feel holy. They feel chosen. They feel something.

And then when they leave it faded.

One of the greatest schemes in human history is religion. A masterpiece of mass manipulation. And for what? Who benefits from all of this?

The ones on top, of course. The charismatic. The performers. The self-declared prophets with stage presence and perfect timing, claiming divine appointment, pretending to lead the lost toward salvation, promising paradise to the obedient and fire to the defiant.

Because no one wants to burn forever. Not even the worst of us.

So, the hopeless obey. The broken kneel. The ones with nothing left to cling to, they crawl to the altar, begging for mercy. And the Church? It hands them just enough hope to keep them coming back. A whisper of forgiveness. A promise of heaven. A myth that one day the Son of God will return to gather the faithful... and damn the rest.

Such mercy. Such love. Wrapped in eternal threat.

Suddenly, a gentle touch tapped my shoulder.

-- Hey, are you okay? --

It was Annie.

I had drifted too deep into my thoughts. I’d forgotten where I was. We were inside the church, she had asked me to come with her, which, of course, I anticipated. She thought bringing me here meant something. She thought she was saving me.

I'm not the one who need the saving, she is, I will save her from this cruel thing called life, and hand it over to her God.

- I'm okay. I just realized I should come here more often. - I said, smiling as I looked into her eyes. -

She nodded eagerly, her face lighting up.

-- I told you! Can you feel the presence of God? -- she asked, hopeful.

The priest rang the bell. A crisp, delicate chime. Everyone began to kneel again in perfect unison.

-- This is the part where you pray. -- Annie whispered.

So, I knelt. Hands together. Head bowed.

And I began to whisper.

Dear God,

She kneels beside me, eyes closed, hands folded, thinking this is where salvation begins. Let her believe it. Let her feel holy. Let her feel safe. And when the time comes, let her not see it coming. Let her think it's mercy. Let the knife glide like your will. precise, quiet, divine. I will not scream. I will not flinch. I will be your silence in flesh. I will deliver her to you, not out of hate, but out of love. Your child is coming home.

Amen.

The bell rings again. They rise like clockwork.

Eyes closed. Lips moving. Asking permission from something they’ll never hear.

But I hear it now.

I’m not talking to God.

I’m talking to myself.

And maybe… that makes me the God.

A few minutes pass. The final hymn fades like smoke. The congregation rises with it.

Everyone stands, but Annie lingers. still, silent. She closes her eyes. And in that moment, the light spills through the stained-glass windows, breaking into golds, blues, and violets and washes over her like something from a dream, each hue bending itself around her, illuminating her pale skin until it almost glows. Her hair catches the light like soft flame. Her face is calm, reverent, lips parted slightly as she hums the final note of the hymn beneath her breath.

Her skin, untouched. Her eyes, upturned like she can see something I don’t. She’s beautiful in the most dangerous way. Too bright. Too innocent. Too good to be breathing the same air as the rest of us. People like her don’t survive long. They aren’t made to. The world eats them. Corrupts them. Tears them apart slowly and names its mercy.

But I can do better than that. She doesn’t belong here. among filth, flesh, and failure. I’ll preserve her before the world rots her soul.

She stands up and we follow the crowd toward the exit, step by step, heel to stone, each echo bouncing off the walls like a ticking clock. It’s irritating, sharp, rhythmic, relentless.

With every step, the noise digs deeper, scratching something raw inside me. The kind of irritation most people would call anger. But I’m not most people.

Only the thought of killing calms me. When the world becomes too loud, I imagine them clinging to life like it means something.
And I imagine my blade slowly entering their body, reminding them it doesn’t.

I don't usually let it get this far. I keep myself composed. Emotions are obstacles and clouds the judgment.

Still, today is different. Today, I’ve decided, Annie dies. Not out of hate. Not out of urgency. But as a divine providence.

Annie walks beside me, quiet, thoughtful. We follow the dirt path through the village, the air already warming beneath the early sun. Roosters crow in the distance. A dog barks once, then nothing. Just silence and gravel underfoot.

At the usual corner, she slows. The Bible is still clutched to her chest, spine worn, cover softened from years of handling. She turns back.

Before she gets too far, I called her name once again.

- Annie, Are you free later? I want to show you something. - I asked.

she nods and smile. I return it with my own.

-- Okay then. See you later. -- She said, with excitement and curiosity in her voice.

She continues walking, her figure slowly swallowed by the village road, humming to herself like always, as I watch her go,

Now, what's the plan?

My best shot is being alone with Annie. This village is small. One road, a few houses, and not many people outside. Past the road is a forest at the foot of the mountain, quiet, thick, and empty. Perfect for a simple kill. But not for Annie.

Not someone like her. If this is where her soul leaves her body, it should matter. It should mean something. I could choose for her. But maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should ask her where she wants to rest...

Later that day.

I’m in the yard, sitting, pretending to water the plants. The soil’s already damp. The can is empty. I’m just waiting.

Then her voice cuts through the silence.

— So… where are we going? — she asks, fingers brushing the gate latch like she’s unsure whether to come in or wait to be welcomed.

– Wherever you want. I just… I want to tell you something. – I meet her eyes.

– A kind of confession. – I said, Then I look back down at the dirt. Like a child before a parent. Like a student before a teacher. and like a sinner before a priest.

-- How about, Behind the church. I go there sometimes. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The Sunset makes it beautiful. -- She suggested

- Do you think the priest would allow us? -

-- OfCourse i always come there whenever I need a lone time, where i can read the bible peacefully --

– Okay then, let’s go. –

She turns, walking ahead, and I follow. As we leave, I slip the garden knife into my waistband, hidden beneath my shirt.

With each step, I hear it, like a clock ticking inside my skull. I can’t tell if it’s real or just my pulse. Either way, it’s loud. And I can’t stop smiling.

I look at her, just a few steps ahead, sunlight softening around her like a halo and I imagine the blade tracing her throat. A single line. Clean.

We reach the church. There’s a narrow gate beside the building, old, iron, quiet when she pushes it open.

As we step in the garden, a strong wind blows.

A garden full of life.

Rows of wildflowers sway gently with the breeze lavender, marigold, and something white I don’t recognize. The grass is overgrown in places. Ivy creeps up the stone wall behind the church, curling around the old bricks like green veins. There’s a wooden bench near the back, weathered and cracked, but still standing. A place to sit. To rest.

The sunlight slants low now, casting everything in a golden haze. Bees hum lazily between the blossoms. The scent of soil, petals, and faint incense from inside the church hangs in the air. For a moment, it’s almost too perfect.

Annie smiles.

-- Isn’t it beautiful? -- she says, twirling slightly, her fingertips brushing a flower’s head.

She sees peace.

But I see something else.

I see how the petals bruise under her touch. I see where the weeds choke the roots. I see the bench—not as a place to sit, but a place to lay her down. Somewhere soft, somewhere sacred. Somewhere no one comes often.

Yes. It’s perfect.

Annie stands still, looking out as the sun begins to set. Orange light catches in her hair. She’s not moving. Just watching.

I walk slowly behind her, savoring the moment. Every ticking second hums through my bones. The most satisfying part of killing isn’t the death, it’s the struggle. The way they try to hold on. The desperate flailing against the inevitable.

It's quiet. Neither of us says a word. The garden feels like a painting, still, golden and sacred.

Then the sun dips below the horizon. I reach for the garden knife, fingers brushing the handle at my waist.

But before I can move, Annie speaks.

-- I don’t know why, but… I always notice you drift off in thought. What are you thinking? I want to know you more. I used to be lost too, before I gave myself to God. If there’s something you can’t tell anyone, you can tell me. I’ll listen. I know God will forgive you. --

I freeze. My hand clenches the knife, tight enough to whiten the knuckles. You weren’t supposed to speak, Annie. This was supposed to be perfect. The sun, the stillness, the moment I deliver you to your God without interruption. And then you opened your mouth. Soft voice, soft words, forgiveness, God, compassion, NONSENSE. It spills into the air like poison, staining everything I’ve prepared. My heartbeat spikes. My thoughts blur. I want to cut your throat mid-sentence and watch the blood drown your kindness. You ruined it. You took something sacred and made it human. I should’ve done it the moment we stepped through the gate.

I felt humiliated. But instead of fury, my brain twisted it into laughter. And I laughed.

- Annie… do you think God would forgive me? -

She turned, smiling gently, like she always does.

-- Of course He wi— --

She didn’t finish. I cut her off, literally. The blade tore across her throat before the sentence could leave her lips. Not a slash. A sawing, deliberate drag, from one side to the other. I clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the wet gurgle as her body convulsed violently. She thrashed, but I held firm. The knife bit deeper, metal grinding against cartilage, splitting skin, muscle, and the frantic flutter of her throat beneath it.

Blood erupted, hot, thick, arterial. It sprayed across my arm, my face, the garden. The flowers turned red, drenched like they were made for this. Her knees buckled. Her fingers clawed at me, then went slack.

Her eyes found mine one last time, wide and trembling. Then nothing.