Pompeii
Vesuvius is angry. She frowns down at us, burping fire from her hellish mouth. She is Christ’s wife, ready, burning, to avenge his life. She shoots spies; small clever flakes with fiery tails that settle. The spies are on all of us, a deadly blanket; on our smouldering rooftops, in the fields, and burying like worms into our skin.
She is everywhere, there is no escape.
Some said the spies will crawl up our noses and down our throats to squeeze our heavy hearts, suffocating us from the inside. I believed this, but as I sit here waiting for the end I realise their purpose is far worse. Scalding us, we must be punished for our wrongs. Let us be covered, let us be cooked from the inside. It’s time to face our fate.
There are two types of believers; the ones that think she will protect us, that this is our warning, that we must behave. Then there are the others, like me, who know it is simply too late.
Violet Dahl
