I imagined opening my guts. I remembered the feeling of Asmodeus inside me and the way those claws pressed against the skin of my stomach. How easily it could have punctured me, then. How easy it would have been to spill my internal organs, to have them cascade out in a steaming, looping mess across the ground. Asmodeus would have used that new hole, I had no doubt; it did not care for me, not in the slightest. And this lack of care—this true apathy, which sat in such stark contrast to God’s divine and endless love—aroused me more than anything else.
