Itching at the dry skin, then nibbling at the cuticles around a nail brought instant and deep satisfaction. Then another nibble, and another flake peeled perfectly in tact. Then a scab removed to taste the salty blood. Another flake, another nail, a chip, a tear another drop of blood. Licking at the sore, then nibbling some more, a few more scabs, another flake, a sudden deep scratch.
More layers of skin peeled back, burning pain and sudden relief. The itch was deep and the hunger only worsening. Blood dripping from both hands now and midway up the arm, licking sucking and drinking the warm, coppery liquid. Digging deeper and deeper, tearing and biting of chunks, eating and drinking.
Still, the angel wasn’t satisfied. “More, more, more,” it urged. “Eat your body and drink your blood. You are your own savior, partake and be cleansed.”
The first bite of bone followed by a scream of agony and joy. Gnawing and ripping and dripping, covered in vermillion sticky goo and bits of flesh. The transformation continued and the angel’s four smiles grew wider.
“You know,” it purred, “I once struck an entire army blind and slaughtered them all before nightfall. This is much more fun.”
The chewing slowed as the stomach was stretched full.
“Don’t stop,” it commanded, “only by consuming the sacrament can you be made new.” But after a mere hour, the feast came to a halt and the person slumped over dead.
The angel pouted and all of its winged eyes rolled in unison. “Bummer. I’ll have to think of a way to keep them alive longer.” It turned toward the arched doorway and shouted. “I’ve got another corpse. Try to have it revived while you bring in the next one.”
“Oh well,” it thought, “on the upside, Hell isn’t going to run out of Christians anytime soon.”