Circle Eight: The Sowers of Discord

In the next pit, Virgil and I came across a great mass of horrifyingly mutilated souls. Men were split haphazardly in all ways; from their mouths to their bottoms. Their skin curled outward at the edges of the wounds. Intestines made their way out of abdomens, tangling with other organs. Most sinners had given up on trying to gather slippery insides up for safe keeping. My instincts told me to help them, but they were already dead. One could suffer, but one couldn't die.

These were the sowers of scandal and schism. They are torn apart in death just as they tore others apart in life.

A devil stands near those who march in this ditch. He is their butcher. His sword, as long as and heavy as I, stays forever sharp as it slashes flesh. His arms never tire. After slashing the bodies, they walk in a circle until they're back to the demon. While walking, their wounds heal painfully; as if a knife were zipping them up. They are whole again by the time they reach the devil.

I began to scan the bodies of the souls in order to see their wounds. One had a gash across his face, another was missing a limb entirely, a third had a slash completely down his back. One man, who had spoken with such hate during life had his tongue cut off.

The worst though, I couldn't even believe. He had his head completely taken off. He continued to walk, his chest rose and fell, his arm was raised and his fingers could clearly grip. The monster seemed to be holding a lantern of some sort. But this lantern...it had hair, it had features. This lantern was his own severed head. It still spat blood as he walked. I wanted to be sick, but I was past fainting. I gathered my strength. If he could bear such a burden and continue on, I could as well.

Still, I felt tears welling up. My guide hurried me on with scolding words.