DC Hellblazer: I'm Constantine

C6. I'm Constantine

"This hasn't been my day, mate."

If you could call it that—day or night lost meaning somewhere between the agony and the blinding green that took over. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no stranger to pain. Not the soul-splitting, limb-twisting kind, anyhow. Waking up hungover on a random day, sure, been there a hundred times. But this felt like waking up from a centuries-old curse with your soul still caught in the bloody riptide.

Hell, maybe that's exactly what it was.

But here's the rub: you'd think you'd catch a breather after an ordeal like that. A little "well done, John," for surviving a roasting fit for a demon lord. But no. I open my eyes—well, _try_ to—and I'm greeted by pitch-black. Not that comforting, creeping darkness you get when you close your eyes, but something thick, heavy, like it's alive and watching back. Like it's holding a grudge, waiting to strike if I step out of line.

And then there's this throbbing ache... _left side_, sharp as ever. The bloody price I pay for dancing on the edge of the abyss, I suppose. But what good is magic if you're not pushing it till it shoves back, right?

"JOHN CONSTANTINE!" The voice, when it hits, feels like a hammer to the gut. 

Great. Just what I needed. Not some comforting whisper from above, but a declaration loud enough to rattle a bloke's teeth loose. "Bollocks," I mutter, only to flinch again as that green light erupts, flooding the whole cursed scene around me.

Now, maybe I should've known better, seeing as how this lot never give a man his peace. But that light... it's bitter and cold, like someone brewed it out of spite. Cuts right through you, even worse than the pain.

I'd spit it out if I could, the taste of vengeance heavy on my tongue, but I keep my mouth shut, barely breathing as the green glow starts to take shape—some cloaked figure bathed in it, looking like he'd taken a personal issue with me making it through to sunrise.

*God?* Some small part of me wants to laugh, but another, much louder part knows better.

When he steps forward, shrouded in that fury and judgment, I feel it. Real. Heavy. Not just my usual dance with death, but a reckoning with a capital "R," as though every hex and dark deal I'd thrown into the void was about to come back tenfold.

Some blokes find themselves at the wrong end of a brawl for a pint of lager. Me? I'm here, standing—or more accurately, _reeling_—before a bloody god's reckoning. And this isn't some chat over tea and biscuits; this is the Spectre himself, and he's not here for pleasantries.

The Spectre. 

When he steps forward, it feels like the air itself turns to lead. I can barely breathe, can barely stand. His eyes—if you could call them that—are green, livid flames, and they pierce right through me, a burning judgment that doesn't give a damn about the pain I've already endured.

_God's own bloody messenger._ And what's my offense? Ah, just a little dabble in the forbidden. Not just any old curse, no—this was power beyond mortal reach, beyond _human_ grasp. Dominion over Hell and its demons. Not your standard rabbit-from-a-hat sort of magic. No, this is the sort of power that a bloke like me could only dream of… or stumble upon, like some cursed fool in an ancient tale.

How'd I get my hands on it? Not like I just conjured it out of thin air. The Keshanti Key. That cursed relic gave me a peek into the deepest, darkest recesses of my own mind—a place I've worked pretty damn hard to ignore. And there it was, waiting like a splinter buried under layers of scarred-over skin. I'd read about it once, ages ago, something ancient and forbidden, a magic meant only for the divine. The _old_ me, the half-decent John Constantine who hadn't crossed every last line, took one look and promised himself he'd never, _ever_ touch it. That man's long dead, though, isn't he? And what's left? A bastard bold enough to summon Hell's darkest powers at his whim.

"John Constantine." The Spectre's voice is cold, measured, as though he's reading my crimes straight from some celestial ledger. "You have crossed a line few have dared to imagine, invoking powers that only the Presence himself may wield."

He's right. I don't argue. There's no getting around it, no bloody clever comeback that'll save me. The magic I called upon wasn't mine to use, not by any stretch of mortal desperation. I'd _stolen_ it, in essence. Forced the powers of demon lords—The First, Blight, Nergal, the worst of Hell's vile ilk—into my own hands, breaking the chains that bind mortals from the divine.

"Yeah, well…" I force out, though my voice cracks under the weight of the Spectre's gaze. "I didn't do it on a lark, did I? Wasn't exactly on my bucket list, alright? You ever try having Hell at your doorstep, or every demon this side of the veil clawing for your soul?"

But he doesn't react, doesn't flinch. He's heard it all before, I suppose, every excuse a desperate soul's got to offer.

"You knew the cost, Constantine," he intones, his voice a relentless tide. "Dominion over Hell is not a prize for the clever or the bold. Such power is a sacrilege, one meant for the Presence alone… and those righteous enough to bear it."

I can barely breathe. The weight of his words presses down on me, suffocating, each syllable branding its meaning into my soul. _Righteous._ Me? I'm about as righteous as a used cigarette butt in a gutter.

Somebody like Merlin—sure, he probably fits that word. He used the same exact magic to bind Etrigan for centuries, earned himself a legacy for it because he was _righteous._ But me? I'm just a con artist who stole a power too dark for words, a blasphemy so vast it's a miracle I haven't already been dragged to hell and beyond for it.

I want to laugh, want to spit back some snarky comment to mask the raw fear gnawing at me, but I can't. Because he's right. What I did wasn't bravery—it was a theft. A damnable theft of a power so vast, so unholy, it couldn't be anything but a sin. And in that moment, I realize there's no running from it, no banishing this with some last-minute incantation. I'm stripped bare, and every deal, every hex, every dark deed I've ever done is weighing me down like a bloody anchor.

Yet, there's a flicker of something else deep down. Hope. Maybe just a gambler's last hand, but hope nonetheless.

Spectre raises his hand, and I feel the temperature around me drop. His judgment doesn't need words—his presence alone feels like the reckoning itself, a silence more terrible than any shout. I feel the pain creeping back in, searing hot, as though the fires I tried to command have turned against me. A fitting punishment, perhaps, but no less brutal.

"There are costs beyond your understanding, John Constantine. Costs that extend beyond your soul."

I choke back a bitter laugh. "Well, mate, I've never been shy at a poker table."

He doesn't respond. But the green light flares, brighter, harsher. I feel my very bones rattle, as if my body's about to tear apart from the inside. This isn't death, no, this is worse. This is a punishment tailored for the likes of me—a fate worse than damnation, a cosmic reminder that there are boundaries even I am not allowed to cross.

The light blinds me, burning its way into every part of my mind. Faces flash before my eyes—those I've betrayed, demons I've struck deals with, allies lost to my ambition. Then, clear as crystal, I see my own soul: twisted, scorched, a testament to every sin that clings to me like a curse.

Then—

The atmosphere shifts. The light's intensity flickers, and the image of my soul burns brighter, sharper. The pressure from the Spectre's presence falters, as if he's the one caught off guard.

A second passes. The fire in his eyes dims… then flares back, fiercer, as though he's seen something in me, something he didn't expect. "Your soul," he murmurs, voice like a razor. "What is it about your _soul_?"

My spine stiffens. I want to smile in triumph, but I keep my poker face.

"John Constantine," the Spectre's voice cuts through again, but it lacks the certainty it once held. "For your transgressions, for the power you've stolen and the souls you've bound, you will bear the weight of your crimes for eternity."

He's delivered God's judgment. I brace myself, waiting for it to hit. The green light dims, his presence recedes, and I'm alone. The wrath fades… yet I feel unchanged.

I can't help but wonder if that last hand—the hope I'd staked everything on—had actually pulled through, or if I'm just fooling myself into thinking I had a shot.

Then, suddenly, everything shifts. A chill crawls up my spine, and before I know it, I'm gasping, my eyes flying open.

My heart slams against my ribs as I'm pinned to the ground, struggling, gasping for breath. My mind's a haze, but I know this isn't the end—not yet.

"Calm down, Constantine!"

The voice slices through the fog, familiar, yet it sends a cold shiver down my spine. Zatanna. But she's not alone.

Through the haze, I make out the shadow of the Dark Knight looming above me.

Zatanna's grip tightens, her voice softer now. "You were out of it, John. Try to relax."

I swallow hard, struggling to breathe. "God's judgment…" The words come out rasping, more a question than a statement as I try to shake off the disorienting fog clouding my mind.