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The End |
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azblond Senior Member
since 1999-07-01
Posts 637The Steamy Desert 
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In the darkness I begin my hollow tale of things you cannot imagine. I hope you do not relate to my story, it is much too much of a living nightmare for me to ever want anyone to share with me their memories of the same. Yet I know there are those of you who exist with the same story, hidden deep inside, or maybe so close to the surface it is beginning to drive you insane. I did not want to remember. I fought against those who told me the only way to move forward was to take the steps back. I allowed myself to wrap into the shadow world, to close my eyes and sleep. Sleep it all away, where the only thing to fear was the nightmares, and those I would not remember in the few hours I was awake. Sleep was a comfort to me, even when it was sweat soaked and restless. It was my way of…what is the word the doctors used? Avoidance? Whatever, it was escape. Then came the concerned calls from those who say they knew me well. Who are these people? I dare not call them friends, I remember their faces from brief periods when I existed in that world, doing what you are supposed to, moving throughout the daytime in a circle of what society deems to be the way things work. What do they know? There are things that work so outside of their narrow sight lines, they would shudder in fear and run for the darkness, run for sleep, tortured or not. They would run too. I ended up in the county clinic. I awoke from one of my wondrous sleep escapes, and he was there in his clinical white coat, standing over me asking me to share what I had been screaming about. Share? As though saying the words aloud would make them go away? Did he not understand that I sleep so that I do not have to share the story? Silly man, go away. I do not want to come out and play. I’m hurting no one, why don’t they all just leave me alone? That was the start of rehashing this nightmare. They locked me in this place, full of drafts, and crazy noises. Sounds of the insane. Screams that come in the middle of the night, tortured, helpless. Then came those therapy sessions. They won’t allow me to sleep in this place as long as I want. I must meet with these people and discuss my feelings. They are the insane ones…I have no feelings. They fed them to the monsters all those years ago. That is what I had been trying to forget. Now I remember. And if it is the only way to escape the story from recycling over and over, then I give in. I will tell it, one time, and one time only, and then there will be no more. A child cries in the middle of the night, dragged form her bed, not yet fully awake, yearning to go back to sleep. The hood is placed over her petite blond head, no holes for eyes, pulled tightly so that she cannot breathe. Is this the way it feels to die, to suffocate? Her lungs expand so tightly, she can no longer cry, she thinks only of breathing, of trying to taste the sweetness of pure oxygen. She is beyond afraid, pushed so far into her fear, the only emotion is compliance. They lead her to a room, she guesses it is a room, and pulls the hood from her head. She gasps in the air, breathes it, thankful to finally be free. The monsters are moving around her, chanting in the monotonous rhythm that is both fearful yet somehow soothing. Dressed in black, their grotesque faces hidden behind draping hoods. Candles flicker all around the room, and the child, she is placed on a cement block. The monsters move closer, touching her, chanting faster, and softer, a hush that is so low, it pounds in her ears as though they were screaming. One of them pulls a blade from a sheath, and stands above her, the flicker of the candles are dancing in the gleam of the silver. It is high, so high, and the child can only stare in awe and wonder what will happen next. She is so far beyond fear and cannot even cry anymore. Don't cry little girl. Don’t let them see you afraid. The monsters need your emotions to live in the world. The want to steal your soul, give it away to the angels before they take it from you! I cannot go on, I can’t tell the story. I can not exist. The little girl gave in, she cried, and begged, she screamed. They captured her essence, her beauty, her heart that could love. I watched from above in the shadows. I belonged to the monsters. I was their own spawn. They killed that child, as I stood watching, and they made me one of them, one who hides in shadows, afraid to live, afraid to breathe. The story stops, the knife blade flickers. It plunges in my heart. The only escape was not sleep. I remember now, I cannot be here to tell the tale. I was the child, they won, and now I remember. They stole my soul, how can I relate to any of you? I allow myself to give in to the madness, chase away the last few thoughts of lucidity, and the story ends. ------------------ Let my words fall first upon deaf ears before a closed mind... |
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| © Copyright 1999 MiChelle Van Vleet - All Rights Reserved | |||
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DreamEvil Member Elite
since 1999-06-22
Posts 2396 |
This is a sad tale you have brought to our home in Prose Az. Truly I hope this is fiction as ritual abuse is a vile thing indeed. 'Tis often discounted as implanted memory or fantasy and though much is exactly that, enough ritual abuse happens to cause society to deny the existence of such perverse acts. Well told tale my wayward and errant friend. ------------------ Now and forever my heart hears ~one voice~. DreamEvil© |
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Systematic Decay Senior Member
since 1999-09-15
Posts 1301That place with padded walls and funny people in white......... |
I too hope that it was a fictional work... There was one thing in it i could relate to all too well...... "They won’t allow me to sleep in this place as long as I want. I must meet with these people and discuss my feelings. They are the insane ones…I have no feelings." Anyway, great story ------------------ "Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage." -Billy Corgan- |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Interesting story here... maybe all too realistic...spooky! |
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Michael
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-13
Posts 7666California |
azblond, I won't question fictionality at all here. Vivid imagery, I saw the whole poem unfolding before my eyes. Extraordinary piece. ------------------ Michael Anderson Loneliness isn't in being alone; Loneliness is alone in being. |
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azblond Senior Member
since 1999-07-01
Posts 637The Steamy Desert |
Fiction in every word, but alive in my mind, twisting and turning. To think there are those with stories such as this known as the truth...I shudder in fear. ------------------ Let my words fall first upon deaf ears before a closed mind... |
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Dragoness Senior Member
since 1999-08-07
Posts 513 |
Very vivid and frightening.Excellent writing. ------------------ Set you heart free and your mind will follow. |
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