The Days Go By {mylee}
May 6, 2012 16:21:26 GMT -5
Post by Minerva on May 6, 2012 16:21:26 GMT -5
I'm having one of my fits, seeing everone I've killed. There's no other explanation for my bizarre surroundings. I haven't actually killed many people, just my mother and that boy from the children's home. But the others, mice, toads, bugs, the cat, all come to haunt me in the shape of human beings. They always tell me that I killed them the day I drowned a mouse, or strangled a toad. But I've never really been sure if they mean that they physically are the mouse or toad or whatever, or if they mean that when I killed the toad or mouse, I actually killed a physical person, living somewhere far away. Does that make sense? Somehow, when I'm seeing them, they're so real. I think they must be real people.
People always think of death as black. But they're so wrong. Death is a whirling of different colors, barely distinguishable from one another, yet blinding and overwhelming. One little girl apppears blue and dripping, she is a mouse I drowned. Next a boy, bruised a disgusting shade of purple, a toad I beat to death. And old woman, I see her often, a raw shade of pink, the cat I skinned. Another girl, sickly yellow, a toad I suffocated. And always my mother, bloody red, screaming at me in a voice that overwhelms everything. Then all the colors blend together in a piercing white, so bright, so dangerous. That's when the black comes. After you can't bear the white any longer, you go completely blind. And then all you can feel is the howling of deadly shadows, the clutching of formless shades, rising up to torture the little girl, Camilla Seledn, who killed all of them for her own pleasure. That's when the death becomes black.
And then the blackness stops, and I hear the sound of crickets, feel the cool night breeze upon my face. The last of the shades have left, I can feel that I am alone. I open my eyes slowly. I'm lying on the worn wooden floor of my dilapedated old ranch house. Not mine actually, some generous Peacekeeper's. Not that he's ever shown is face around here before. I sit up straight and look around, must be about 2:00 a.m. I feel my stomach churn and lay back down again.
I've never been drunk. Which is amazing I guess, considering how badly I'd like to escape from this hell we call life. Not as though I really need help escaping, I think, that's why I have these horrific vision nightmares. Anyway, I've never been drunk, so I've never had to deal with a hangover. But I'm pretty sure that this must be what it feels like. I just keep laying there, too exhausted to get up, to get food, to wash off, even though those are the things I need most. After all, who knows how long I've been out? I think I might drift off to sleep though. The breeze is so cool, so fresh and pure. Different entirely from those suffocating shadows. It reminds me of when I was young, before I killed my mother. Back when she loved me.
On those nights we would stay up late and she would tell me stories. Then she'd leave the house to go get some cold water from the nearby well. And I'd wait expectantly for her return, because I had just thought of something funny I wanted to tell her. As I drift off I can almost hear her footsteps approaching, I can hear the door open. As I lose conciousness again, I am vaguely aware that these sounds are all too real, too present. Almost like she never died...
People always think of death as black. But they're so wrong. Death is a whirling of different colors, barely distinguishable from one another, yet blinding and overwhelming. One little girl apppears blue and dripping, she is a mouse I drowned. Next a boy, bruised a disgusting shade of purple, a toad I beat to death. And old woman, I see her often, a raw shade of pink, the cat I skinned. Another girl, sickly yellow, a toad I suffocated. And always my mother, bloody red, screaming at me in a voice that overwhelms everything. Then all the colors blend together in a piercing white, so bright, so dangerous. That's when the black comes. After you can't bear the white any longer, you go completely blind. And then all you can feel is the howling of deadly shadows, the clutching of formless shades, rising up to torture the little girl, Camilla Seledn, who killed all of them for her own pleasure. That's when the death becomes black.
And then the blackness stops, and I hear the sound of crickets, feel the cool night breeze upon my face. The last of the shades have left, I can feel that I am alone. I open my eyes slowly. I'm lying on the worn wooden floor of my dilapedated old ranch house. Not mine actually, some generous Peacekeeper's. Not that he's ever shown is face around here before. I sit up straight and look around, must be about 2:00 a.m. I feel my stomach churn and lay back down again.
I've never been drunk. Which is amazing I guess, considering how badly I'd like to escape from this hell we call life. Not as though I really need help escaping, I think, that's why I have these horrific vision nightmares. Anyway, I've never been drunk, so I've never had to deal with a hangover. But I'm pretty sure that this must be what it feels like. I just keep laying there, too exhausted to get up, to get food, to wash off, even though those are the things I need most. After all, who knows how long I've been out? I think I might drift off to sleep though. The breeze is so cool, so fresh and pure. Different entirely from those suffocating shadows. It reminds me of when I was young, before I killed my mother. Back when she loved me.
On those nights we would stay up late and she would tell me stories. Then she'd leave the house to go get some cold water from the nearby well. And I'd wait expectantly for her return, because I had just thought of something funny I wanted to tell her. As I drift off I can almost hear her footsteps approaching, I can hear the door open. As I lose conciousness again, I am vaguely aware that these sounds are all too real, too present. Almost like she never died...
