Memento Mori

“We were caught unawares – nevermore, never again. To show mercy to the Janub is to profane humanity.” – General Torgald, before the slaughter at Yirnam

What is it to die? Does some immortal part of us pass through the invisible veil of this material realm, to the great unknown – or is it just a simple cutting of the thread, an end of a story, a flat-line? What is it to commit suicide then, to consciously end the state of being of oneself?

The thoughts rushed through Bartholomew’s mind like a hurricane. Semi-coherent, unformed things that slashed at his psyche like razorblades. A tall, slender man of pale complexion, he sat on the unkempt bed of his one-room apartment staring at the small glass table with an empty glare. His eyes were light brown, but the spark of life in them was not present. If someone were to look at his expression of utter resignation illumined by streetlamps, would cause them a great discomfort. Clothed with simple jeans and a t-shirt, his ash-blonde hair disheveled, the sharp lines of his visage adorned by a several-day stubble, he resembled a grotesque statue of once-a-man. A man, who in all essential sense, was no more. An empty husk, devoid of that untouchable, immaterial thing which makes one human.

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Vivid Nightmares

Dreamer oh dreamer, you –
who are paralyzed in terror by the conjurings of your mind –
whose mind’s eye sees the blood yet to be spilled –
the cries yet to be heard –
the suffering yet to be felt –
Embrace the whole that is you –
Blinding light of the Angel –
The fire and fury of the Beast –
They are you, you are them

You are just a fleeting existence,

A daemon who stirred the ocean of unlife,
Cursed to see the truths beyond the veil,
Cursed to sample the suffering yet to come,
Dwelling in the cracks between shadows,
A soulless tool, witness it,
witness it all,
For you can bear this burden,
So others won’t have to,
Sleep,
Sleep

Photo by Heorhii Heorhiichuk from Pexels

The Lady’s Embrace

The man writhed in the sublime agony of the fever, slick with pearly beads of sweat glistening on his tortured visage. His gaze was empty and unfocused, searching restlessly for something in the distance of the poorly lit room. The veiled lady stood above him and chuckled slightly.
“My poor dear Will,” her voice a cold, ghastly whisper, “why do you torment yourself thustly? What is it you are trying to accomplish?”
The man turned his gaze towards her slender figure, trying and to recognize face beneath the veil.
“I… where’s… Layla…” he muttered, in the firm grip of delirium.
“She’s not here, Will. She never was.”
“You… lie…” Will accused her, “she… was… right..ther…” he said pointing towards an empty spot. “I… heard… her… voice…” he caughed and for a moment his eyes rolled back into his skull. The veiled lady enjoyed his suffering immensly. She loomed over his prone form on the bed and smiled with an ugly smile behind the dark veil.
“Aah yes, her voice. The damned echo that keeps me apart from you, my dear Will. How I loathe it,” she screamed in jealous rage and clenched her fist above him, “how I wish to throttle the life out the throat which births it!”
She was furious, mad with rage and her eyes burned with the red of arterial blood, like twin firestorms beneath the veil. It was Will’s turn to laugh but he could only manage  a rictus grin. Continue reading

The Final Embrace

‘Tap, tap, tap…’ droplets of water fall freely in the half-filled tub steaming with hot water. Helen sits in the next room on the couch they used to share staring on the floor upon which he took his first steps. Little Adrian… her son and life, now gone. Memories come unbidden to her mind of  their lovely laughter. Adrian’s and Victor’s. Their home was once filled with warmth of family and pure joy of life itself.  Now, its icy touch creeps upon her pale skin, freezing the blood in her veins, her heart waning in the colorless days which go by without notice. Only the color of despair and shades of emptiness are her entire world. Victor was gone now, taking their son with them – “because of your erratic behavior, I won’t let your destroy our son,” – it said in the letter which now burns in the fireplace.

Did he ever really know the struggle of being different?  Did he ever truly know how it was to be afraid of one’s own mind? Did he ever truly believe she would put her light and soul in the form that lovely bundle of hands and feet and toes in danger? How could he even imagine such a heartless act?

Heartless, that is what she was now. The pain of losing them both overwhelmed her and it has become too much to bear. The undeniable truth of that complete and silent loneliness bores inside her skull, and she can almost hear the accusations and the mockery.

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The Last Moments of Jackie Grant

The noise within has grown to a rumbling roar,
Tears streak freely, Her head a complete mess,
This torture of decades she can no longer bear,
The fire in her violet eyes vanished, she has failed the test,

The icy cold talons ravage her soul with relentless disdain,
The world is forever blind to her misery and pain,
Even the one she held true to her heart,
Left her to rot at the station, when he boarded that train

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