7/17/08

My step falters as my vision blurs. The ground is no longer discernible from the sky, the asphalt (I can feel how it burns the soles of my feet) crumbles beneath me as my resolve in this situation surely gives way. Thick armor is no longer an option as I become more vulnerable and more susceptible to attack. I can feel a scream boiling in my throat, melting my words as they come out of this pen in a thin line of blood. "This seems familiar," I think to myself as I reach behind me to pull this knife from my back. What a coincidence. I reach to cover the sting emanating from my neck, near my jugular, only to find your fangs buried deep. Losing blood, losing sleep- it all feels the same these days. My eyes flutter, my heart skips a beat, then
black.
I hear your movements, and all the words you whisper as I am hidden away in your closet. You're sure I'm dead (or hopefully severely wounded) and no remorse comes forth from your lips. Time passes and I can feel your sanity slip along with your sobriety. It's better this way you say, as you tie the strings to my wrists and legs. Movement for the otherwise incapacitated, you explain. You hang me high upon a shelf, another marionette for your collection, with a solemn face. Devoid of any sign of life. Turning, you pull another knife from your belt and head for the door, as the night is still young. You stop short of the door to check your reflection in a dirty mirror. Your step falters, your legs give way, your hear skips a beat. You collapse and lay sprawled on the floor. Face down. How surprising. I would have guessed you would have known to fall backwards. But then again you've always shoved the knife deeper without purpose.