Choir Of Furies

The melody of terror vibrates inside... screaming reminders, like broken fingernails clawing at the rough pavement. Every act brings it's own verse, the judgment and redemption are unending... there is no atonement or salvation pending. This round bellied beast has become the feast, on which the diners never cease... no peace, no release. Confessions are moot... in this godless court, I stand accused and accountable. Still, the desire remains to voice every incident. To some how release my own guilt at the very least... raised corpses, daughters and neighbors waiting for reprisal. The words are like sand in my throat... choking me as I gasp for the air to cough them out once and for all. The more I struggle, the more I am suffocated... like warm, stale breath whispered over and over in the victim's ear. I can still taste the sweat from my brow, smell the hair and fluids that were spilled upon the cold concrete and see the trembling bedsheets. Each moment sparked with a smile... lights dim as reason and remorse left my side. I just didn't want to be left all alone... I couldn't stand being alone any longer. The closet is crowded now... all of us together, forever.

The Others

It all started with a rapping at my bedroom window... three stories above the earth, with no place which to step. Starting slowly at first, they entered with such grace as they stepped, danced, and swam about the room. The light hum of indistinct conversation... separated and without purpose. What wonderful company, delightful really... filling the emptiness, the void. I'll never feel alone again... reaching, crawling, scratching. Echos screeching from hollow mouths... mixing into a mass in each throat. They are clear now, every word, every noise, every heartbeat ripping at my mind and stabbing at my throat... the blood pounds deep within, echoing in my own head. Now each with their own purpose and ideas they chatter... this, that and the other one. My voice is lost among the din and my will is null as I become the moppet... each voice with it's own desire and the collective with one agenda. One stands alone, more selfish than the last... the cat, for he is the Master and I am now the mouse. My breath smells of bleach and I have bitten the nubs of my fingertips raw, but the bottle is still closed and out of reach. Drink it. Drink it... these words thrash me relentlessly. Treats for my dearest Sweet... many more treats they promise.