7.4 on the Scary Scale
Disturbed and restless night; haunted by gruesome visions. Running. Fighting. Arguing. Caught up in a crazed panic. Some God-awful distopia, cursed with perpetual night, peopled by desperate vagrants and devilish madmen. An entire race in wretched rags. A population of psychotic tramps, thin and gaunt, eyes bloodshot and bulging. They steal, stab and scavenge to survive. Every man for himself...
Running amongst them, horrified by what I see. A stranger's shoulder collides with mine. Eye contact. A menacing look.
"Sorry..."
The stranger gives a sadistic smile, his lips a pale isle of pink amidst a sea of stubble.
"Too late for that" he snarls and suddenly he's chasing me, roaring and screaming - a battle cry that calls to him companions. Engulfed by absolute terror, franticly fleeing on anguished, automatic-pilot . Scrambling down dark streets we race, six or seven athletic lunatics hot on my heels. Wheezing, panting, sweating pure adrenaline. On and on it goes, the furious horde recruiting as we go; growing larger, gaining ground! Shouting a chorus of obscenities. Blood-curdling threats infused with hate and anger.
Jumping, crawling, climbing to escape. Desperate to evade pursuit. Hoping that, somewhere, somehow, there's a favourable finish line for this deadly decathlon.
Then the net is cast. A dark, heavy web falls from above, clothing me like an unwelcome garment. Tripping, tangled up in tight, ropey knots. Trapped. Surrounded. They push and prod their prey, kicking, spitting, playfully tormenting.
The pipe in my pocket is wooden. A small, carved musical instrument. Clasped with a steely grip I extract it unseen. Must defend myself. Violence is the only way. Uneager of what must follow...
With swift ferocity I attack, viousiously swinging the pipe through the netting, impaling its pointed end far within the fleshy throat of the nearest dirty-faced nomad. A crimson fountain spurts and wells from the wound. The pipe lashes out again, digging deep into the belly of another horrific hobo. Again I strike, administering vengeful justice with no hint of mercy. Soon my breath sings alone in the quiet night air. Around, swampy red ground, littered with lifeless limbs; frosen faces, painfully slain.
Goliath guilt rises up inside. I have become like them. Worse than them. I have taken life. I am a murderor....
Running amongst them, horrified by what I see. A stranger's shoulder collides with mine. Eye contact. A menacing look.
"Sorry..."
The stranger gives a sadistic smile, his lips a pale isle of pink amidst a sea of stubble.
"Too late for that" he snarls and suddenly he's chasing me, roaring and screaming - a battle cry that calls to him companions. Engulfed by absolute terror, franticly fleeing on anguished, automatic-pilot . Scrambling down dark streets we race, six or seven athletic lunatics hot on my heels. Wheezing, panting, sweating pure adrenaline. On and on it goes, the furious horde recruiting as we go; growing larger, gaining ground! Shouting a chorus of obscenities. Blood-curdling threats infused with hate and anger.
Jumping, crawling, climbing to escape. Desperate to evade pursuit. Hoping that, somewhere, somehow, there's a favourable finish line for this deadly decathlon.
Then the net is cast. A dark, heavy web falls from above, clothing me like an unwelcome garment. Tripping, tangled up in tight, ropey knots. Trapped. Surrounded. They push and prod their prey, kicking, spitting, playfully tormenting.
The pipe in my pocket is wooden. A small, carved musical instrument. Clasped with a steely grip I extract it unseen. Must defend myself. Violence is the only way. Uneager of what must follow...
With swift ferocity I attack, viousiously swinging the pipe through the netting, impaling its pointed end far within the fleshy throat of the nearest dirty-faced nomad. A crimson fountain spurts and wells from the wound. The pipe lashes out again, digging deep into the belly of another horrific hobo. Again I strike, administering vengeful justice with no hint of mercy. Soon my breath sings alone in the quiet night air. Around, swampy red ground, littered with lifeless limbs; frosen faces, painfully slain.
Goliath guilt rises up inside. I have become like them. Worse than them. I have taken life. I am a murderor....
posted by The Dreamer | 2:39 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home