The room went quiet. So stiflingly silent, it was going to drive her crazy, drive her past the edges of the clear road.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, don't leave me alone, don't leave me here." She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked back slightly. She could barely breathe, barely move and they were going to leave her, leave her in this prison dressed up to look like a safe place. Her voice took a razor's edge, she screamed, "DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!! YOU BASTARDS, COME BACK!"
Then everything was alive, the air filled with angry whispers and violent cursing, they swirled about her, pushing her down. She fought against the white strait-jacket with those horrible red straps, fought against the urge to cry out. He would come, if he heard her screaming. He would laugh that disgusting laugh, then he would force her legs apart, forcing a dirty sock in-between her lips and he would give her reason to scream. The voices buzzed all around her, buzzing inside her head and her mouth. She didn't dare un-clamp her teeth, or open her eyes. If she did, the voices would find shape, they would find weight and breathe. No, she couldn't let them escape, couldn't let her fears take form, or truth find her. She had to stay, imprisoned by white and red, held captive by the ghosts and the voices and dreams. Dreams that made no sense to her, but had a life unto themselves. A reality that grew and bled, a world that cried out to be opened by her, only opening up that world would make her disappear.
From the little window in the door, he watched her struggle against nothing. It pleased him to watch her struggle against the strait-jacket, like a butterfly trapped in its cocoon trying to release its wings and fly away. Nevertheless, he had that little butterfly, she belonged to him now. He was the spider and she was a butterfly trapped by silk and red ribbons. Soon, very soon, he would feast on that little butterfly, trapped by webs of her own design and struggling against her own mind. And she would be delicious.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, don't leave me alone, don't leave me here." She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked back slightly. She could barely breathe, barely move and they were going to leave her, leave her in this prison dressed up to look like a safe place. Her voice took a razor's edge, she screamed, "DON'T LEAVE ME HERE!! YOU BASTARDS, COME BACK!"
Then everything was alive, the air filled with angry whispers and violent cursing, they swirled about her, pushing her down. She fought against the white strait-jacket with those horrible red straps, fought against the urge to cry out. He would come, if he heard her screaming. He would laugh that disgusting laugh, then he would force her legs apart, forcing a dirty sock in-between her lips and he would give her reason to scream. The voices buzzed all around her, buzzing inside her head and her mouth. She didn't dare un-clamp her teeth, or open her eyes. If she did, the voices would find shape, they would find weight and breathe. No, she couldn't let them escape, couldn't let her fears take form, or truth find her. She had to stay, imprisoned by white and red, held captive by the ghosts and the voices and dreams. Dreams that made no sense to her, but had a life unto themselves. A reality that grew and bled, a world that cried out to be opened by her, only opening up that world would make her disappear.
From the little window in the door, he watched her struggle against nothing. It pleased him to watch her struggle against the strait-jacket, like a butterfly trapped in its cocoon trying to release its wings and fly away. Nevertheless, he had that little butterfly, she belonged to him now. He was the spider and she was a butterfly trapped by silk and red ribbons. Soon, very soon, he would feast on that little butterfly, trapped by webs of her own design and struggling against her own mind. And she would be delicious.
No comments:
Post a Comment