Sandpaper fingertips traced the outline on his skin.
The outline of all that was, and that still shall be, evil.
Red eyes met his own and signaled his impending demise.
But wait, instead of weaker it was stronger that he was becoming!
What mischief was at work here in the dead hours of the night?
With sudden wings he took flight, the fresh air exhilarating.
He sucked in each breath as if he had never breathed before.
Such newness, such youth! Where did all this energy and vitality
come from? From God or from the other, the fallen one?
Instantly, upon seeing a likely female far below, he felt fangs
grow inside his mouth, forcing it open. He let out a terrifying
scream as he swooped down upon the poor soul and ended her sweet
life before it had really even began.
His purpose here now known to him, he hunted during the dark hours
and hid from the sun during the daylight.
But, still his feaverished mind said something was not quite right.
There was something even wrong about what he was doing. Wrong.
The night-time version of him did not know anything about right or wrong.
But this version did. It was still struggling to resist the takeover.
Then, he remembered the outline. Looking down, there it was!
He scrambled looking for something, anything to remove it.
He found some sandpaper and began scrubbing his skin repeatedly.
After much blood and pain, the outline was gone.
And so were his wings.
But now what? Once a horror, can you ever go back?
He wondered around for a few days in a state of severe anxiety.
Finally, having forgotten how to eat (his bodily functions had been
mortally altered), he fell over into the Sienne and drowned.
The bells of Notre Dame rang as if they had never rang before.
And the days returned to normal, as if evil did not exist in the world.
-------------------------------------------
mindbringer, 10 November 2013
The outline of all that was, and that still shall be, evil.
Red eyes met his own and signaled his impending demise.
But wait, instead of weaker it was stronger that he was becoming!
What mischief was at work here in the dead hours of the night?
With sudden wings he took flight, the fresh air exhilarating.
He sucked in each breath as if he had never breathed before.
Such newness, such youth! Where did all this energy and vitality
come from? From God or from the other, the fallen one?
Instantly, upon seeing a likely female far below, he felt fangs
grow inside his mouth, forcing it open. He let out a terrifying
scream as he swooped down upon the poor soul and ended her sweet
life before it had really even began.
His purpose here now known to him, he hunted during the dark hours
and hid from the sun during the daylight.
But, still his feaverished mind said something was not quite right.
There was something even wrong about what he was doing. Wrong.
The night-time version of him did not know anything about right or wrong.
But this version did. It was still struggling to resist the takeover.
Then, he remembered the outline. Looking down, there it was!
He scrambled looking for something, anything to remove it.
He found some sandpaper and began scrubbing his skin repeatedly.
After much blood and pain, the outline was gone.
And so were his wings.
But now what? Once a horror, can you ever go back?
He wondered around for a few days in a state of severe anxiety.
Finally, having forgotten how to eat (his bodily functions had been
mortally altered), he fell over into the Sienne and drowned.
The bells of Notre Dame rang as if they had never rang before.
And the days returned to normal, as if evil did not exist in the world.
-------------------------------------------
mindbringer, 10 November 2013
