Thursday, June 2, 2005
Blood Tears the Moon Cries
The prison was dark: not normal dark such as the darkness in a child’s room at night, but sheer ebony blackness. The death shadow had been swirling around for the kill in the small walled prison for what it felt like forever which on one hand was most likely more accurate than any other number that could be given.
Throughout the whole sentence the walls had not moved. They stayed the same. Scarily enough, the tight prison was made of strong caked clay, that had hardened over the centuries into what felt like metal but was actually hard rock.
The pit-like-cave had been more of a square when the damned man was dropped inside its walls to remain for all eternity. But over the long years, to the man, the cave looked like it was shrinking in upon him. Even though this was only an ill delusion brought on by madness, he insisted on banging the walls in to try and expand them back out. This, sadly, only heightened his insanity.
The only one he had ever been in contact with was himself. To a more logical person they would find this rather odd but not to one who has been trapped for eternity after eternity so thus he saw nothing wrong with communicating with this new person who knew all his thoughts that he himself could not remember, there by giving him something to do instead of growing even more mad to begin with. But again, sadly, the voice within his head, which he had opened his arms so pleasingly to, at first, back fired. It or he did not enjoy being given orders or even in the fact of giving him information within the unconscious state of mind to lower his insanity, as he only wanted to make it higher to begin with. This, puzzled the man. For he never did understand how one from his own being could be so stubborn. Had he been like this before? Is this voice trying to tell him something he had forgotten from since a long time ago?
The pugnacious voice made him weep and beg yet he continued to speak to it when he was not feeling up to challenging him. In turn he had hopped that one day the voice would slip up. Slip up and give him the one thing he craved most with all of his being, with all of his lifeless and motionless being, the being that had not moved in millions of years. Information.
He craved it, he needed it but he held strongly. He could not allow the hindsight voice to know his incredible hunger for knowledge of his past. Instead he kept the topics of conversation simple, like one would speak of on a rainy day, or a tea party. Though he did not know much, the conversations were slim and rather short when they did occur, and occur they did on a good day. But most there was silence within the MAN’s crypt. Silence, other than the voice taunting his own being and breaking him down limb by limb, but he held strongly. Like he always did, unknowing of what would come in the future, but he was indeed sure that his prison walls would keep him inside forever.
The man was so “dumb” about his own knowledge he had forgotten his own name, his birthright. This, as baffling as it seemed it was concluded by him that if one does not hear their name for along enough time, then one no longer had a name. Was it the same with a voice? He had not tired.
Years later, after the voice had come and gone away, like it usually did, the cave began to get warmer. Gradually at first then it grew faster, sweeping over the crypt like a scorching hot summer in a desert wasteland, but he bore it. That was, all he could have done.
Animals never came by anymore. They knew better than to trace past this starved beast. This beast who didn’t have a face, for its dark hair was too mattering and long to see, or the torn and crippled, anorexic body where one would instantly mistake this fallen creature for being a deathly pale and sick woman if he did not have the proper equipment to show himself off, If only, he had someone to.
But companionship was one thing he could not have. One thing for sure he would have jumped and drained them within heartbeat, he decided. And two, well who would ever find a place like this and if it even was possible, which it wasn’t, who would want him? Who would want to love him and make love to him? Not a damn person with himself looking like this, though perhaps he did not look that bad. There were no mirrors within this hot hell hole so he could not tell. But one thing was for certain, the boney and pastry white wrist in his lap, was his.