And you call me Mad
by: Helix for Sanguinus Curae |
I know they'll find this. They always do. Even here, knowing and loving your neighbor is a thing only I remember. The police won't come until the 'person next door' complains about the stench. Then they'll come to the pretty house. Across the pretty lawn. Through the pretty white privacy fence.
The moon is bright. The grass is smooth, cool underfoot. I need this family. I need them to open their eyes. See how they've been trapped. I am the messenger, a force created by their cocoon. I will be their re-birth. Their light of knowledge in this society of darkness and loneliness. Of hate. I'll cure them of their hate. I will help them. Others will hear.
The door is locked. It is things like this that draw me. Door should be open, without fear. Without hate of the world outside their silken prisons. The locks turn for me. They acknowledge the message. They know what needs to be done. For the good. For the people. Those poor people inside.
There are no pets. No scent of canine, no moonlit eyes of bast. The interior of the house is sterile and white. The moon reflects off polished chrome and mirrors. Gleaming marble counter tops and smooth tile. My hand touches the cold surface. The chill is my own. The lack of the human touch. The emptiness of the window. I will fill it. Fill their lives. Give it warmth. I pass. The room is emptied of even its chill, sterile light. It has no place in my presence. It cannot exist where I tread.
These people are empty. I step in their living room. The carpet is short, coarse under my feet. It fits into their lives like the end table, and the CD case, housing a 'tasteful selection of cultural music'. These words are echoes of their voids. The dust on the glass case a reflection of their place in this life I must change. They fill themselves not with feelings, but with things. They are consumers of the void. I feel pity. I must help.
I come to the stairs. Into the second floor. To the sleeping areas. The halls are adorned with trinkets. Classical and Modern art. But this is wrong. They are here to be noticed, not because they are wanted. More pieces into their puzzle. More of the void where there should be life. There are two empty bedrooms. I know this because I hear no hearts. I hear no breathing. Empty rooms. Empty lives. The female of this house had her 'tubes tied'. I pick this from her thoughts as I approach their room. These rooms will never be filled with life. A show of status. A void within the void. Her life should never be tainted by 'complications' children would bring. These losses are why these cities are dying. Why the world is so cold.
Blood is running down my cheeks. Staining my collar.
The door slides inward. There is no whisper of wind. There is no creak of life to it. Perfectly oiled. Perfectly made for this perfect, empty house.
I hear their hearts. One has a murmur. The male. The slosh of blood through the faulty organ is almost deafening. How one so obsessed with perfection and sterility can be cursed with such an imperfection dries my tears. There is humor, even in the death of the world. To their bed I walk. Whisper soft across the piled carpet. The echoes of the life, the life that should be in this room. I hear nothing. This is merely a room they rest in. Sleep in. They married for. For. The woman's wedding band is on her right hand. I brush my finger over the cool gold. For tax reasons.
They need me.
They will not be empty.
I will give them life. I will give them the peak of their existence. Something to fill that void, for I am the harbinger, the messenger. I will bring them reality. Fear, terror. Helplessness. I will break their illusion of control. I will give them reality. They will witness what is outside their cocoon. They will know what the world is. Why they cannot hide, and why there is no escaping.
I am the messenger.
Both of them writhe under the pillows. The woman's fingers claw at the fabric, at the flesh of my skin. She hasn't the strength to tear my marble flesh. I feel their horror. Their shock. Their reality is mine. Mine is theirs. I feel happy for them. My tears are now smiles. I am glad. They will taste reality. They will face it now, with my help.
And then they will be free.
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