Sapid Ending (Doot)
"—The fool, I am . . . "
How could I have been so gullible? In his sleep, he mumbled into his pillow whilst dreams of the folly of not just himself, but all mankind flit through his brain, conjuring up images of pain, suffering, fire and death. He dreamt of the woman he had known, or had, or still did—he couldn't decide.
" . . . The devil, you are . . . "
He saw her face float above the dreamscape of his slumbering mind like some sort of Orwellian symbol or monolithic obelisk erected in honour of his martyrdom. I should've known never to trust her. He dreamt of the past, and in his dreams, the proverbial "they" had never happened; he imagined a different timeline, where he never met or loved her.
"The end is here."
He dreamt that he had never been betrayed by her duplicitious cunning, dreamt that he had never actually been tricked for a second and knew, all along, how much of a selfish and hurtful creature she was, buried down in her heart a foul serpent with no compassion or sympathy. His dreams were of driving daggers into her chest, of spearing her through the stomach with barbed weapons doused in acid and bile, of squeezing every ounce of breath from her lungs and watching her beautiful face shrivel from within and fade into ultimate vacancy—to match the airy, vacant hole in her skull where a brain belonged. I hate you, but, most of all, I hate myself.
He tousled his blankets turning in his sleep, and murmured to himself from beyond the veil of consciousness, crying.
How could I have been so gullible? In his sleep, he mumbled into his pillow whilst dreams of the folly of not just himself, but all mankind flit through his brain, conjuring up images of pain, suffering, fire and death. He dreamt of the woman he had known, or had, or still did—he couldn't decide.
" . . . The devil, you are . . . "
He saw her face float above the dreamscape of his slumbering mind like some sort of Orwellian symbol or monolithic obelisk erected in honour of his martyrdom. I should've known never to trust her. He dreamt of the past, and in his dreams, the proverbial "they" had never happened; he imagined a different timeline, where he never met or loved her.
"The end is here."
He dreamt that he had never been betrayed by her duplicitious cunning, dreamt that he had never actually been tricked for a second and knew, all along, how much of a selfish and hurtful creature she was, buried down in her heart a foul serpent with no compassion or sympathy. His dreams were of driving daggers into her chest, of spearing her through the stomach with barbed weapons doused in acid and bile, of squeezing every ounce of breath from her lungs and watching her beautiful face shrivel from within and fade into ultimate vacancy—to match the airy, vacant hole in her skull where a brain belonged. I hate you, but, most of all, I hate myself.
He tousled his blankets turning in his sleep, and murmured to himself from beyond the veil of consciousness, crying.
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
11:11 PM
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