The Final Prick

It is by the immideate instruction of precocious intelligence that I wield, to my faculty, the undesignated sensations from that horrible truth, that specimen of actuality amidst this mortal coil. I have not subjected it to the prerequisite recourse of survey, as pardonable to such circumstance, nor have I pondered upon it, with a conclusion beyond, its terrestrial presence. The unloyal, and yet conversant, subjects of 'terror' have attributed the semblance of our nightmares, to ludicrous character, when in reality, it is in the undertones of the conscious, the liminal fringes, where many hideous things slumber. The thing which haunts me, dear reader, is not to be mistaken, for the ghostly or perhaps the necromantic, it is a prick of the conscious, and an ensuingly pervasive rendering. Let me not riddle the mind into ferment, dear lord the terror is enough portion, it is a memory, yes, this grimful calamity is a memory! Truth be surrendered, and peace be in vain, I fear in my conversation with a woman, of familiar acquaintance, I have committed the ineffable. You must understand, without the prefix of my temperament, that it is unusual of me, to be forgetful, or to be of wealthy caprice, but I remember too vividly, the visage of a woman, with only hollow cavities for eyes and sown lips. Only in the decadent dreams of the moribund, could one fathom, without the idealism of wonder the darkness, which echoes, my being, when I remember the image of the unholy blood, trickling from her punctured lips. You will call this a nightmare, or a disease which has installed, some distortion in my senses, and yet, why do I quiver, when my eyes find the timber of my abandoned wardrobe. It is as if the reaching limbs of memory have found, an object for inquisition, and without input, I am left to the locomotive of tachyphrenia! I hear thuds, from inside the wardrobe, and finally it swings open, and from its envelope, topples a maiden head, with slovenly raven locks, and pallid skin. The decapitated caput has no eyes, and from the lips, which struggle to emancipate from the lightly knitted thread, I hear moans. A ridiculous chuckle escapes my bosom, when finally, in the gasping liberty of its jaws, it shrieks the words,

"I will not let you forget what you have done!"