DRENCHED

It is the greed of this, dystopian symbiote which intrudes the vein of my thought, and I succumb to those intervals of unquantifiable dissonance, those adventures of the poltergeist when redeemed from oblivion. But what is this, thing that coagulates my blood, and distorts the strums of the mind? What is this contemporary antagonism of unbridled anxieties, which plagues me, like a parasite? I shall tell you, for what best I can comprehend from its signature. It is not the miasm, nor the depression of all things bound to matter, which concludes my suspicions, it is rather a sprouting offspring of unpoetic dearth. There is a man who lives and grows in my mind, and with each visceral intonation, I feel the shredding of my tissue to his will. He has manipulated me to his objective, for his stately claims, suggest an uncanny knowledge of my name, and the descendants before me. Many esoteric lores of unfamiliar provenance have been recited to the hollowness of my very heart, and I cannot sleep nor dare to dream, the mysteries which echo in darkness. I remember when last I spoke to him, yes, he was telling me about the little boy in the neighborhood.

"Capture the boy, let us have his corpse" I quivered but I fear this parasite will grow more unwholesome, and pervade the parameters of the orthodox, with its festering malignancy. I am not well, but this is the expense we must pay, when the undiagnosed corruption of evil, finds its residence in our soul. All righteousness is in vain, when the magnitude of that prosecuting prism of condition, perpetuates the worship of itself, by the rudimentary influence of evil. I stalk him from my window, the nonchalant little lad, but as per my antagonist's insistence, I shall invite him! I wait for the designated hour, when he usually ventures the proximity of my abode, retiring from scholastic habit. I have presently invited him, and his timid acquiescence has granted me, profitable capital for my pursuit. The tub is profusely flooded with water, and I shall drown his lungs and silence his throes, and then the voice shall flea. I grab him and occlude his mouth, so that not even a vapor of intonation penetrates his orifice, and I lead him to the tub, where I submerge his head into the pools of death. At length, his ferment subsides but as I raise him from the tub, I see a wild intensity of lividity in his sallow eyes, and indeed he lives, barely in the burning  waste of his hissing flesh but before I can protest with the command of Azrael, I hear the boy speak as of an adult, with that familiar voice of my woes.

"I will not leave, I will not die, I will not succumb, these walls are my womb and so is your damp soul!"