GOATFIEND

Alone, in the agony of terror, I searched for that minute credential of former resilience, that fragmented history of the 'overcomer' fading in the ghastly plethora of untranslated traumas, and in the end, to say I was alive, or certain of my existence, would be a lie. It was that witchy conjuring of death itself from the very miasm which fornicated with my lungs, my marrow, my brain, dear lord my audible heart. I thought perhaps to cover my eyes, in that childish wish of evanescence, would cure me from that unearthly dread of the soul, and yet the image persisted. I could not move, ha ha! How could I even dream of this, when the debris of the house, had lounged oppressively upon my anatomy. Now that demon, from the depths of the cold night became conspicuous, and ravenous, tearing through whatever was in its way. I could feel the profuse seeping of warm blood, from my trapped legs, and yet I could not feel any sensation to assure me, of a quantifiable register of harm. I could here from the darkness, the disturbed echos of my unbridled laughter, edging the terrors of the possibly moribund into the unquenched dearth of my soul. The thing was racing, with throes of madness and lust, until I saw a large structure of cement tumble upon it, and with a final groan of surrender, it subdued into a motionless bohemoth, a spectacle of the grotesque. It was a goat to human homology of a specimen, with laden wings, something perhaps from the fringes of the uncharted textures of profane science. More cement fell upon it and I was assured of its death.