Personal Demons #7 The Ressurectionist In RedMature

Something evil is born through an act of horror, beginning a curse on humanity that grows with every fallen life. Something is knocking on Death's door, waiting for you to open it.


So sickening under the demons’ wing, that it suffocates my crooked form. Swollen gums and broken teeth gnash at their own trembling black tongues, aching for the warm gush of red tin and centering pain. Haunting voices crest and smash against the shores of my insanity. So strong is the undertow that my own thoughts are no longer definable in the cacophony. Hell’s organ grinder, the demon’s muzak.  It is a choir of endless prayers and cries of the damned. It is when the artist digs their sharp quill into the pages of my mind that I am forced to sing along. If your voice can carry the blood song, karaoke in the abyss can take you places. “In Hell, the mother kills the child. We rape one another, pigs in denial. Time to rise above this river of shit and burn like a star. You know that is what you are. Burn like a star in Hell.” I sing the song, straining to hear my voice over the others. Screaming until I can taste the ash from my lungs and feel the saliva pouring from the jagged corners of my peeling lips.

I now know this is the only time, during what feels like eons of imprisonment in this cold dark oubliette, that I can be heard. I have a voice although I no longer recognize it. For the longest time, I wanted no part of the harmony with legion. But now, I am its first chair tenor, and this performance is for an audience of one. My pitiful will has broken under the pain of a million lashes, an ocean of agony, all that Hell has to offer. When you no longer feel anything but the sharp caress of tooth and nail, it teaches you two lessons. One, it is better to feel agony than nothing at all. Two, because it brings you pleasure, you want to return it in kind. When all you feel is the cold emptiness of the void, pain let’s you know you are alive. Pain lets you know someone cares enough to remind you. Are these my thoughts? I cannot tell. There are so many voices… until now.

“Press your tongue to the floor.”

Without question, my face presses against the cold wet stone that my clawed and disfigured feet have stood. My tongues are met with the warm potency of the human condition, every nerve glowing red from the fresh pool of death’s tears. Red is the color of life. Red is the color of rage. Red is the color of death. Red releases me from my cage. Each lap of the warm pool becomes more frenzied, more important than the last. My horrid form convulses and rejoices in the gift. Muscles expand and fire burns through long cold veins. Gluttony is a powerful sin and I serve him well in this moment. Like a ravenous beast, my tongues trace the source of the wound to the wall.

Within the darkness of this tomb, the dichotomy of one’s self develops to extreme opposites. The mind pours over itself endlessly, dulled and weathered by grains of thought swirling in white noise and black static transmissions. The mud that is produced chokes and distorts, leaving only primal certainties. However, other aspects sharpen to a razors edge. Teeth, nails, bone and pain all give way to the will of the scythe. We are all moved by the hand of death. Some weapons are more favored than others. My loss of focus begins to narrow to a finite point at the tip of my black tongues. Darting into the septic fluid like daggers stabbing at the thing you love the most. Continuing my pursuit of the source to which my crimson gift flows, I slowly rise from the floor, licking the stone clean. A heavy thick stench begins to fill my throat and lungs. The scent of death is my seducer. Her intoxicating pheromone so strong, it pries my fevered lips from the blood wall. My scarred back and chest heave and fall, pulling the foul heavy air into my core. I absorb the flavor, the scent, the ecstasy. The end of life gives way to the birth of something deep within me. Something so very horrifying. Something so very beautiful.

The fire in my veins intensifies to an inferno, burning away the voices of the damned until I can only hear one. It is my voice, and it is screaming. The muscles in my neck jerk my pounding head back as the roar pries open my jagged maw. My crooked form shutters from the force of my exaltation. Delivered from the nothing, I feel something other than pain for the first time. This joyous sensation is abruptly set upon by the glorious caress of a single droplet landing on my wretched cheek. It runs through the corridors of my scarred flesh and finds the dark corner of my grinning lips. The taste is pure, unadulterated by the unwashed stone I had stripped clean moments ago. This was from the source, not strained through the bowels of Hell. The drop is soon replaced by a stream of deaths wine. As I gulp down the now constant flow, I envision myself reaping through a living vineyard of weeping viscera. The stream gives way to a flood that overflows my gaping mouth. It pours over my body and begins to pool at my feet. I am the blood rain maker, standing in awe of the storm I have produced. Cold stone and dirty nook are soon replaced with warm waves of bathing blood. So deep is the red tide, I feel my feet leave the familiarity of my cell floor. My body rises with the surface as the pool grows deeper. Long broken nails stretch to meet the sides of my prison trying to maintain balance. Yet I still drink deep from the hemorrhaging ceiling that I am now quickly approaching.  My fingers reach above to feel the stone that I am sure awaits me at the top.

My thirst, as unquenchable as it is, cannot consume at the rate this drowning pool is flooding in. I reach into the crevice from which my ecstasy and impending doom flow. My fingers dig deep into the bleeding wound and are met with, not hard stone and finite death, but with soft tissue and the promise of life. I claw to break free from the confines of endless black and suffocating fluid. Twisting and stretching through the passage I carve out before me, passing organ and bone, I push through the warm maze of nerve and muscle, sensing the veil of soft outer flesh is only moments away.

Above, my Mother.
Below, the afterbirth.

The End

4 comments about this story Feed