Of demons, mites and maggots.
To have the world shut off from you, limitations chained to you, rules and norms in place like iron bars.
How maddening, to be stripped of everything, left without anything, always desiring something.
The song of a caged canary does naught, the howl of a lone wolf only echoes, the simple chirp of a chickadee becomes lost.
Dragging rusted metal against filth and grime, hinges give a squealing whimper.
Scored and sore, joints creak as if ready to snap, worn and withered bone crackles and the cry of a banshee trembles Ruby lips.
Utterly alone in a realm of black, an agonizing lament is like white noise, driving sanity to the brink in a haunting requiem.
Slowly it fades, becoming a ghost of the past. A ghost of the past.. A phantom, of what was, of what used to be. A spirit of mistakes, choices, of memories.
Oh god, the memories. They're the mites and maggots. They eat away, devouring, draining like leeches. But why, why. Why are they the bane, the reason.
The desire to squash them, to slam her fist into them. But the chains.. These bars, all this filth. Nothing stops the tears that stream like a broken faucet. Powerless, they keep eating away.
They keep going, squirming, like damned thoughts. They're the bane of her, they're the devil. Around and around they go,
Interchanging, flowing from one another.
Obsession is obsession in itself, over thoughts and the thoughts of thoughts. Demons, that's what they are. Her demons. No, yes.
They go, flowing, cycling around and around, like an unstoppable force. It's an obsession,
over demons. Demons upon demons, interchanging and flowing from one another.
They won't stop, won't leave her alone, won't hush. Silence is actuality but chaos is reality. It's her reality, our reality.
Our? No, just her. But who is she. Is she we, you, me or her. But who is her. The demons? The mites and maggots? No.. That can't be.
Ah, there it is. The rage of hate, the scorch of doubt the branding of self reflection. You'd think it'd make the mites and maggots go away, burn the demons. But they're only amplified.
Is this how it is, how it will always be, forevermore, everlasting beyond mortal years? Is this the damnation that is rightfully deserved? No, it's all the self reflection. Not hers, his.
He did this, he caused this. He and the others locked her away, left her to rot here. She doesn't think there's an escape.. One can't be found through a mess of demons and mites.
Or so she thinks. Those damned thoughts, her demons. They're the cuffs, the rope, the barrel. Each tear is a click, as the demons revolve, and boom, a wail wrenches free. It's not him, it's her. A prisoner of herself, bound by fear and pain, rusted chains clank, painting orange upon reddened wrists and ankles.
Head bowed, body slack, her only desire now is the end.