A horror: You meet your dead friend and demand to know why she left you. You beat on her elbows and arms and shake her around, but she needs a cigarette. This is too much. She ignores your pleading questions from the other room, and you’re left wondering if she came back at all, or if she was ever really gone. Or, if that isn’t her in the other room then who, or what, is it?
You cry betrayal but, screaming backwards, praise the darkness as it pulls you in closer. And deeper.
An explosion of dense hate rips you apart as you cross the event horizon in ever-condensing segments. Your consciousness is reduced to a dull stream of atoms by the witches who occupy a brown dollhouse in the cobwebbed cabinets of your mind, which sit high upon a dusty shelf in the back of a barn, where the electric company forgot to come turn off the lights.
You grind your teeth as the witches draw closer, blurring your vision and vibrating your numb, tingling arms, stretched out in front of you, hopelessly deflecting their malignant stares. They swarm you and stab, and cackle and scream, as their scalpels part your belly like a virgin cunt. A woman is chewing on your ear, drowning out your screams with whispered secrets you couldn’t admit to on a deathbed, in a confessional, in an abandoned cathedral surrounded by a murder of black-eyed crows, that has already begun to pick your skeleton clean.
A withered hand reaches out of your guts and pulls out your tongue, slicing it off with yellowed nails at the base. You are asked to say the alphabet backwards and dance for the pleasure of pigs in the high-beam intensity of a callous judge’s eyes. Guilty.
From the other room, a trial unfolds and a jury agrees to hang you upside down, and let your blood drain out through the ears and the eyes. The witches return and, by their orgasmic moaning, you hear the sound of your spinal cord snapping, and your brain stem filling with blood. A yawning beast on the floor kisses your lips with her tongue and drinks the weeping viscera, ounce for ounce, letting not a drop sully her bed on the dirty hardwood floor. Her tongue snakes into your mouth, your throat, and your stomach. She winds her way through yards of intestine, to the guts and the anus, filling your person with the sensation of writhing maggots and worms. And in an instant – in one sharp flick of the tongue – your veins, organs and muscle flash into view, and the witches withdraw. You got too close. Get back. Get back and leave the barn now, while you still can. Get out. Don’t think of the dollhouse. Get out now. Ignore their cries, don’t look at it. Get out.
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