Maybe we can write her epitaph in the stars
"Follow me."
They whisper and she follows down long hallways of steel and stone. Faces from long ago etch into the blacks and whites of marble.
"Follow me."
They beckon to her and she goes. One foot falls in front of the next. Long, languid liquid movements through the fog and glass. It's a beautiful disaster because she knows when she reaches her final destination they'll still have her. She'll never really be free, they'll hold on until there's nothing left to hold onto. Life in the balance, never belongs to her. Belongs to the voices, to the beckoning hallucinations, to the very first that ever there was. The source. The beginning. The point where she starts and stops.
She knows. She follows. When she reaches the end of the hallway she blinks and it all fades away.
One. Two. Three. Lights off. It's dark but she's comfortable with the pitch black tar weighing her soul down. It invades her eyes, her mind and everything in between. Pulls her forward step by step until there's nothing left to follow. Nothing but the dim hope that the voices lead somewhere. Heaven. Hell. Somewhere. Anywhere's better than limbo and that's where they set their traps. Sharp fangs and pointed claws screaming and singing ancient lullabies in her ear. Hurts. The voices can hurt more, the darkness pressing in and suffocating and taming and squeezing all life free. But no. There's always some saviour. Some voice full of tainted hope at the end of the tunnel, this voice stands out from the rest. It's different, it offers the promise of false hope. It also offers regret and loneliness and all the darkness and light that the human spirit offers it's nothing. It's everything. She sees. She hears. She fears. She follows.
It's like swimming to the surface and I fight it every step of the way. The comfort of the deceiving darkness is better than the false hope of a lost prophet. She can't help it, we can't help it. We follow the hope, even when it's so dim I can barely feel the words sifting across my skin.
"Have a nice night ladies." He speaks and then the dull thud of another prison cell, another little cage to box herself up in.
Reaching my hand up to my throat I felt the warm sticky sweetness of blood and stared mezmerized by the stain of it on my hand. It was just blood but if she came back it would shift into shapes and patterns that I couldn't stop starin' at. I'd been bitten. Not the first time, he didn't get to be the first. That was for her. Scrambling away from Tara I stood up fast as my fingers wrapped around the bars on the door and I yanked on them as hard as I could. Wicked strong. Not strong enough to escape.
Putting my hand to my neck again I wrinkled my nose at the blood on my hand before glancin' back up at Tara.
"Ow," I complained mildly.
They whisper and she follows down long hallways of steel and stone. Faces from long ago etch into the blacks and whites of marble.
"Follow me."
They beckon to her and she goes. One foot falls in front of the next. Long, languid liquid movements through the fog and glass. It's a beautiful disaster because she knows when she reaches her final destination they'll still have her. She'll never really be free, they'll hold on until there's nothing left to hold onto. Life in the balance, never belongs to her. Belongs to the voices, to the beckoning hallucinations, to the very first that ever there was. The source. The beginning. The point where she starts and stops.
She knows. She follows. When she reaches the end of the hallway she blinks and it all fades away.
One. Two. Three. Lights off. It's dark but she's comfortable with the pitch black tar weighing her soul down. It invades her eyes, her mind and everything in between. Pulls her forward step by step until there's nothing left to follow. Nothing but the dim hope that the voices lead somewhere. Heaven. Hell. Somewhere. Anywhere's better than limbo and that's where they set their traps. Sharp fangs and pointed claws screaming and singing ancient lullabies in her ear. Hurts. The voices can hurt more, the darkness pressing in and suffocating and taming and squeezing all life free. But no. There's always some saviour. Some voice full of tainted hope at the end of the tunnel, this voice stands out from the rest. It's different, it offers the promise of false hope. It also offers regret and loneliness and all the darkness and light that the human spirit offers it's nothing. It's everything. She sees. She hears. She fears. She follows.
It's like swimming to the surface and I fight it every step of the way. The comfort of the deceiving darkness is better than the false hope of a lost prophet. She can't help it, we can't help it. We follow the hope, even when it's so dim I can barely feel the words sifting across my skin.
"Have a nice night ladies." He speaks and then the dull thud of another prison cell, another little cage to box herself up in.
Reaching my hand up to my throat I felt the warm sticky sweetness of blood and stared mezmerized by the stain of it on my hand. It was just blood but if she came back it would shift into shapes and patterns that I couldn't stop starin' at. I'd been bitten. Not the first time, he didn't get to be the first. That was for her. Scrambling away from Tara I stood up fast as my fingers wrapped around the bars on the door and I yanked on them as hard as I could. Wicked strong. Not strong enough to escape.
Putting my hand to my neck again I wrinkled my nose at the blood on my hand before glancin' back up at Tara.
"Ow," I complained mildly.