Birth of a Nightmare [Fiction(?) by Caligula23x]
*The following text -word for word- was pulled from a still-smoldering prison mattress after a prison fire in Amsterdam, Holland (2005). The prisoner, from whom the following message came, was never seen again -presumed dead- although extensive searching (for even a shred of DNA) provided no evidence of remains. The authorities refuse to comment.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“There is the rare occasion wherein I must literally threaten myself to pick up a pen and paper to begin writing. The threats range from fears that I’ll lose my ability to express myself unless I exercise it frequently to feelings of guilt … As if I’m neglecting a living part of me that deserves the freedom it gains by molding ideas into communicable sentences. Yes -without question- there are those moments. However, now is not one of them. On the contrary, tonight as I work by the faint light of my bed lamp, I toil because of some intangible, natural compulsion… Much like the spider busies itself with the preparation of its web -frantically by the light of the moon- helpless but to obey the instincts demanding its servitude and labor. |
Perhaps it’s the weather… Rumbling thunder, gusts of rain, the flickering of lightning, and winds howling like spirits lost and forgotten in a sea of madness. Maybe it’s the caffeine… It sizzles betwixt the tips of my nerve endings… Perhaps it has influenced this confession from my ink-wielding fingers. And, yes, it could be a combination of these factors (and many more, so intricate that they defy ordinary detection)… All to blame for the candor I robe myself in tonight; dancing about the lines of these pages with words.
|
boomed. Eventually the abundance of lightning overtook our facility’s ability to maintain its own electrical harmony. The power here surrendered to the dominance of Nature, and we were made to spend the night under “blackout” conditions.
At first I felt slighted by the situation. I have been cursed with these simian eyes… A species not among those gifted with the ability to see well without light. Efforts to read or write suddenly became comical if not altogether absurd. And so, forlorn, I resided idly upon my bunk… Simply observing the darkness while contemplating my place in this world.
As I lay there -philosophizing to myself- the urge to empty the contents of my bladder arose, and so I made my way across the blue-black ocean of my surroundings. Having entered the restroom, then offering approximately a pint -or so- of myself to my favorite urinal, I approached my sink of choice. What a lovely shade of blue the porcelain of the sink wore as I observed the shadowy water flow from its tap and cascade over the blue-grey flesh of my hands. And how marvelously-devoid of humanity’s commotion was the background during my restroom visit… I enjoyed only the serenity of Nature’s sounds outside, opposed to the clamor of man that so readily -and relentlessly- over stimulates my hearing throughout the hours of day.
rivulets of my mind, rivulets fed from an ancient ocean long forgotten and neglected by modernity. Then, at that moment, the truth began to unfurl from within… It burrowed upward through layers of suppression; it shimmied free from the chains bestowed upon it by generations of fear. And there |
this truth then stood in the center of my consciousness, like a prehistoric warlord resurrected from a dusty, long-forgotten grave. I stared at this truth, testing its validity. The truth stared back at me with a pair of cold steel eyes; unflinching.
The Truth. I love the night. Not only do I love the night, but I have -deeply rooted within my composition- an affection for and attraction towards all that is akin to darkness.
Of course, yes, I like the sun… I like the flowers to which it gives life… I enjoy butterflies which flowers will so avidly attract. To feel otherwise would betray my nature as a writer, a poet. Would it not? And… I even like the way in which our sun will convince my skin to darken, thereby promoting the illusion of better health. I enjoy the warmth of the sun’s radiation as its rays massage my flesh like thousands of gentle fingers working the tensions from this husk.
Nonetheless… The love I have for the night… (Oh, rapture!)… ‘Tis more like a forbidden romance. (Yes, “forbidden” for the fruits which we are not allowed are all the more sweeter!) The love I have for the night is like a passionate sexual encounter. Ecstasy is the sound of my footsteps as they echo coldly throughout the crisp night air. Bliss washes over me like a fever as I observe my shadowy reflection flickering back at me from the pale, icy surface of a moonlit, lightning-freckled mirror. |
vampires, falling from the ceiling, plunging fangs into my jugular, flooding their mouths with hot blood. Oh, how my skin ripples in anticipation… I can feel the envious glances of nightmarish devils and hell-spawn as they are driven into madness, yearning to feed upon the humanity I possess. It is cold here, save for the heat radiating from violent intentions. Creatures plot and scheme, while scampering silently, fiendishly hidden within the shadows of the night. Commanded by the fascination I have for these dangers, my flesh grows rigid with excitement. I can feel the nightmare, sleeping beneath my skin, as it begins to stir; the threats of the night continue to tickle and delight the passions it thrives upon.
So lustful is the night and so thirsty are its hordes. They crave to feed upon my human frailties; drink of my weakness. But they wait. They can smell the playful excitement as it twists and writhes under my skin. These children of the darkness, so sodden with confusion, find themselves unable to satisfy their urge to disconnect this human from his life. They sense the hospitality I enjoy while standing in the midst of their shadowy kingdom. They know not what to make of the eagerness with which I welcome the nightmares and damnation they promise.
|
So! The confession has manifest into words… I can no longer repress my night-lust! I stand before you in celebration of darkness and so many things deemed unholy. I adore outrageous sexual depravity! I worship at the altar of sin! I confess…I CONFESS! I am the wolf in sheep’s clothing, I am the devil in a blue dress, I am the beast of your Revelation… And I wear the skin of an altar boy.
Now that I have revealed this for all of you to see… Listen, listen well, you who have been so fortunate to happen across this text, you have been hereby forewarned. So, heed my warning. Consider all that has been said with great caution. And search the innermost feelings of your heart, search your mind, look there among the fog and swirling images, sift through the melding emotions and beliefs that blend and congeal into that conglomeration of mantras known as your “self”… And answer this question in truth: Are you afraid of the Dark?
If so, run away. Run away while you still can. Run away into the light. Move only by the brightness of day and rest only after securing yourself tightly away from me and my brethren. Clutch your teddy bear against you with every bit of conviction you can muster. Before you drift into slumber, kiss the crucifix alongside your bed while you bend your knees, mumbling your routine adoration to the nailed-god. Adorn your windows and doorways in garlic. Bless your homes with the purest of holy water. And pray. Pray always, often, and diligently to whatever source of goodness you decide to believe in. And, oh yes, believe. Believe without question. The words that you whisper to your fairytales as you are about to sleep, believe that those words will protect you from the darkness and the intoxicating chills it shall bring. Hold on to your misconceptions that there is something that can defend against the riotous ocean of nightmares upon which I now sail! Because… Actually, it is only pity that will truly save you from the bloodthirsty clutches of our army. I pity that you honestly put such faith in your primitive methods of protection.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
So, continue to pray -dear humanity- carry on in your pre-evolutionary exercises. For the most part, you’ll remained unharmed as long as we -creatures of the night- are romantic enough to fancy your nostalgic ways. Chatter on, dear babbling apes, with your prayers, primitive rituals, and customs. I find it all so cute. As long as I retain my sense of humor, this beast of the nocturnal will respect your worthless prayers… I will not strike. Sleep well, my funny little monkeys. Enjoy your dreams and your flowery, soft skin. We -the night breed- will continue to muse in patient observation of your comedic practices. We will go on about our lives in the shadows, only mildly concerned with your delusions and weaknesses. Sleep well, day breed, sleep well.
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------