23 Sep Tormented
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Estimated reading time — 5 minutes
When will this soul be put to rest?
How long must I sit
Writing my will in these coded ways?
Forcing these walls to bare my misery.
A little girl lies sleeping in her bed. No more than 7 is this girl, who rests though the sun has greeted her room with warming rays.
“Darling, wake up.” Her mother calls through the door, gently tapping it to stir the girl.
“I’m awake.” She calls from under her blanket. Yawning, she sits up and greets the day.
But that night…
Her mother kisses her and tucks her in. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Night mommy.” the little girl smiles, gazing into her mother’s eyes. They were noting more than spheres of color, but they held an entire world to the little girl, one of understanding and compassion. One that never let her down.
The lights went out and the walls began to move.
They were back. Once again, like she’d done so many times before, the little girl tried to do what her mother told her.
“Simply hide under your blanket, that’ll make any monster go away.”
Her head under the covers, she sat in silence. Attempting to hold her breath, she became almost paralyzed in fear. She could hear it, them, moving around searching for her. Soon enough they’d sniff her out, so she resorted to the one thing she knew worked.
Racing out of bed she dived for a little box under her desk. Though she’s not sure when exactly this idea came, or why she decided to try it, it had yet to fail. She pulled out a red crayon from the box, its writing would be textured but constant. Strong like iron.
As quickly as she’d done that, she found a spot on her wall to begin her writing.
Where did these words come from though? She thought as she wrote.
Rapture is needed now
Save me from Earthly binds
Study my every move
Judge my truest heart
Be it Heaven or Hell
Just take me from here
The walls were still as she wrote, but it wouldn’t hold forever. Her words meant little to the dammed stalking her. Back to the box she replaced the crayon with a paint brush. Coating it in red paint she whispered. “It’s writing will be smooth but random. Unpredictable strokes leaving lines to run. Flowing like water.”
And just like that her hand was once again to the wall.
Tell me again
The story of how I may be sane.
The one you believe is true
And I hope it.
Tell me again
Why I shouldn’t cry at night.
Why the sight of stars should make me smile,
And the moon make me calm.
Tell me again<
Why you treasure my every motion.
Why the sight of me doesn’t make you cringe,
Why the thought of me doesn’t make you scream.
One final time she rushed back to the box, this time pulling out a red colored pencil. “Your writing will be small and light. Almost invisible, very fragile. I wouldn’t want you to break apart in my grasp. Intangible like a cloud.” With this she wrote.
Night falls again
And so they come
As they always do.
I’m no longer surprised
No longer worried.
If they kill me now so be it.
No longer would I be tormented.
All was completely quiet now. She didn’t hear them, and they didn’t seem to be sniffing her out any longer. Her work was done for tonight. In the morning all of this would be gone. She wasn’t sure why, but her words hid from the light. They hid with the moving walls.
The next morning everything played out the same. Like always.
Night fell with storm clouds rolling in. The little girl was being tucked in when lightning hit and the power went out.
“It’s oka–” Her mother was going to tell her, but her eyes quickly turned to the walls. Almost covered in the girl’s work, her mother looked shocked and angry. “How– What is this!?” She yelled at the girl.
“Mommy it’s the monsters.” The little girl tried to explain. “They’re coming now.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve herd of imaginary friends, but never a child blaming imaginary monsters. Tell me, where are you keeping the stuff you use to make this?”
Afraid of her mother’s tone, the little girl pointed to her box. “There.”
With that her mother took the box and walked out. “Go to bed.” She said simply. No kiss goodnight, no tucking. Just “Go to bed.”.
And then the walls began to move.
The little girl hid under her blanket. There was no other option now. She didn’t have her iron, her water, or her clouds of red. She couldn’t think of anything that could possibly–
Just like that the little girl remembered one day when she’d been riding her bike and fell off. Her skin got tore up and this red stuff her daddy called blood was coming out. It didn’t hurt all too much, and it had made her really curious, so she asked her daddy what blood was. He told her it was stuff that flowed through her whole body and that it was very important. He showed her these colored lines on her skin he called veins, the paths blood used to travel.
All she had to do was break her skin. No problem, she knew how she could do that too. She jumped out of bed and rushed through her door, down the hall and to the bathroom. She passed her parents’ room, a place she’d gone to many times for help. But this was something her parents couldn’t help her with. In the bathroom she found a razor. The thing her mother used to make her skin smooth. She remembered once her mother accidentally cut her self with it.
This would work fine. The little girl rushed back to her room, the walls moving around her the whole way.
She sat down in front of the wall where she could write. Studying her skin, she searched for a vein to cut into. It didn’t take her long to notice one on her wrist.
So she cut it.
The liquid she’d seen only a few times in her life began dripping to the floor. This hurt more than when she crashed her bike, but it would have to do. She stuck her finger on the wound and let blood run onto it. Then, sticking her finger to the wall she began to write.
Written on the wall in Red
My thoughts and feelings
Crushed by liveliness
My life is draining
Let it fade
For in this life I cannot live
If there’s nothing
Before she could finish, she felt her world growing darker. It was a darkness she’d never felt before, her eyelids becoming heavy, her arm becoming stiff. She fainted onto the floor.
The next morning a scream was herd by the neighbors, that of the mother who found her little girl lying on her bedroom floor in a puddle of her own blood. The mother almost collapsed, catching herself on the doorframe so she could proceed to call 911, but as she did the light switch flipped off.
The curtains not yet drawn, the room was completely dark. What she saw could only be described physically, for it was to strong for her mind to grasp. Around the walls were poems, all written in red, one above the little girl written in her blood. But what caught the mother’s attention most of all were the footprints. Something had been walking around in the little girl’s room. On the floor, walls, and ceiling, they’d caught the little girl’s blood and trailed it around her room.
“The foot prints of demons.” She’d said.
(A little girl tormented by figures of pure evil, with no one to turn to, she resorted to old warding spells that were placed into her knowledge by higher powers. Though her parents could never see the demons, in the darkness of the demon’s realm they could see the little girl’s words– as they were written with mortal tools. Finally, with no where else to turn, the little girl resorts to her blood. Killing herself in the process, and unknowingly, she leaves an immortal substance for the demons to tread through, thus leaving a trail as they moved.)
Credit To: Neesa Jones
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