The blackness of unconsciousness has monsters in it, slithery horrible things that resemble nothing close to peace. Floating in some breathless place, I wasn’t and then I was. Like a light flashing on, or a flipped switch. What is a light?What is a switch?

Flip the switch, blind the night.

The reality is that my eyes are sizzling in their sockets, and the white light aches in my head. What am I? Who…am I…? I have a name; had one before I was l lost in the noxious nightmare of comatose horror. I have an identity; a life, people who care – someone must miss me…

I heard my name spoken in whispers – while lost in my own head – by a voice that left me shivering as I recall it now, and it strikes fear in my chest. It can’t be true but I know my own ears and I thought that I was alone, then. I can’t remember the name now. Nothing works and I’m broken. I really am broke this time.  My head aches and I think it’s bleeding, from the sick, slick sensation of warm wetness on my neck.

The darkness is back and so is the voice, hissing slowly and clearly into my ear and I’m ashamed to admit that it makes me burn with desire. With knowledge.

My name is Bonnee Waitless.

I don’t know where I am, and that’s a big concern because my world is pitch, and seems darker because it was so blindingly bright before. I know that I am awake, aware at least; my eyes are open, and I can feel my nails digging into my cheek so I’m almost sure that this isn’t a dream. I think I know what the darkness is, but I don’t know why it is here. Wherever here is. There are too many questions and not enough answers; I can’t find answers sitting in my ass lost here in the dark. Why is this happening? Why now?

Time to take inventory:

I am afraid.  I know nothing yet it seems that I already know everything. I know that I need to move from the floor and find an egress of any sort,  but the air is molasses and my body doesn’t respond.

There is something else, as well.   I’m no longer alone. What is that sound? A panting in the shadows, frightened or maybe hungry. Perhaps it’s a dog, and if so, it’s probably frightened as well. “Here boy! I don’t bite!”

A breathless whisper seems to surround me; taunting, titillating, and that’s when I realize that the panting is no dog. I don’t know what it is, but I called it and it came with teeth and an agony tipped tongue that peels the skin from my cheek.

I wish I wasn’t.

And then it was light.

“Waitless.”  Bang.  The recoil on the recollection is like a cannonball to the gut.  The same baritone I heard in the cellar when I was a child that came with a stench and an itch that never subsided until after Father Ibriham came and –

It slithers, like fog, sinuously creeping as though it is alive, amd implausibly, it is.  I can’t scream; can’t even moan because my throat is ice and my lungs fire when its needle tipped tongue enters my ear and begins laying eggs of a different knowledge there.

Gods help me.

Praying for death only amplifies the pain in my head before it suddenly subsides with a manic giggle that bounces about in my brain . The betrayal of my body as it strains towards the horror as if in orgasm is a worse torture that anyone can imagine and I can feel a glow of soft, bitter pain that comes with being taken over. I have no power to resist nor the will to.

Lost in space, free will taken and given without reservation. The Devil finally found me, exactly as was promised long ago in that  cellar, in another time.  I can’t fight anymore. It just feels too good to battle a continuous, all-encompassing release. I wish…

I wish I were dead but it wants me alive – my throat!

“Now I am Bonnee Waitless. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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