Chapter VI(2)
VOMIT AND SHIT. Her eyes will be with me forever. Vomit and Shit, I think to myself. The left one is Vomit, the right is Shit. The two children fighting for the throne. No, for the right to build a throne. To build the kingdom inside by constructing the desolation outside. Within her renderings, below her perception, and sidetracked around her reasoning. One murdered the other by constructing in excess of what is needed. By the grace of dissatisfaction in her surroundings and searching for more when more was too much.
By murdering the one theyd loved, they now journey eastward to wander the land of Nod. Their skeletal garden is only a memory.
Nod is my shoebox. An old Doc Martins box tinted in earth tones. An appropriate color scheme for they are the world these scattered pieces must wander for their personal perceptions of eternity.
The above is the Revelations to Michelle. The genesis to her hazel (and dripping red) children. Vomit and Shit, the newest denizens of this plane.
The bitch did nothing but watch. Kept everything in a tight fucking ball. It was about to explode; I could taste it in her sweat. Her tears leaked confusion and frustration. Her mind kept it burrowed and she refused to communicate. This girl was a goddamn mess inside.
The scratched lettering in the wall grows increasingly red until the last few words almost blend together with blood. My fingernails are split and worn by my latest entry.
The two bastardized rebels are stuck together by a toothpick. The exposed wood between them has a length of thread attached, which runs outside the shoebox and is attached to a rusty nail hammered into the wall.
The shoebox is positioned in the center of the room with almost a dozen thin lines emerging from the lid and outreached to their appropriate nails directly beneath their most defining etching. Each etching ends in blurred crimson letters; the final sacrifice I make for them. The pain I shed to purify them. My flowing blood to cleanse the infected.
They are pure, now. The elite chosen.
I am their Messiah. My name is Joshua Collins
By murdering the one theyd loved, they now journey eastward to wander the land of Nod. Their skeletal garden is only a memory.
Nod is my shoebox. An old Doc Martins box tinted in earth tones. An appropriate color scheme for they are the world these scattered pieces must wander for their personal perceptions of eternity.
The above is the Revelations to Michelle. The genesis to her hazel (and dripping red) children. Vomit and Shit, the newest denizens of this plane.
The bitch did nothing but watch. Kept everything in a tight fucking ball. It was about to explode; I could taste it in her sweat. Her tears leaked confusion and frustration. Her mind kept it burrowed and she refused to communicate. This girl was a goddamn mess inside.
The scratched lettering in the wall grows increasingly red until the last few words almost blend together with blood. My fingernails are split and worn by my latest entry.
The two bastardized rebels are stuck together by a toothpick. The exposed wood between them has a length of thread attached, which runs outside the shoebox and is attached to a rusty nail hammered into the wall.
The shoebox is positioned in the center of the room with almost a dozen thin lines emerging from the lid and outreached to their appropriate nails directly beneath their most defining etching. Each etching ends in blurred crimson letters; the final sacrifice I make for them. The pain I shed to purify them. My flowing blood to cleanse the infected.
They are pure, now. The elite chosen.
I am their Messiah. My name is Joshua Collins
posted by LCpl Nash, USMC at 11:35 PM
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