Who is the Imaginary Woman?

(1) Wetting the Devil's Whistle

The dull roar of passing cars dries my ears up to a shrivel. My feet noticed the glacial and frim concrete that eroded from my touch. Skyscrapers which previously kept their distance, risked their necks and curled towards me. Upon glaring at their mishaps, they caught me. I caught me. The muscles in my neck held weary roaches prisoners. They want out. I want out.

Without a minute's notice, the legs of a thousand camels begin pounding all across my body. Leaving internal depressions within my torso. A storm in my gut. And flame in my legs. I can't. Gouging my skin with my raw hands, the pounding grows into thumping. As if I'd become patient zero of a heart disease and was in dire need of a transplant, my body had grown hearts without my consent. The blood in my veins had become thick and stubborn. The windows of the soul that had guided me to this point begged for its release. And for a moment, so brief like I was black out drunk and woke up, I had witnessed someone, through another's eyes. The agonizing pressure didn't matter, my eyes wanted more of her light even if it blinded me.

Her voice, as if it was woven with silk, was tranquil. She spoke with a cadence akin to a comforting mother and saw me through eyes of crimson. The newborn hearts cried, the roaches and camels began to obey. I felt. Unburdened.

The pale woman lifted her arm at a snail's pace and raised her palm. She spoke with absolute dead calm. Never had I thought I would have the privilege to hear such divine words. With color returning to the fiber of my being, and for what felt like an eon, I took her hand.

And witnessed the mobius strip of torment, punctured, by her sharp canines.