What is this reality I have conceived? This world is not what I had thought it was. It is an empty, lifeless, void. Unless, this is the world I have thought of, and what once was, was actually reality. I do not know...
You are right here before me, resting. You are very still—cold. Eyes closed, you lay there, your warmth... It's left you, drained all over the floor.
Here I sit, in your crimson warmth. In fact, it is everywhere. My clothes, my face—even on the walls—and my hands. They're in splatters, your warmth.
The one thing that moves your warmth stopped making its music. The one thing that helps you think has stopped processing. The things that help you gaze upon the stars are glazed.
You are de- resting.
Resting.
Resting, resting, resting!
RESTING! YOU ARE RESTING!
RESTING RESTING RESTING RESTING RESTING RESTING RESTING...
DEAD!
You are dead...
Dead, dead, dead...
Dead dead dead dead DEAD DEAD DEAD!
You are dead.
It is my fault.
What is wrong with me?
It- It's still recording...
I need you to burn this place to the ground! Please! Burn it before she wakes up! Before she comes back, burn it! I'll hold her off... Don't arrest me! You'll set her free... Listen to this, and understand.
I don't want this curse to burden anyone else.
I- Wait! No! Get out of my head! Shut up! SHUT UP! PLEASE! I WANT IT TO ST-
[Recording End]
YOU ARE READING
Book of the Unmentioned
Short StoryJust a collection of short stories/poems that I've thought of throughout the years.
