Death Knell

Slipslip sliding
mad eyes writhing,
the Gorgons' dark breath
foretelling her death,
down the slope she goes
where to, no one knows.

"The Earth, she's hard",
so sang the bard
who kenned well what he said.
The dying soul has fled
into the deeps of hell
called by the pealing knell.

She wakes...

... to shame, guilt and fear.

Shame that she could forget herself, her values, her God.

Guilt that she could hurt those she loved. And enjoy it.

Fear that dreams will haunt her waking.

She dreams...

.... of murder, of torment, of mutilation.

Blood is streaked through her dreams, glaring crimson through the night. She is repulsed, and yet revels in the river of gore.

Death is not to be feared, but welcomed. Pain... so much pain. Not just her own, but of those she loves. She sees it and feels nothing but a strange sense of elation at their sufferings distilled into her dreams.

She fears what she becomes, a Hyde wrested from her waking Jekyll. And yet, there is power. Such power she cannot resist. She needs to feel it fill her, strengthen her, infusing steel into her own blood. She drinks it in, glorying in its pulsing pungence.

Then she wakes.

In the dark...

She lies there, and it surrounds her... Curling its fingers through her hair, tugging gently, teasing. It lies beside her, stroking, fingers against her skin, calling her name softly...

She pleads for it to leave her be, fears it, but is enthralled. Its voices whisper in her mind... drawing her in.

She feels that surrender will let it consume her, spread through her being, turn her mind to madness... and yet she wishes she could, to end the fear by being one with it.

You tell her it's a lie... and she wants to believe. That it's just her mind playing tricks on her. That the voices don't exist. That the allure of the darkness is not real.

But it's all a lie. You lie, though you know it not. The voices lie, a soothing facade for darker dreams...