3Giving In to the Monster
Author's note: This was originally meant to be a diary entry, the first one, in a very pretty 1550's style book I was given for Christmas by my lovely aunt. I knew my mother would find it and read it, so I wrote the first word, "Welcome", then came the idea to make it a poem, then part of a story I had started writing. Anyway, when you read it, you tell me whether I should use it in the story or burn it like my masterpiece (may it rest in piece). Excuse the lack of imagery, but it would get in the way at first. Oh, and the beast/monster thingy, not the biblical one.
A young man, no older than twenty-three led me in and introduced me to the fellowship of the followers of the eternal monster.
Welcome! Please, leave your sacrifices at the door. We are gathered here today to pay homage to the great beast. Bow. Feed its fire. We all must please it before it begins its bloodthirsty rampage and destroys us all. I learned this lesson the hard way.
Two days ago I entered this cold, stone temple out of curiosity, and pity for those who worshiped surrounded by these walls, just as you came. Upon setting foot in here I recalled something Debussy had said about some new Paris building during Haussman's reconstruction, that outside it resembled a train station, and inside a Turkish bath. This recollection induced a laugh at the jumbled, elegant, and sometimes-gaudy styles of both buildings, a style I feel is describable only as Napoleon III.
But a thunderous voice, outraged by my disrespect and foolish fearlessness called from behind layers of gossamer curtains, concealing the incense-laden altar, "Dare you laugh in MY presence? Do you not know who and what I am? I am that which runs through your veins, that haunts your every dream, even in day, that creates them in the first place!" then it whispered, seemingly in my ear, though it was at least fifteen feet away, "I am every breath I grant you."
I shivered and quaked at the thought that this demigod, no, what was I thinking, this god itself, which had not uttered a human syllable, nor even a sound discernable by the un-aided human ear was now chastising me, whispering to me, granting me life.
It shouted for all others to leave and close the doors behind them, for we needed a spirit-to-spirit talk. Again it spoke, "Come to me. On your knees before what you insignificant mortals call "destiny".
Of course I obeyed, meekly, and yet, my mind and soul continued in defiance. "Now! Closer!" Wow. This, thing, knew me better than anyone, myself included. I came even closer, this time taking all of me.
"No need for apologies, just do it." I don't know even now how I knew what was meant by that, perhaps my soul knew. However it happened, I gave him my writing hand through the curtains, and into it were placed a goldish scroll and a fountain pen.
"Write this: I am ruled, am controlled, am, by the will and mercy of destiny, which I worship with all it has given me. Good. Again." So I gave my hand again, this time through air as the curtains, a figment of the beast's imagination, were gone. The smile I saw in that demonic face, a smile of purple gums and crystal teeth left me paralyzed, and I knew, even before the sinking of the curved claw into my wrist, that I was going to die.
"Fool," it smiled the wicked smile again, "my new slave and scribe, you should know, doctor, that you are mine now, and," it move closer to my face, so close that I could smell the breath, reeking of roses and rot, "I never killed and never will, with that kind of mercy."
With that came out the nail, and in went the ink. Now I truly did know, as I heard the angelically maniacal laughter, that I was already dead – to myself and others – I was just watching – and writing. I had always been under the monster's control, but now I shared its blood. Willingly, even knowing how it would earn me surely and possibly only, my painful destruction, I gave into the monster and became a slave of destiny – of writing, music, and poetry.
After Note: Yes, for those who know me and those who don't I apologize for alluding to one of my little obsessions so obviously and often, however, I will never apologize for the weirdness, which falls short of my disintegrated masterpiece anyway. But should I keep this one? You tell me. If people like it, I may wander around in my memory until I find the burned but brilliant work The Druidess, prequel to one of my works in progress (still on paper) and post it. And just incase the above mini-story thingy needs explaining, though I thought I had left in depressingly(to myself) clear, e-mail me.