Memoir: Blood Spiral


The blood runs down in endless squarish spirals, staining the deck and stairs rust-red. Endless, it is slow at first, mere trickled rivulets, but then it's as if a dam breaks and wave upon wave of it starts to flow. The watery rush is accompanied by moaning, that too without cease, its source from not one but thirty bodies, their sirens' song which seems to be meant to try and lull me to sleep. It is as if they're wanting me to join them. To come dance with them on the Fields of Elysium.

I'm not ready.

Laying there, I try to claw my way out, away from the bodies and the blood, my own blood oozing from me, brining me closer to Elysium, each drop of my life's essence bringing me one step closer to death. The moans are now joined by voices, disembodied voices that add to the power of the corpses' spell, it all weaving about me. So powerful. Must sleep. Must…go.

Nightmares that hit when I sleep or am awake, the latter being when I have to take the stairs. Gods, I wish I could erase those images from my mind but I don't know how to. I don't really have anyone I can turn to. Not anyone who will just listen to me. I just need to be listened to but I know just about everyone I know will tell me to go see the shrink. Frak. That. I'd rather deal with this on my own, thank you.

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