What
Follows Me Out - Bedside Limbo
The first
time is the worst -
the most
intense.
My bed, my
sheets, my pillow,
became an
altar, became chains, became a vice.
I want to
scream, but all I am in this moment
is a ball of
wrinkled meat in a bone bowl
peeking out
of a set of holes.
She is
standing at my door,
long dark
hair like black scratch marks
draped over
her face down to her faded fingers.
I gasp
shallow breathes dying to deepen.
I cannot
understand It,
as my vision
begins to redden.
My
sputtering engine purrs.
Every
padlocked joint and tendon
explodes in
a frenzied bolt of sudden synchrony.
I shoot up
so fast I ought to break,
but she is
gone.
I explore my
recovered mobility and look around,
but I'm
alone in my room.
I sit for a
moment, just trying to process It.
Though
shaken, I get up,
remembering
that I have things to do.
Two years
later
things get a
bit strange.
I find
myself in a darkened lecture hall,
taking notes
on blurry bullet-points.
I start to
cough. Loudly. Sharply.
The hand
covering my mouth gets wet,
I see it is
dotted in a thick, tarry bile.
My stomach
shrinks, and a cascading mass
of inky,
oily flesh erupts from my jaws.
Tiny
tendrils wipe sickened tears
from my
bloodshot eyes.
I'm
suddenly in bed, a different bed than before.
Though it
seems that the same defiant limbs
are lying in
this one too.
It happens.
My sealed
lips part, and birth the very horror
that had
found me moments before.
I can taste
It. Feel It.
Its eldritch
arms caress my cheek
with an
audible slimy swipe.
And then,
like a morbid matryoshka,
the black
bud breaths
a haunting
gaseous orb
that
rises high, phasing through
the bed
above me.
No one saw
anything.
My teeth
were clean, my face dry.
I feel
unmade by what I saw.
Unmade, and
yet, reformed.
It's been
a while since that night.
Two years, I
think.
Distressing
as It was, I cannot help but feel
like
I'm...overdue.
Dismissal
came early this morning,
a chance to
reel in some slack.
Window
closed, comforter earning its name,
facing the
wall in silence, I drift off.
Voices come.
At least a dozen.
I cannot
turn to see. Do not want to.
They murmur
dreadful things,
though I do
not understand their words.
My periphery
catches a gelatinous halo
wrapping my
head like a hellish crown
as a single,
chilling finger
presses my
neck and follows my spine
to its
pointed end.
I am
thrilled.
But It does
not last, as the magic dies
with the
coming of my waking body.
I have been
jilted,
left with a
thirst.
Could I call
out to It?
Chase It
down?
Insist that
It stay?
I close my
eyes once more,
and catch
that warping wind with ease.
I am visibly
bound.
The sight
before me gives credit
to my
immobility.
Wrapped in a
silken husk
that would
scar any other,
I smile
warmly at the many hundreds
who encase
me with my wish.
Pale little
weavers
with
blood-droplet eyes
tickle me
all over.
I must be
mad -
this is a
nightmare.
Why am I so
wracked with joy?
It was I who
beckoned that they come -
that It
return in whatever form It liked.
To grant me
even the slimmest insight.
To hand me
the reins.
Now,
I may
finally understand.
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