I'm lying in my bed.
I feel heavy.
I don't understand why my body bargains with my mind for sleep.
They throw out their offers into the ether of my mind.
"Have a full night's rest". Says the body. "But suffer great pain come dawn."
"Have as much sleep as you need". Says the mind. "And drown in your fears till light".
As I lay there ;staring out my window; I thought of all the things I have lost throughout my life.
Calling on my boundless imagination, I conjured a dark, thick undergrowth beneath me of twisted roots and fungal rot.
Drawing life to my desire to create I spawn many an insect.
Handfuls of cockroaches, scorpions, and beetles pour out from cracks in the floor boards.
I can feel their scuttling through the bed frame.
I herd them beneath my coat rack.
Now onto the meat of the course.
Raising my arm I pull flesh, bone, and gristle from the dark pit under my desk.
I begin to form what I believe to be a deer.
Then ;as a sculptor breaks stone to form his true vision; I contort and snap this deer into my desired form.
Jabbing bones into its side as multiple limbs.
Removing its spine to soften it's hide.
It begins to simulate the creatures of the deep. As I wish for it to float and flop about.
To polish it off I remove it's esophagus to silence that infernal screaming.
It is complete.
Placing my creation on my writing desk, I admire it's fluid ;otherworldly; movement.
As it's mouth starts gaping at a nearby bug,(which I believe is an earwig) I felt that it needed a humanoid companion.
Again ;drawing my metaphorical clay from my pit of flesh; I begin work on what appears to be a small human child of indeterminate gender.
It's skin is heavily scarred. And seems to be composed of squid or octopus flesh.
I start on its face. Planning intricate details of sensory organs and features of beauty.
However as it's creator I have decided that it must suffer as whatever glorious form I choose for it.
I peel a sliver of skin from is face to form it's mouth.
It is thin and wide.
I insert 27 tiny round teeth and step back.
I have decided to name the child Morgan.
It seems to be dormant. Hunched over, barely keeping its balance. I lean towards it and whisper its name.
"Morgan, it is time for you to awake".
It is difficult to discern any reaction from it.
Besides its prominent mouth there are no other distinguishing features.
Morgan begins to stir. It inhales and releases a deep throaty laugh.
"So" it growls. "Are you finished with your sloppy attempts at creation".
"Are you satisfied with your childish toys of flesh and growth".
It's sickly lips part. Bearing it's teeth.
I feel an unnatural rage building.
Morgan sneers "Oh, you didn't think that your creations would simply agree with you out of some ingrained respect"
I don't know what is happening.
I feel like everything I make has no meaning.
What have lost along the way that made me what I am?
Morgan shuffles behind me.
It wraps it's sickly arms around my chest.
And whispers "Well some would say sanity is the most obvious answer".
"But the truth is".
"Even mad people can't live without hope"
I hear crumbling as my creations breakdown to ashes.
I am no longer in my room.
I'm on a bathroom floor with a blade in my neck.
And I cry.
Because I know what I have lost.
I; the broken man curled on the bathroom tile; was convulsing. waiting to be free from my shell of a body.
My blade jutting out of my neck, my wounds taut, swollen.
My skin stained with blood and tears.
I felt that I had deserved this. That this was the consequence for my actions.
Yet I still wished for this cup to be taken from me. I do not want to suffer any longer.
Especially at my own hand.
Through my weeping I could see a figure in the doorway.
Her bare feet ,soft against the tiles.
She stands beside me. Staring down at this THING!
She lies down beside me.
I do not recognize her.
With white wisps twirling around her fingers.
She places her hand on my cheek.
My heart aches with the relief of her cool skin.
I felt this warmth grow inside my chest.
I thought this was love at first.
Seeing as it was so pure.
As my soul opened up to expose itself once again, I realized that it was not love.
It was hope.
When she vanished I could feel my very essence shatter.
Why didn't she heal me? Suture my wounds? Kiss my scars?
In a moment of clarity I learned that she gave me hope because my scars were part of my story.
and the hope was to give me another chapter.
When I find her again,
I will be made whole.
Then I will know that the one who loves me doesn't heal my body.
But gives me hope.