The Ladies of Horror
by A.F. Stewart
Tick tock, Davy. Tick tock. Listen, listen. Hear the clocks?
“Please, no. Not again.” A small whimper in the night.
‘Round and ‘round your brain they go. Where it stops, we all know.
“I won’t listen this time. I won’t!” Quick breaths in and out. The urge to clamp his hands over his ears. “Just leave me alone! I won’t do it!”
Of course you will. You love the thrill. Clocks are ticking, the road awaits. Past time to eviscerate.
“You can’t make me do it this time!”
Oh, Davy, Davy, can’t we? Look my boy, what do you see?
He didn’t want to see the visions, but they were there. He didn’t want to answer. But he did. “The world painted sepia. Like an old photograph. The dirt road to nowhere and somewhere, lost in fog and eternal black.”
What else, what else? What do you hear? Let your reality disappear.
“The clocks. I hear the clocks. And the drip, drip of…”
Tears and blood. The weeping flood.
“Please, don’t do this.” A lost plea, echoing his footsteps.
Silly boy, you’re just our toy. Time to jaunt. What do you want?
One soft sigh. “Colour. I want colour.” He felt it now and started running. He ran forever. He ran from himself and toward the voices.
Look down, look down. In your wish you’ll drown.
Eyelids fluttered in descent, to stare. “Red. My hands are all red.”
Red means dead. We’ve had our fun, now we’re done.
“I’ve killed again, haven’t I?”
Yes, Davy, dear. They screamed in fear.
Fiction © Copyright A.F. Stewart
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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