Wednesday, July 3

Music Monday-Song One, Pensador Louco

Music Monday is a music prompt writing event done each week in the Show Offs Community on Google Plus. Each week we take a different song, listen to it and write about how that song makes us feel. This piece was written for: Song One

Pensador Louco

- no title -

Time. Running. My feet move as fast as they can. Faster than sound. Faster than the sound of my heart. Not as fast as I wish they did.

Footsteps behind me. Like a flash. So close. What do they want from me, these people? Run. Blood pounding like deaf drums in my ears. Run. Run. Hands. So close to touch me. So eager to grab me.

Claws. Dirty nailed fingers, twisted into claws. Almost. If I could ever find a way out. Any way out.

I'm sick. Ill. Thin blood, yellow, stained, pumping into a heart that still doesn't know it's all but close to a sickening end. Faster. Run. Nowhere to run.

More hands. A cat screams in the distant woods. Like a frightened dead baby being born. Ill.

Begging the hands and feet to stop. I wish I could scream louder. Cry harder. Escape in quiet.

Disease in me. Turning memories into pain. Oh, my memories. I'd trade them all for a chance to be away. The cat knows it's too late.

Rip, torn shirt. I fall. My knees scratching in the dust and stones. Blood. Excruciating pain. The feet stop. The hands are all around me. Tearing my clothes. Myself. To pieces. My thoughts shred to festering bloody pieces. All falling down. All of them.

Flowing from open wounds and merging into the assaulting hands. I'm ill. I'm dying. I have no reason to run anymore.

And there is a bonfire nearby.

Bright. Red. Hot. I know what the hands want with me. Purification. Moral. My body deprived of every sense but the burning, senseless sentence of fire. No. No. Stop. It hurts.

All so close to the end now. The cat knows. I know. Too late.

For them.

Open flesh. My flesh. Pouring like gold through their hands. Melting in their clothes. The fire is so close now. The heat is unbearable, but it isn't hot enough to cauterize my wounds. Yellow sickness. Liberated from my body. This is my flesh. Eat it.

Breathe it. Live with it.

I'm being thrown into the bonfire and the flesh burns, but my illness flies into the air. They can't stop me for I am an ill wind.

I go pass the willows. I pray the cult with their lungs and body. My own flesh turned to a golden yellow bible. Stronger than their purification. Higher than their red hot cure. Faster than their morality.

And in the woods, somewhere, I know a silent cat is smiling.

I am.

Long live the disease.