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Abraxas Deamon Of Lies...And The Rest.

Novel By: HerWhisperedWords
Mystery and crime

A Prisoner, Deathrow, her story.
evil, complex, sad.
compelling story of one womans view of the world through the lense of a camera and the twisted thoughts in her mind. View table of contents...


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Submitted:Mar 5, 2013    Reads: 18    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

I'm sitting in the chair writing in agony, a demon, a minor demon is pinning me there, fucking with my head 'Abraxas' he says, I am Abraxas the demon of lies and deceit

"so what do you want to know about lies my dear?"

I am not a liar I try again to get up, this time I flayed, splayed. I felt myself screaming,

"I'll tell you about lies. There are white lies and black lies and many shades of grey lies. Some lies are justified, lies told out of kindness, lies that preserve dignity lies that spare pain everybody'sa liar dear."

I'm finding these lies taste of defeat. These words dribble up my tattered oesophagus and taste-buds, leaving a vile permeation, foaming from my parted pink lips. These lies fall upon deaf ears with a tasteless ease. These are the lies that are mine. These are the lies that I own.

I have only once ever had cruel intentions.

I would have been his anything, just to be his everything. His perfect pretty porcelain doll; I was made of putty and susceptible to his chrome-painted claws, stretching through the miles of void. The simple things in my life held no significant meaning anymore. Friends, relationships, the butterflies floating about with their powdered wings who dared to rain their optimism upon me. I wanted no part of it. All I wanted was him.

The miles grew shorter with his temper and demands. I was never perfect. I was never enough.

None of us were.

My imaginary world that had become my reality fell apart the day I found out that he had manipulated a great number into these living moulds of a long lost love. Not one of the seventy of us was his Alison, but we all held the certain characteristics that he was still clinging to so desperately, searching for his beloved Alison in every desperate and lonely girl.

Most of us have grown up and transformed. The lucky ones that got away spread their wings and soared over the sunset, leaving the rest of the world trailed behind in a sickening pink, dappled with customary blue to complement its weakness. I have always found strength in colours.

I have called myself hopeless.
I have called myself worthless.

Every one of these nugatory words stung my cochlea in his soothing and terrifying vocal tones for the better portion of two years, and all the while, disgusting revenge plans formed in my the depths of my drug-infested brain. These chemicals I ingested did nothing to enhance my healing process, I learned through trial and tribulation, but I enjoyed tasting the subtle hues of Death dancing upon my tongue. I never got close enough so I decided it wasn't worth my time, and stopped inhaling the precious chemicals I had come to rely upon and began to live life for myself. There was always that one regret dancing around in the back of my recovering brain …

What if I did it to him?
Wouldn't it be so fucking funny?

It wasn't hard to get in contact again and it wasn't as though I didn't need it. I relished in the playful messages we bounced back and forth in vain, treating his words as worthless pleas for attention, still believing him to be the fool searching for his lost love and finding her aspects in my voice and photographs.

The moment I knew he wasn't lying for the first time, my heart stopped and dropped to my useless digestive system of a stomach, and bile rose and I fell back to the dewy grass and stared up at the October stars. I'm sure they were reflected in my silent tears, but he? He openly sobbed on the phone as I sat in silence and listened to his words, after my terrible confession.

"I just wanted you to hurt likeIdid." The day dream stopped, useless. What use is it to dream if that's all it'll ever be a dream a world I'll never reach a world that isn't real because that's the reality. My reality. His reality. Yours.

I used to think I saw the world in snapshots. Picturesque captures of reality. Reality. In reality I realize now that I see the world in fragments. A slideshow of unrelated scenes. It's enough to give one a fucking headache. Like a fox in a frantic chase, I flip through slide after slide of snapshot after snapshot, fearing for my life, staying trickily ahead of that which will consume me. I've never stopped to look behind me; that's the biggest mind fuck of it all. I don't know what I'm hiding from, but I'm really quite sure that something in my subconscious is dreadfully aware. So I continue to frantically flip through the fragmented scenes, onto the next before I've even processed. I want a mind that works in mono. I am exhausted. What would happen if I slipped for a moment, was caught in between the glossy prints? When the various realities in parallel diverged would I unravel like a poorly woven tale? Have you ever been afraid that all you are is an idea? I myself have not. I am far too incomplete to pass as an idea. Even the most flighty would give more body and mass to an idea than I possess. Perhaps I fear instead that I am my own snapshot. A fragment. Never processed, ever skimmed. Always moving. If not hidden, if not moving, then extinct. I am not a writer. I journal. I pillage around in my head, taking what I can find and extracting it to a page. Trying to remove the thing that hurts. I try to salvage myself from my own internal parasitic relationship. I've eaten myself alive. I borrow the world to portray it in scrawl. Can't you see that I'm not a liar? I am a creator, a god, an idea. A snapshot. Fragmented. Unseen. I'm quite sure I exist in multiple. I am all of these things and I am more, but I haven't discerned the remainder of self. Who will know me? The world is radiant in its hideousness. I want to feel. Nothing. I want to feel nothing for a change. So exhausted by feeling all. I'm a fucking snapshot, I have no feelings. Contradict me I dare you. But no one knows the way to contradict me. There is too much noise right now, the pictures are a blur. I wish I could watch the world through the lens of a camera, neat stilled frames in black and white. I see fragments of myself in the battered world. Sit with me a while as I collect them.

I flay myself with this black type, this is me in my empty naked entirety. I don't omit the flaws. Indeed the flaws accentuate the core, drilling to the center of the thing. My achievements are measured in pounds, and like in golf, the lower score wins. I've been losing at golf and life for quite some time, and I lost my mind quite some time before that. I walk in fire that turns to ash beneath me. A flayed bleeding mess, the touch of hands hurts like a saline paper cut. The best intentions, but hard to recognize as I have none. It's always cold in the middle of a fire. I burned for him.So now the truth i hated him,the lie of telling the world myself and him of a love that never was.

So now I sit in this unflattering orange one piece with a smile on my face because I am finally free now, I have chains and bars, and my life will soon be taken but I chose this path.

I am used to being a no body and now I am a number but I am something and I did it for myself.


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