DEMONS by Drew Cipollone

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
DEMONS. A tormented man's nightmare. His struggle with conflict, acceptance and adaptation. In ones experience there are three thought processes. Narration/the story, first person/reasoning and feeling/thought process.

Submitted: July 10, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 10, 2014




The instinctual thought was to run, but where to hide? The fixation meeting me on the couch spread its imperceptible wings, as I, remained imprisoned behind it. Is the situation I find myself in the disillusionment and façade created by own mentality?

While held captive I delved into reflection.

The setting: empty space… black, while the creeping fog found the frosted floor which felt like fire.

The tainted stench of death fluttered the air as it spoke to me. Spinning its head towards me, I ultimately found myself at whole with this organism. In tongue like the language of the unknown it nothing but lecture of its time spent in my head.

Lost… lonely… running circles round… round… round. Where is the holt?

Its soft, oily yet dry skin pulsated and stretched over its porcelain face, its cheeks arced uniting its thought.

It’s displeasing to look at, yet I am compelled, I don’t look away.

Confrontation… alteration… conflict.

Grinning only suggested its unforgettable tale of its lust and contentment. I watched as its frigid uncoloured tongue flickered about, left… right… once… black… twice… red, constantly reminding me of its capability to demolish the unidentified and exterminate the unforgiving.

Forgiveness… innocence… sin.


Hell is here it speaks to me. Why do I understand? Judgment has begun, the battle tanks fire toward me, why aren’t I running? Why do I question that in which stands in front of me? The treading footprints make my head ache.

The pills make the world fake. Are these the things it speaks of?

While death fills the air, heartache and depression stirs inside me, the word I am constantly reminded of is ‘you’. It breathes as it licks its lips. It curves itself up equipped to make the move.

“It’s time for you”.

What is it time for? The hour has approached to kneel before the-alter of absolution. Fuck that don’t bestow it.

I resist and struggle to help myself up… push.

My assumptions were correct the perched body inclines.

Will it charge? 

One arm falls off the divan armrest as the other rests at the pinnacle. I witness a twitch in its hanging arm. I initiate a lungful of air seriously.

I start to panic.

Pain… fears… realization.

Am I in danger? Should the trepidation be for my life?

The instigated twitch is deliberate as I un-mistakenly feel a soft breeze hit my legs. How can this be… the air is still and silenced.

Unwillingly I witness a slight pull on my right leg. It was only at this point that I realized that the imps arm had extended under the couch and stretched it to pull me under.

Will I drown? Will I fall? The breathing gets deeper.

Finally… death… appraisal.

What is happening? I kick… gasp… free, it doesn’t work. I begin for the realisation of the downfall. When does it come?

The ogles of the mischievous sprite delve deeply and penetrate me.

They flicker… size… colour… left… cats… red… right… black.

I am reminded of the failure.

Empty… hurt… ashamed.

I now willow and indulge for my part, in self-pity and abomination. I can’t break free… I don’t break free.

I am the fly in the web, the venomous spider charges.

I am frightened.

I frenzy and fit. Look at it… the pleasure it holds through the situation is unheard of. It enjoys the terror racing across my face.

The setting: Black and still… frantic… possession.

The air holds still and so too does my breath. I’m in an uproar; the slightest touch sends a jolt of lightening upbeat.

It pulsates… booming and throbbing… boom… boom… bang.

My eyes shut. It stops. The exhilarating roller coaster sensation still stands in affect.

I am woken.

Is it real?

Am I dead?

I say; is the condition I hit upon the cynicism and façade created by own mentality? Well… is it?

Where are the clocks that call the cows back?

Where are the DEMONS?

© Copyright 2020 DrewCipollone. All rights reserved.

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