With my eyes fixated on slumber, and my mouth letting out a fading yawn, I trudge to the shattering bathroom mirror. Lathering a violet concoction on my silky skin, I gazed over to my half-open window. Thought by thought lingering through my befuddled head; "what in the universe could have projected this strange occurrence unto my existence?" Perhaps I perceive things frivolously, and overlook the fact that someone else in this household could've easily unfastened the bathroom window. I peer into the Lunar moon, letting it shackle my soul to mischievous injection. In my head, swimming through the stars, not picking up a single thought I had dropped and left behind in the atmosphere of this gaping solar system.
I transport my wandering soul back to my Earthly body, and retrieve the pressing thought. The window... This damned window... I want to know who is portraying such a façade of an existence. I want this spirit to make them self-known. Yes, it may be past dusk, and the moonlight is bathing the land in a gleaming haze; but I still must access this otherworldly being that emits such an unnerving aroma of potent mystery. I can't let this tenacious thought decay on the horizon of an agony-based sunrise.
I hear the low hums of a man on the other side of the screen, and I call to him. He doesn't entertain the thought of mundane conversation, he rather occupies the atmosphere in tasteless murmurs and whispers. The voice. . . . . . That very voice. . . . . .It lingers in my dwindling mind like a pungent fragrance that was bred never to cease. The spirit of my grandfather's past life has inhabited the atmosphere, weighing down the wind with grim pressure, and chilling the clouds with a gouging wing of a fleeing bat.
The voice that rang vacant similarity to every dream I've conceived. It was him. The communication beholds sentimental deception, and I run. For I cannot withhold anymore of this bizarre happening, my soul is ascending into a preposterous altitude. The petrifying aura latched onto my squirming spine as I gallop through the insidious haze, clasping for a helping hand. As I was the only one in the household who has not undergone the motions of a misting slumber, I was to devour the accumulating fog without the comradery of a determined ally.
I reverse my anxious steps from my parents' room, tracing the rose marble floor back to my bathroom. I return to this small space, acknowledging the loud, monotonous whispers pressing against the screen, ricocheting through the peculiar space even closer. Sounding as if a woman's lips were pressed against the screen, engaging in an eternal conversation amongst an un-absorbing skeleton. The madness surrounds me, and the temptation of opening this window swarms me. The curiosity is chaining me to the draping clouds, and I continue to relish in the motions of unraveling the screen to the window.
My father overheard the commotion that amplified through the cracking tile walls of the bathroom. I couldn't control my actions of sheer chaos. I continued to thrust my hollow body up against the tile wall. The mirror shakes violently off of the eggshell wall, and I sob into my chilled hands of a vanishing moon dust. The sobs accumulate in my withering throat, causing an agitated gesture, lingering in my lungs.
I claw the walls with several bouquets of razor-flooding glass. In my head, I refuse to cater to such raw intervals of insanity. But before I knew it, my father clasped my shaking hand, lifting me off of the bone- chilling floor.
Hearing the fading murmurs against the shaking screen, my father conjured up reasoning to this terrorizing conception. The spirit world. The conclusion that swiveled through our pondering minds. Spirits. They often disguise in blooming facades, leaving our very existence perplexed.
With the scraping of sharpened talons caressing the screen, I sunk into vindictive despair. If this being thinks she can freely taunt our souls with torture and thrive off of the despair we emit, then her vision of ambush is faulty in my conception.
"Delilah, open the window, and let me relish in the time I spend with you. Delilah, please; it is so difficult to cherish the time we spend as I am trapped in the re-conceiving twilight."
I trudge to the echoing frame, preparing to unravel the decaying screen. My father shrieks. "Leave the window be, escape the mental shackles she is attempting to preserve you in." I begin to sprint to the kitchen, leaving the fantasy of this foolish window behind. I reflected on how the spirit initially lured me in. I couldn't let the thought parish, for the thought was burning into my skin, leaving a mystifying gash on my wrists.
Who could this paranormal creature truly be?
I just wanting to gouge the screen with razor blades. I just wanted to project my hand through the frame, just to see if it is actually you. But the treacherous conditions of psychological terror haunt me. If you are portraying yourself as a false identity, then I will close the window frame for good. You will no longer have someone to absorb the tasteless murmurs you project into the silent air. You will then no longer have a choice but to rekindle with the past life of a shimmering, intergalactic pixie.
Calming my mind in the kitchen, my father speaks to me, projecting the truth unto me. "The spirit you are acknowledging is a master piece of disguise. She poses as past loved ones, and lures in the naïve host." And it was as those words began to flood from his trembling lungs, that I realized the vague familiarity this spirit holds. She was the insidious opponent that inhabited every night terror I ever conceived. She was my reoccurring nightmare, my intruder, my sinister stalker, everything that lingers in the emotion of horrid and despicable, was the presence she beheld.
Dashing to the small space, the air caresses my gazing skeleton with chills of an eager fading moon. "Delilah, open the window. Delilah, open the window, let me in. Delilah open the window, come see me." The woman sounded as if her lungs were drowning in pools of blood, gurgling the bloody haze, murmuring in the tongues of the sacred, demonic dazzler. She infects the desolate place with great pain and misery.
If only I could bathe in a pool of every exquisite dream I have possessed, then I could escape this trilogy of terror. But I couldn't trust the stargazer who beholds my dreams. I trust her like a butterfly with a shattered wing, expecting the wing to propel her through the softening breeze. So I ponder, and plot to cease the insanity once and for all. I face the window frame and I scream. "I WILL CUT THE SCREEN AND LET YOU IN. YOU NO LONGER HAVE A MENACING HOLD ON ME ANYMORE." I murdered the silence with brash noise that could easily compel the sky to open up and reveal the sequenced galaxy.
My father rushed to the kitchen window, waiting for this being to enter the crimson frame. With a gun in hand, he is prepared to shoot this spontaneous creature. The record player stops at the single scratch of a dwindling claw. The screech in the record results in my heart skipping a beat. My father releases the spring of the trigger and fires into the shimmering sky. Bullet, by bullet, the murmurs in the windowsill became more and more amplified into the atmosphere. If I said I didn't want to dismember your very actions and existence, I would be lying.
The fruit of life now decays inside of me, and I am trapped in this mental asylum of an existence.Every candle lit image that is instilled in my mind must parish unto the floor, and leave me very body. And the thousands and thousands of pills begin to dissipate into the floor in pools of accumulating blood.
If you really, truly want me to open this damn window, then you must blow out every candle lit image in my amputating head.
Moon dusk, star dust; they both rapture the moment in a bittersweet fragrance. And as I swallow this grim haze, I know that I will never forget you.
I lead you inside the house from the crimson frame, you were drenched in the blood of a violent, rosy moon. With a dripping nightshade hanging from your pupils, you follow me into my home. However, I was stumbling upon the uncertainty of your presence, and I open the window, guiding you to the silver midnight sky. A man behind a mask, perhaps that's who you were. A puppeteer of one's decaying skeleton. You never leave the window side. You never leave that damned window side.
Oh, how the crimson skies hung over me like the souls of former criminals swinging from the smoldering gallows. And that's just what you wanted, was for me to lay dormant in the wanderings of my malfunctioning emotions. You appeared to be one of my late kin, then returning as a familiar face. You resembled of every aching night terror I have ever soaked in. You know how to lure your naïve opponents so tremendously.
My abductor. My abductor. You have escaped my night terrors, and come to haunt me in the presence of my woken life. My stomach is overtaken by the unease of your sinister doings. Hysterical, I slashed my wrist through the crimson frame. River pool, river pool, a damned river pool of maroon flows down my shaking wrist, I become powerless under the circumstances of grief. My abductor has spotted me, clasping my bleeding hand in her marble palm. Yanking me through the smoldering frame, she acts as if she had caught a lunar eclipse in her hands.
My dreams were not only in my head.
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