I am a subject of the unfathomable. My haunted psyche is filled with ancient Eldritch horrors. Deep within the folds and creases of my diseased brain are abhorrent defilements of human morality. They slowly consume my soul, replacing the joy and euphoria with a crippling morose emotion and grotesque images spawned only in the minds of those who have touched the end of infinity.
A plethora of visions have assaulted my mind; each wave of soul-wrenching horrors leaving me more broken down and beaten then the last. Even worse is the visage of the Bloody Old Gods; the decaying shambling masses gather 'round their shredded bodies. They all look upon me. They turn their dead eyes upon me and gaze into my body; they direct their entire existence into mine and they collide.
In this collision, there are spasms of deep depression and waves of suffocation as I lose my breath. My lungs seize up, and my legs shake and buckle. Deep crimson flows from my prophetic eyes as I view into the ancient paradise of death. The pain of each episode is unimaginable. My eyes can feel thousands of formless needles drill deep through my cornea; behind them is a burning sensation that flares to levels of which drive me to insanity. Each vision leaves my rib cage a shattered and broken mess as the constant thrashing contorts my body past those of any physical limitation. Deep claws rake my throat, for the screams of terror and pure despair leave their marks; the only thing preventing me from ending this misery is the grip the Bloody Old Gods have on my mind.
As I break down to the husk of a person I once was, the only solace I may find is that I know why; they are preparing me to be a prophet. A speaker of the Bloody Old Gods. They plan to oversaturate my fragile mind to the point of subhuman apathy to the agony of my fellow beings. With these ungodly thoughts of torturous landscapes and vast personal pain, they numb me more and more, as they begin to render me into something less than civilized: primal. No more shall I fret about the anguish of other souls. There is no more worry of plights of the unfortunate.
There is hell. There is writhing death; there is pain and putrid disease as far as they eye can bare to see. I do not sleep, for sleep is now not an escape from the real world, but a portal to the world of humanities never-ending punishment. Sleep is just another vision, but one that lasts the whole night, leaving my appendages cold and numb when the sun comes up and expels the awful images that haunt me.
Deep bags have set under my once vibrant eyes, the color of which match the same bags, an off grey. My once beautiful skin has since lost all pigment, and I slowly turn to the image of the corpse I shall surely become. I do not think there is any escape, and I almost feel honored to be held above the filth I see in my visions. Their pitiful screams are horrific, of course, but in the same vein they show me I am more than just a maggot squirming in filth.
Soon I'll be a visage they gaze upon, and soon they'll make their way through the fire and brimstone just to touch my feet; then, after the visions have finally consumed me, I shall walk with my gaze turned towards the next. Soon, my dead eyes will collide with yours.
