by R.T. Allenson
He keeps to himself.
He keeps a record of what he’s seen nightly, tirelessly recording words only he can understand written in-between the walls of his house. He does this so as to not forget, for the price of forgetting the secrets are worse than a touch of normality and peace. The unbridled chaos of his life, spiraling into madness and absurdity has become a second home to him, and leaving home is something he fears more…
He carries the words with him, bound in paper in a book made of flesh and enscribed by his own failing hand . He reads the written word religiously, careful as to not miss any detail that would have him reprimanded by forces outside of his scope of view. He knows that the damned lurk in solemn places and believes they would emerge from their cavernous haunts would he even stop recording and repeating the words written in the walls. Out of touch, out of sight, the world perceives him as a madman but he knows in his heart that his broken mind keeps the hidden will to stem the tides of destruction from overcoming the world.
The book of flesh is as abhorrent as the words within and there are many a day where he would believe that his trials and efforts are for nothing. He senses the coldness in the breath of every man and woman and it is hard not to believe that they may number among the damned. But hope still lives even in the heart of a madman.
He stares blankly at a wall outside his home. It is late in the afternoon and the heat of the sun is stinging. From afar he can hear the sound of a truck bellowing towards him, but the words are intoxicating and he reaches for the flesh-bound book from his bag…
He writes the words as they come into his mind. He stops, knowing well the meaning within each letter and each symbol. The vileness and vehemence is too real. He wants to run away as he feels the truck getting closer…but the call of the dead cannot be denied.
He keeps to himself , but the damned keep his soul.