Crimson horned beast, rain o'er me.

Deep in thought, bearing the weight of today's servitude, I crack open the can...

It was just another day. 

Serve the servants. 

Grease the wheels. 

Lay the machine to rest. 

Nothing worthy of nothing. 

Throughout my sentence, the rain made its presence known. Not in an obtrusive way, though. It merely enforced acknowledgement of its existence. I have much disdain for rain... 

After my time was served, I went to my local 'diner' to be served. America's Diner, it likens itself to: a carefully constructed facade that deals its trade without incident. People feel at home here. Corporate America has made sure of that. I played my part, consumed my meal and was on my way. As I often do.

--

The unrelenting downpour met no resistance as I returned home. Behind the wheel, sheltered from nature's sorrowful cleansing I feel sheltered, but trapped. I am a rat in a cage that is being protected and fed. A harbinger of pestilence. The rain won't cleanse me. It can't. The sins of the unworthy are damning. I am lord in my keep of misery and despair, unshaken by all. But, I digress. As I often do.

--

Home sweet home. Or, as it should be, if it wasn't damnation. My 'home' is a breeding ground for the basest filth. Unwashed hands and dirty piles of secrets are all to be found. A veritable haven for the insatiable demon within. As I entered my home, nothing but darkness greeted me. I made my way to my room. My cell. I trap myself within to avoid bearing witness to the world's horrors. Leaving the graces of my room only when I am bound by obligation, I am trapped in my room because I desire it. In order to maintain my downward spiral I open my frigid container. Within are the numbing devices by which I life my life. However, upon further inspection, I notice a gem hidden behind the wise buds. Pushing them aside, I discover an old friend. I care not whether or not my misery is prolonged at this point. Nothing matters. I crack open the can and consume a portion of its contents. It was cyanide. I die.

Author's Note

I tired of writing so it ended like that. This was a parody that went south. lulz

Reviews

[Kenzie Anne Winchester]

hmmmmm "crack open a can", i love that imagery of opening a can of beer, though here in London my favorite is the beer pumps in our pubs. Don't be gettin' arseholed, my friend. Anyway. Bit dreary, but good nonetheless.