Why do we cry out for the sky to open up its tears? I kept
on wondering as I sat in my hazy nightmares, gloomy moon
shun through my little window at the top of my bed. Angels
had no place here, nor mercy or forgiveness. "Nothing but
pure Misery for the children", He spoke suddenly, his face
was covered with blisters and he had the eyes of a dying
lunatic on his last killing. I clenched my fist and noticed
it held a razor sharp blade. As an instinct, I thrusted it
upward, toward his deformed face, hearing the splash of the
gashed wound. As a counter-move, he rose from the floor with
the blade sticking from his throat, and spilled blood over
me out of his mouth, uttering words I could not grasp. With
one swift movement, he plunked the blade from his throat and
held it high in his hand; the moon marveled on his back as
though it was burning still. And then, at sudden instinct of
a war hog, he crashed down on the floor and spurred into
thick, black dust.

That night, after some cleaning up, I brushed the blood off
the razor and rest my head over it on my pillow for shading
the memory as a treasure. It must have happened while I was
sleeping, but in my dream I heard the sentence going over
and over again - 'Nothing but pure misery for the children',
and then I looked down at myself and saw the blade was upon
me, carving my body into a grotesque parade of mutilation.
As I woke, I ran to the mirror only to notice the word
misery carved upon my body endlessly. As I was through of
soaking the blood, I covered my broken body in thick cloth
and carried the cursed blade all the way to the forest, not
far from my beloved home.

Through the haze of dark trees, the forest heaved as though
it was a live spirit of flesh and bones. Its mere hands and
sharp fingers were clutching the path ahead of me, as I
hasted in a crawling position through the mud and broken
leaves, feeling the darkness among me, feeling simply the
vitality of self-inflicted pain. On, as I went through the
woods, I reached a twisted and sickly looking oak tree. I
dropped my knees under the pressure of pain and started
digging away, wishing to get through with the horrific blade
of death from my hands. As I finished, I shared my spit with
the world of leaves and sealed it forever.

I turned around when I thought I heard a rustle and felt a
cool breeze. The creature was there. He had its eyes pulled
from his thong, and his head was torn open to half; the
morbidique Angel of Death. His legs were an inch from the
mud, dragging on it toward me as it floats.
Words has no place here, I heard him mindlessly converting
to me -
Only Images of the sickened mind.

In one sudden move of a carnivorous, he grasped my cloth and
raised me up as though I was a mere puppet on strings. Was
I? I wondered, as I gazed upon my captor with pure shame,
not misery. And when he saw this, he was furious. And in a
swift movement, he lashed upon me with his blade and off
went my head, rolling upon the silky mudder.

"Nothing but pure misery for the children", I spoke
fiercely, as I haunted the home in which I was born. I held
the blade within my grasp, and waited, savagely for someone
to come upon my soul, for some one to raise me from the
depths of hellish strings.

Before me came a young boy. His heart was soft and quite
dreadful; his pallid face was struck by horrific misery as
he saw me, hanging from that cursed twisted oak tree. My
bowels were emptied out. My shattered skull blistered with
repeated stab wounds.
The child approached my abominated corpus, plunked the blade
from my hand and slashed his wrist, causing the hand to tear
apart, hang on a tread of skin, then drop to the ground.