In quiet repose I seem dazed. My surroundings begin to swim as though somehow, without conscious use of my vice, I am losing myself again in that exquisite silver haze. Perhaps I have become the water beneath the willow upon the knoll where we now rest - reeling idly, endlessly; until the eternal present collapses, to be born again.
The most bewildering absence of any sentient lapse in memory abjures my insight as to the process of transposition from there to here: instead I have only the dullest awareness that some such shift has inspired a new locale. The walls surrounding are stony spectres - those of a Gothic cathedral, or a stately home it seems. Though in spite of obscurity of judgment a chilling surmise grows, breeds, festers within the dark recesses of my brain - a parasite of recognition. Such austere façades belong to only one place. These are the aesthetics of an obsolete mental institution.
Without the grace of consciousness I am on my back again. In my languid state there is little I can do. I writhe and protest but have no hope of retracting the violation. It has been done. Over and over and over again. I can only weep in vain as the imposing figure ascends, the growing clarity revealing if only in part, the monstrousness of his countenance: his stark, uncertainly gleaming skull, his gargantuan proportions, those oddly dawn perennial limbs whose extremities feed from my flesh like myriad mosquito tongues.
His aspect is quite changed now: suddenly the assailant has been displaced by the caress of a comforter. At first his touch is soothing as he consoles my grief, but all too soon that fresh tenderness begins to decay, as though in reverence to the exploits of his predecessor. Gentle hands transmute to a predatory grasp and the terror of realisation to my fate spawns in my veins once more. Despite my outcries I am utterly powerless again: rendered near paralysed by some inexplicable stupor.
Here lies an alabaster shell tossed upon a tempest whose heaving, plunging impetus smothers its tidal trinket.
The futility of resistance is as crushing as the gravity of his pounding torso against mine. Any plea I desperately express is renounced by advancing motion. He tells me that it is too late. Abhorrent to my impotent bids to evade such profane assault he recites: "I am already inside. It's too late."
Grappling now, impassioned by dread, I wrestle in feeble resolution to dismember the weapon of corruption between me. A vicious wrench and crimson flows fast; but without the slightest expression of his pain. As though unmoved, he observes the oozing stump almost in contempt of my fruitless efforts - a hideous shadowy form with lips as ensanguined as his severed appendage. He laughs.
I scramble, stumble, stand, in advantage of his injury. My love told me to fight back. In his spirit I lunge and dig my thumbs deep into his sockets, close to wrenching as the salivary membrane of his eyes cleave beneath my claws. I gouge them, just as I was told, and I run. I run and run and run.
What an availing escape from that place without end. By now, though my sprint is swift, he has caught my shoulder and dragged me backward again. Tumbling, I shriek in horror: his eyes are once more intact, barely bloody, replaced as though I had never torn them from his skull.
Yet somehow I have broken free from those virile clutches and continue to flee one more time to join the mass exodus of nameless, faceless figures stealing from the gates. A clinical brightness elucidates the doors beyond - even amidst my frenzy I can make out the emblazoned insignias of the hospital exit.
I am ripped in reverse despite my tenacity toward escape, each time with greater distress in accordance with every furthered advancement. Even when I reach the pillar penultimate to my freedom, some indomitable force - an army of disembodied fists - tear me, wailing, away. I can only watch as the doors ahead slide to a close.
The carved expressions of the female prison guards, Oriental in semblance, observe my isolated despair from their sentinels' posts. Finally, I resign to my own incarceration and prepare to suffer the next act of onslaught.
But in a dizzying flurry I am in accelerating motion again. My liberator has come at last! Speeding, even soaring we grace the winding passage, approaching the refuge of open air once and for all. Past the gates I am propelled upon a wheeled device - though strapped like a maniac in restraint I sense the thrill of our flight; the desperate hope of success. Past the pillars, inscribed with emblems which recall the entrance of Auschwitz - some unintelligible Germanic epitaph. Past the Japanese prison guards with their crisp, dark uniforms and identical, stony faces. Delivery is surely ours...
The sirens begin to scream. The chase begins again. Terror, terror; as the wardens advance with inhuman speed. I can only scream as the plague threatens to surround me for its final barricade. The prospect of emancipation gives way to one of doom.
I am utterly trapped by horror; embroiled in a perpetual nightmare. Though we hasten still, our pace seems failing in contrast to theirs. We are helpless.
Imminent. As imminent to freedom as we are to their clutches.
At the moment of contact I wake into torment.
