Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

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Writing, Lovecraft style

"Sometimes buried things are best left buried."

These are the words that I told her when she was trying to convince me that it was all just in my head, factors of the stress that had been in my life for the last... well, years now when I think of it. Emotional baggage, she called it. Out with the old and in with the new.

I had known her for a few years. We had met while we were working for some TV show back in the day when we were both younger and friskier, and had hit it off in that not-quite-romantic-but-still-interesting kind of way. I had lost my wife for the second time, swearing that there would never be a third. She had been working toward some sort of degree in mystical bullshit, Psychotic Healing or something having to do with crystals and meditation and energy flow centers and poodle charisma. It was crap, and I told her so. Which of course made her all the more adamant that I actually give it a try before I pass judgement.

Oh, she was big on judgement, that one.

So yeah, I let her. I figured what the hell, it couldn't hurt. Supposed to be just like a massage, except you don't get touched. I snorted at that. I mean really, what's the point? I've had massages both good and bad, and touching was pretty much a big part of all of 'em... some more than others, if you catch my drift. And I figured it was so much bullshit that I pretty much let my guard down. In retrospect, maybe that wasn't the best choice. I didn't understand when she was spouting all the mumbo-jumbo about the energy fields and gesticulations that what she was doing was summoning, and by the time I realized what she was doing, it was too late.

I had forgotten about him. It had been a long, long time, and he rode me like a horse.

I felt him at first like water rising within a well, bubbling to the surface. And as he rose I could feel myself flying or falling into what seemed like a bottomless pit. Yet I was still there anchored in reality, face down on the table; it just wasn't me anymore. I know it sounds weird: it like it was me there, but somebody else was driving. I know that doesn't make any sense, but there just aren't words to describe what it was like.

He took her. He did things to her. Horrible things. Unspeakable things. And in a way, it was me who took her and did those things to her, too. And as I was there-but-not-there, I hated what I was doing, hated him for making me do those things, hated myself for doing them; yet I loved doing them too, felt the energy and the rush and the intensity of love and fear and pain all mixed into something indescribably exotic and delicious. I could feel her writhe, feel things sucked out of her body and into mine as other things sucked out of my body and into hers; I could feel her terror coursing through my body, her body, his body, all one and the same. And around us there was a huge ball of light that built and pulsed and pulsed and built and finally exploded into a million shards of diamond intensity, cutting through everything seen and unseen, and I felt him/her/me shatter into a million tiny pieces of formless void and extinguish into nothingness.

I floated for a while in the darkness, not seeing, hearing, breathing. I could feel him there, somewhere, chuckling.

When he was done, he smiled (as if such a thing can be said to smile), and thanked me with a warm glow of ecstacy that makes anything human pale in comparison. He subsided into me, diffusing back into the depths and into a kind of dark slumber like waves of nausea after a bad dream, and I looked at what I had become, standing naked before her cowering form, her eyes wide and empty and dark as the night sky.

---

She's still alive, if you can call it that. The police questioned me, but the doctors have written it off to some sort of psychotic break, or possibly some strange brain anomaly that doesn't show on their fancy multimillion-dollar equipment, and the police decided that it was just an unfortunate circumstance that I was there at the time. She's well cared-for in the facility, at least as well as the state can provide. The doctors still occasionally come and do tests, poking and prodding and scanning, and eventually give up and shake their heads in frustration. They just don't know what happened.

But I do.
Tags: writing
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