Sevilla

Sevilla
Written by: Thursday

That night, streaks of violet from a twisted moon hung upon the velvet curtain dancing by the window of my uncle's bedroom. There I sat, all alone, exploring the most verbose piece of literature ever written. The vehement emotions I felt is, to me, still unreachable today. I knew by then, and I know now, that from the childhood's hour, I had not been as others were; I have not seen, as others saw. But again, they had not experienced that which I had experienced. The stars peaked out of their orbits in the vast space, as if trying to catch a glimpse of what I was reading, as if yearning for nothing else than the complete abandonment of veracity, to wander the peaks of doubtful sanity, to verge deeper and deeper into the darkest of all sensations.

At first, I had been relentlessly sceptical, even scarcely frightened, at the sight of the wooden book-cover of my uncle's most treasured work; it stood upon the shelves of his scaffold, among the rest of his books of fascinating lore, yet still, it always seemed to shine above the rest, as if it was the work of a fallen angel, a scavenger with only one wish - to open up his heart, to portray his entire chaos for another human being. But, the lingering smell of the shady cover told another tale; as if trying to shadow the contents, it resembled nothing else than small letters, carved by some cunning carpenter centuries ago, in all of it's splendour, saying: "Sevilla."

After reaching the middle-page, I was no longer what I used to be. Some gruesome and enormous force had grasped me by the neck and was forcing me to read on and on and on, and I knew by then that resistance was pointless. And unfortunately, in this world that God forgot, the one who is supposed to be above can't undo what the evil has already done. And thus, within these walls of dirty death the septic spirit from within me managed to establish birth. I can still feel it moving. I can feel it rub... Rubbing my swollen throat, moving inside my chest. It wants my body.

In the dim wisdom of my surpassing beauty I dwelt, for hours and hours on, before I could finally sprawl out for the last ounce of sanity in my mind, the only part that was not yet tainted with spotless squalor and squalid, and read the last amount of pages that was yet to me unexplored. Still, even at this point, the only sound made came from the darkest depths of my lungs, and it was characterized by the ghastly ghoulish gibberish of my possessed vermin-mind. Since the day I was born, I had been taught to read aloud, for that way, the mind would contemplate every aspect of anything that there ever was. Or so I was told. But I know today, that every shadow cover the filthy soul which rests in gore - that demons with unclean spirits never doubt the joy, no, not even once do they doubt the joy of killing a helpless harmful clean child.

"Never more shall I embrace the grime thoughts of a depraved self" said I to myself, knowing my words would vanish, knowing they would, in the end, mean nothing more than the piece of literature I had just read. With shaky hands, I gingerly placed the book back in its original position, letting it gaze all over the floor, all over the walls, all over the ceiling, all over the stained septic youth that sat internally dead upon the armchair made out of velour in the dark room. Hidden beneath the flesh of my exterior had the rotten unclean and grotesque creature began to live. It still scratches... Scratches... It hurts so much... For it scratches my skin from the inside. In a twitch of terror, I snort, I foam... I bleed through my eyes. What I'm becoming, I never thought was real - my skin is changing colour, my eyes are empty black, and the soul I thought was shining is deformed and strangely intact. Rubbing... Rubbing again... Trying to get out. I scream. For I can only scream when the dirty voices vocalize through my mouth.

Awakened in an area sealed from human thoughts. Possessed and entangled, slept incarcerated. In this cell, the horror has not grown any more, but yet it remains. And the light, it seems to fall. The fog, it seems to clear. I see a face. Stalking the one light ever carried, I spot an artwork shaped of my theatrical past persona, beheaded and despised.

Fulfilled is now the masterpiece of one that tried to fly with broken wings, one whose world contained of evil things in robes of sorrow. The perfection of the person who tried to open the palace-doors that none of us ever dared to open before; the fair door that forever comes flowing, flowing, flowing... A pearl, blushed and bloomed, upon the broken pieces of yesterday's sentimental weeps. A jewel placed between the wars of light and dark, of life and death. The wicked author of its own destruction. This way, I was shaped to be, this way I became shaped to have been.

And though I do no longer know of myself, where he or she ever was, where it or that was ever meant to be, I now have the most horrifying nightmare, captured in a motion of life, reflected in the form of a name, perfectly suitable for me, myself and my own. I shall call it "Sevilla."