Paper thin walls crumble under the weight of hysteria, a fractal roof falling between the walls and ignoring the spider websas the tumble to the dusty tiles. A stain creeps up the whitest patch with oily fingertips, leaving a silvery liquid path.
Drip, drip, drip.
A muffled whisper in the back of your head.
The warnings will not discontine, they follow the leaking chalk that joins reality to this dream.
Be gone. Be gone. Be gone. Be gone. Be gone. Be gone.
Followed by peculiar laughter, a sinister chuckle dripping with bright, crimson blood. As you envision what picture the giggles hold, the walls urst open and an explosion of brilliant, red light fills the roof, flowing, pulsing, the wall a giant wrist, arm now ripped open from the inside by thousands of hungry spiders.
You back away a little, as pieces of a puzzle clatter to the ground behind you. You count fourty seven pieces, but you know there must be one more. As your eyes fall from the intimidating walls, to the bleeding tiles,searching for the missing peice, your fingers mysteriously make their way to the inside of your mouth.
Prod, prod, prod. It's so dark in here.
Your fingers begin to sew your mouth shut with the most intricate webs ever breathed from the lungs of the Gods, and as you stare in the shattered mirrors, the spiders make a eight legged march towards yours eyes, and with a delicate nod, jump inside to pry through your entre life.
With care, they sort out what you remember, what you forgot, what you forgot you remembered, what you thougth you remembered but really made up and the poison make-up you had painted to your eyelids for the majority of those years.
But their task proves more difficult than expected.
Hmmm, it seems that you are unsure of anything anymore. We do not know which of this is lies, lies, lies and which is a non-fictional novel, an autobiography written by the very hands of you. But who are you? Whose thoughts are these? Someone must figure it out, but you can't, for you are no longer a part of your mind.
They work more furiously now, their pace quickened as they devour some unimportant imagery. And then, they begin to sing, and dance, their little legs trotting around in the very center of your glass eyes, as if they were trapped in a jar.
So why do the caged spiders sing?
The eldest of the spiders laughed, a choking laugh, glass down his throst sort of laugh. My eyes fell down my torso and in to my lap in small peices that soon became caught beneath fingernails.
Why does the caged man sing? As he sits behind his glass tomb of cracking ice, taking in the horrors of the world... But you are free, for you took it with in yourself and you became so terribly enlightened. Lifted high with the spirits as your world merged with the drawings from your childhood, as rainbows fell from the sky and the lights would decide to fly around your head in a some kind of twisted ritual. And now you are blind, but only physoically. Can you still see the pretty colours?
A simple yes would've done fine, but by then you had falled backwards in to the pool of light. You were gone and no one could find you. And you had been away so long no one remembered you for a while, even when the bidy was found. Such a smile, decorating your pretty skin. Morbid beauty. The dead Cinderella.
But then the spiders wrote it in their web.
HANDLE YOUR ACID!