Have you ever felt the fear of the nightmares that beckon to you in your skull every night, when the moon begins to set and REM state begins. The singed feeling in your pupils after you force your eyelids to open, and you muscles to strain against your mattress, shaking the room in terror. Did that all ever really happen to someone before?
Yes. Hell is Earth itself. You have been a lost soul for years, wandering in torture. Is Elysium far from here or are you standing in its threshold? Is this the best you can do with your failure to live a life the way anyone would have preferred, are you to be punished for some other monster's collateral? This is the result of negligence in an infatuation.
Glossy, black hair ruffled around her face, an image of polished mica. The rise and fall of her breasts sped up past the average pace of a calm human being, cheeks and skin glossed over with chilled sweat. What is humanity, in itself, a greed-filled existence of taking and sugar coating with emotions like guilt. Guilt was long gone, she was untouched by the thought of remorse. However, she was still haunted by a European guilt, it was not her own.
Her nightmares, one seeped into her reality repeatedly, every night.
She would close her eyes and think, "Perhaps it won't happen this time," before springing up with such abruptness, that she broke her mind again. Further decay of her mental state could be achieved with the slide of her eyelids, back over her corneas. Left in the cold black, locking herself back in that place to wait for the transformation to begin.
A man who kept himself clean, kept everything else clean, held pride in the fact that he was so superior, and he earned the feeling through keeping underlings as underlings. In every sense of that word. She used to be a young girl, pedigreed and virgin to the pure hatred she felt toward so many today. "Ada" was a killer, but above all, a woman. To her, she was the standard to obtain, what she needed to become to feel complete, loved. All for that parasite.
She spent her time, supplying strangers with the war machines she once used to spread to show her anguish, the pain was to be forced on populations all over the globe, it was her's, every last contagion was like the poetic rape that man had pushed upon her.
When she closed her eyes, it was recreated, in situations that were her own, sometimes not, her fear kept a hold on her. You could try and medicate the thoughts with pathetic pseudoscience, it would only lessen in the slightest. Hell was her mind, her scorn was like Medusa's own. A truly sad existence, who was to pity her now. She would turn the onlookers to her statues, her garden of soldiers, to keep everyone else at bay. The devils were her slaves, and she was the queen. A woman to rule was no silly idea, if she saw the world for how it was, uninhibited and filth-ridden.
Sleep is beyond her grasp, the disassociation in insomnia is enough to drive her to the point of destruction.