You Poor Soul, You

by Chipsun

No nation has a soul. There is no such thing for them. When they die, they have no afterlife. They cease to be. They know this, so this is the last thing on their mind when it comes to fears. America centric. Ficlet. R&R

It's those moments right before I collapse into bed that I realize things about myself I never thought of before. Thoughts I never knew were inside me, and feelings that I thought were long gone.

But I am, after all, the Land of the Free.

It's no surprise that so many different people with different mindsets come together. What disturbs me most is that I can feel the madness best just before I fall into a deep, uneasy sleep.
It follows me with its piecing lack eyes, judging me, calculating its next move.

I am its next prey.

I have realized, once again, how much this madness affects me. It lurks behind my eyes, appearing as the paint glimmer of something dark – something sinister. I pushed it away, fearing what would happen if I embraced it.
I would snap and hurt those around me, in a red haze that knew no end.
I knew there had to be some way to stop the blackness from consuming my thoughts, mind, and body.

It was evil.

It was terrifying.

I still didn't know what it was.

And that fact scared me.

What would happen if I let myself fall, I wondered. Would I float to the ground? Or would I come crashing down with the realizations of what has happened to me?
Yet the answer eluded me, and I once more sensed the growing darkness behind me lids.

I wonder. Was there a cure to madness, to insanity? Many have accused me of being cocky and self-centered, but am I really? What if it was darkness in another form? A wolf in sheep's clothing?

Again, I went to sleep with wandering thoughts of a mind forever cursed to see black.

But soon, I found that it was everywhere. When I opened my mouth, it drifted out along with my careless thoughts and words. A short daydream session came with dark, dark images of black, black blood, and mindless, needless death.

It was everywhere, it consumed me – and the question still hung, like a lingering odour. What was I afraid of?

It should have been a perfect day, but an ill taste sat on my tongue, boding bad omens. After work, I had locked my self in my bedroom with a knife and just one candle, preparing to fight this evil monster that had been haunting for me for centuries and to fight for my life, when I realized -
I was afraid of myself.

What I used to be.
What I have become.
What I could be.

Past.
Present.
Future.

I was created a monster.