Tormentors

The angels have unsteady eyes. Their mouths purse together in scathing scorn. Heavy, the mood. I feel them watching me. I feel them pressing down with their feet on my shoulders, as they mutter inaudible slaggings in curse’d tones.

They tiptoe behind me, or maybe they slide, following me into different rooms. I feel them mock me. Have they no shame? There’s no pity for my pathetic state, no offer of help. Their little cliquey group just arrive in silent moments of nothingness, their white translucencies lurking in doorways.

I try to rise above, and even at times attempt to impress them with visions of the future, but they simply turn their heads and murmur to each other. Most of the time i ignore them. Sometimes i can’t. Pestilence.

I shall attempt to distract them, create a diversion. Then perhaps i can make my escape. It would have to be intricate, almost indecipherable in order to be effective. Something intellectual as well as spiritual. Something which can lure them to debate amongst themselves, and allow me to slink away.

But until them, i shall hold my own hand. And if nothing else, i always have the weapon of boredom. How can one bore an angel…?

Tormentors

Tania Rose

SYDNEY, Australia

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  • MuscularTeeth
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