Joseph Rodgers


per 5


He was complete, yes complete on the outside, but nothing on the inside. A marvelous tower of connective tissues, sinewy muscles, and bones strong as steel, a marvelous akroma statue full of power and broken machinery. All physical beauty and strength with no soul to speak off, just an utter and absolute black void, a craving emptiness just waiting for something to fill it.

He was perpetually fettered to his haunt, a mansion as structurally sound as he, but filled with more passion and emotion than he had known in centuries, sometimes someone would wander in and he would always capture them, and this would make him happy, he would take them away and lie with them. He would steal them male, and female, young and old indiscriminately; he would lie with them in his tomb of velvet, pine wood, and memories, and drain them, living vicariously their life.

He would live their life, feel their joys, and sorrows, talk to their nerve endings, become one with them, and cherish them. And after his unending hunger had drained them dry, ravaged the banquet table of their mind, dined through the inhabitants of their halls of memory, and drank from the well of their soul, he would discard them. He would awake from his dreamless sleep and put the husk of their body into his cellar for the rats and roaches to cherish the flesh, like he cherished the mind.

He was alone in this world, a parasite seeking self fulfillment, he had forgotten his name, lost his memories, and quickly forgotten the memories of those he had fed off of.

Only one memory remained in the tower he called a body, a memory that searched constantly through the maze of his insides trying to find companionship, a memory of the bright orb in the sky, of the full moon enlarged by clear October sky peering down at him. This memory was the only fire left in the cold masonry of his mind, but it pained him as much as it comforted him, for he felt the moon, the moon was his only absolution. He feared that the moon was the only final nothing, the great big oblivion to fill all of the smaller nothings he already knew the worst fear of all nothing behind him, and nothing ahead of him. No matter how many faceless people he drained, no matter how many mock lives he conjured up and immediately forgot, that all that there was for him was NOTHING!! Worse than hell, worse than imprisonment, worse than servitude, no future, no past, no nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, it screamed from the body of mock health that his nothing inhabited, it crawled from his eyes, and spewed from his mouth, a nothing so ferocious that it stung the air about it. Nothing, nothing but broken machinery.

Tonight he would confront the lone memory; tonight he would go from his smaller nothings to the great nothing, for he could see her out the broken window in his house that was more something than him. She was full bellied, and beautiful, a silver disk hanging in the sky, she was the final nothing, his absolution, and tonight he would ride to her.

He left the broken something of his haunt and went to the stables, the stables where the skeleton horses that inhabited him had more passion, more life, more death, more anything than him. He harnessed his skeleton steeds to his spectral carriage, tonight was the end, the last ride.

The ghostly caravan was off!! He rode coach steering his wraithly horses to her, towards absolution, towards finality, riding along the cool night air over the windswept countryside. It was Hollow's Eve tonight when the moon calls all her lost children to her, to a warmer more pleasant nothing than the one that curses them.

As he got towards the moon he felt nothing, as he expected, but it was a warm nothing, it caressed the broken machine of his body and swept him closer to her, towards white oblivion. In one final ecstatic moment, he was filled with an utter and absolute passion one that made the years of waiting seem trivial. Soon the moon swallowed the wraith and his horses into her shining milky white girth, leaving the vile nothing behind in their wake, nothing to remember them by, nothing to learn from them, nothing at all, but they were in her now, in peaceful bright oblivion. Dust, to dust nothing is the only thing in this world that changes.