*The Experience of a Broken Air-Conditioner*
The sweltering heat; it feels like the air is eating me. Its horrible, dripping mouth, eager to suck me up into its putrid saliva, spit that is hot and rotten, drool that drips down and hisses like black tar touching the asphalt.
The boiling, suffocating steam of its horrible, stinking breath is my embrace. It wraps around me in a fiery love-affair, an inferno of passion, but a hellish metamorphosis. My sweat trickles agonizingly down my flesh in slow-moving tendrils that coil around my face. They sting my eyes and create a damp waste-land out of my body- a place where things can grow, things can multiply.
My skin is so itchy and raw, I feel, too late, that my shell of a body has been taken by the mold. I fear it has grown into my brain, see? See the black roots of evil finding solace there? See the tiny, worm-like fingers spreading through the fissures of my mind?
Or is it the demon of the heat? Yes, Yes, I can feel it now, how his decaying mouth billows steam in my ears, how his wicked, flickering tongue weaves its way into my ears and plants its malevolent seeds into my tortured brain. He lays his rotten and undead eggs in the chamber of my mind- his perverted, twisted, and mangled children. He leaves them there to feed hungrily on what's left of my fraying sanity. Like moths to a linen cloth, they nibble away, forming huge, gaping holes in what would be rational thoughts.
And the blood begins to simmer. I can feel it now, the pressure of the steam building behind my eyes. Soon I taste the sweet, crimson ribbons as they dance across my face. I laugh bitterly now and the laugh gives birth to more blood, staining my tongue and teeth.
I am giddy now because I am singing in the steam, no, no, I'm DANCING in it. I dance a little jig in the bloody pools gathering at my feet and jerk my body to the erratic motion of the steam, to the beautiful melody of the cackling demon.
"keep dancing for me," he smiles with glee. The sweat pours off of me in sheets- my breaths come in fast, panting spurts. "Prance on the coals before your feet" he laughs.
And I dance. I dance until my feet are stumps of blackened meat, until all of the crimson rivers have stopped flowing, until the sweat stops hissing as it drains into the gory pools, until I fall, dead, with a smile full of the blackish, congealing serum, until my eyes burn up like charred raisins sizzling bloodily in their sockets, and finally until the beast vomits up the black steam and fills up my empty eyes again.
Hopefully the air-conditioner will be fixed by the end of the week.