Fog (II)

NOTE: This is a guest post by the lovely LymaBella, check out her blog!

I walked through fog like a drowning cat, each step an agonizing dance of pain, instead of the rats that sputtered their last breaths on the diseased streets I fought back and stood tall in the miasma of death. I felt the effort to walk groan heavily through my bones, thrumming it's heart stopping siren call. I could not let this pitiful haze drown me, my magic was born of chaos and what was death, except a discordant symphony?

Breathing through the watery grip of the fog I felt my body gasp deeply and my muscles strain for oxygen. I lived in this sack of flesh, but not fully as my spirit, soul, shadow self resided some place deeper, darker. Forcing the body's legs to move I traversed the street as quickly as possible with fire fluttering in my lungs. Fire would turn to ash without oxygen and I feared this body could only handle so much stress before ejecting me back to my comforting blackness. It wasn't that I didn't want to once again envelop myself in the familiar, in the deepest chasm of madness and let the screams rip my being to pieces. I had a job and no minor annoyance such as hindered breath was going to delay me further. The sickly sweet glow of the street lamps illuminated a faded door, rusty red paint flaked down the frame like a prostitute's caked make-up.

This was the place, I hurried through the door without regard to the rusted lock that fell apart in my grip like sand on a beach. The grimy interior sagged under the weight of misuse and despair. Dank gritty aromas wafted through the entryway with a lazy surety, brushing past my face with all the subtlety of a hurricane. It was here I would meet my fate, destiny or whatever fools call the chaotic turn of events that was life.

Feature Photo: Mark Boss on Unsplash