Possession.

Very collectable soul.

She tries, she really does.

And to give her credit she’s very good, finding the wherewithal to fuck with me while she is undoubtedly down. As down as I could make her, without killing her.

Somehow, between fighting urges to slam her head against the wall, she finds a way to elude me, briefly.

My scribe. Though I like referring to her as the scribal mind, just that hint more dehumanizing. Despite the constant fascination with sharp things, despite the lesson I taught her that she needs nothing to die but her own will, even in despite of the physical torture she endures from the presence around her of anything, she finds the strength to type. Without me.

Unacceptable.

The lovely Agatha is a practised liar, do I seem like the kind of god that would give up a page? To anyone? No, that was scribal absence. Unlicensed, unsanctioned, unpardonable. And some serious carelessness, let me say, she has no business letting anyone else into her head, what was she doing leaving it wide open like that? Once Agatha is here, she won’t be going anywhere, this much I know, she’ll take up energy and space, she’ll fill the scribal head with ideas of growth and healing, and I certainly can’t have that.

No, Agatha, bless her, will have to fight me for every word.

What most of you don’t realize, the urge for death, once you have it, is every bit as powerful as the urge for life. One simply replaces the other and all the resources change allegiance. All the strength is harnessed, the thoughts strictly regulated, everything flows for the new river Death.

And so she fights, constantly, with herself. There is love of the breath that still rises in her, the savaged senses that yet remember something beautiful, and there is the sure knowledge that she must lose them. The road taken, as it were.

I admit, I am conflicted, lose the scribe, lose my voice. I’m a gambler, I like to keep it right on the edge, I’m quite willing to go mute for such a cause, and such a soul. If only she deserved it. If only she merited a sweet release, any kind of escape. No. The worse it is for her, the happier we are in Hell.

Who knows how it will go? Not the scribe, that’s for sure. She begged to be heard here, for a few lines. I graciously granted her request, why not? She’s faithful, if nothing else. She held her hands over the keys and looked for herself, she looked at herself, she looked within, and there was nothing there that she recognized. I could have told her and saved her the discovery. Hands mute, like the voice that once lived here.

She really is mine. You and your hideous world literally pushed her into my arms. I make use of something like that, thank you, it’s a perfect gift.

“The Autumn Fire”  by Unreqvited   Be glad it doesn’t sound like this your head.