Door To The Benthic

In the icy solitude of this prison inside this world within, I found myself ensnared, my countenance devoid of emotion, my gaze lost in the abyss of the unfathomable.

The haunting melody of a chilling tune, one that would make your blood run cold, slipped from my lips as fragmented memories of my youth began to surface.

Visions of a dilapidated dwelling, the cacophony of my parents' relentless disputes, and muffled cries of despair painted a grim tableau in my mind.

A specter of my younger self materialized, a frightened child huddled in the confines of a cramped closet, tiny hands pressed against my ears in a futile attempt to drown out the symphony of violence echoing from below.

Alas, the discord seeped through my fingers.

The desperate pleas of my mother, intermingled with the sickening percussion of flesh against flesh, filled the air until an eerie silence fell.

Emerging from my sanctuary on quivering limbs, I would often find my mother crumpled on the cold kitchen tiles, her pallid face a canvas of bruises and swelling, grotesquerie painted and distorted.

The animosity that festered between my parents was an enigma to my innocent mind.

All I knew was that a sinister darkness had taken residence in my childhood home.

As I matured, the frequency and ferocity of their disputes escalated, morphing the darkness into a malevolent entity.

One fateful night, the crescendo of their screaming reached a fever pitch before being abruptly silenced.

With a heart heavy with dread, I crept to the precipice of the staircase, peering down into the stillness of the house.

Below, my father towered over my mother's lifeless form, his eyes ablaze with madness.

Upon spotting me, he lunged for the stairs, and a shriek of terror tore from my throat as he brandished a pistol and fired.

I spun on my heel and fled into the embrace of the night, my heart pounding in rhythm with my footfalls.

The echoes of my father's calls and the deafening report of gunshots pursued me, growing louder with each passing moment.

Yet, I did not cease my flight until I collapsed in the heart of the forest, spent and solitary.

A portal to the netherworld, a door in an ancient oak, wrenched me from my contemplations.

It creaked open, revealing a descent into what seemed less a basement and more a realm beneath reality's veneer.

Ahead, spectral motes of light danced like ethereal will-o-wisps, luring me deeper into the abyss.

Their luminescence entranced me, a moth ensnared by a deadly flame, as the path steepened, becoming more treacherous.

Time lost meaning as I ventured further, until the tunnel's character began to transform.

The rough dirt yielded to polished stone, and the oppressive closeness of the walls receded.

I found myself sliding down a chute, the velocity enough to set my heart pounding in a rhapsodic rhythm.

Suddenly, I was expelled into an immense cavern, its ceiling swallowed by the inky blackness above.

My feet hit the ground, buckling but holding firm against the impact.

As her senses stir from their cryptic slumber, she finds herself ensnared in the pulsing, necromantic heart of a courtyard born from the forbidden pages of a grimoire, where Gothic grandeur entwines with ancient abominations that dare not utter their blasphemous names.

Cyclopean spire, like the skeletal remains of ancient, titanic behemoth, casting a long, funereal shadows beneath a sky that glows with a sickly, cadaverous luminescence, as if it feasts on the very marrow of existence itself.

The streets, a living, breathing tapestry woven from ossified flesh, pulsate beneath my footsteps, a ghastly, rhythm that resonates with every step, as if the city itself were a sentient, undead entity, awakened by my presence.

Up high a sign that says ‘Your Journey’ whilst a breeze swept shuddering my frame, miasma of bile in it's whiff, roiled my gut into lurching onto ground with a splash that sent a debris of chunks on my shin and feet.

So our story begins as this poetess creeps forward into the menacing unknown that holds all the nightmares, fears that people hide away inside, a deity that pulsed with the darkest edges of society and life, the monster hiding under your bed when you sleep at night, ready to snatch you and drag you underneath, posters and flyers on telephone poles saying 'Missing' with my picture in the fatal frame.

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