Beginnings are always scary.
As scary as they may be, they’re also liberating.
There is something so gratifying to know that you’re starting a new chapter.
The chapter after you, was terrifying for me to begin.
Was I ever going to heal?
Was I ever going to love again?
But I did, and that is something you will never take away from me.
This is my beginning.
You may still drift into my mind, but you will not control me like you did before.
You will not defeat me.
You will never own me like you did before.
This is my beginning, this is my story.
You will always be a recurring role, but only as a demon.
A demon of my past, trying to drown me in sorrow.
But I will float, and I will defeat you.
You will not take away the love I have found in myself.
This is my beginning.
And you are not a part of it.
About the Creator
Kenzie Hoyt
I'm just your average writer who wants a more creative space to share my creation.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
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