time has come today

Twenty two thousand minutes. Twenty two thousand and one minutes. Twenty two thousand and two minutes. Time passes by without notice as though we, as people don’t exist. Cliche after cliche tells me that time is a liquid to be drank in as fine wine or swam in till I drown, but time for me, is, a monster. Time is an evil vicious snake waiting for me to let my guard down so it may strike at the heart of my very soul. Time is a construct of man, man is flawed and their creation is bent and wrought with evil.
The images are bent and filtered, but I know them all the same. I see her home through the eyes of a predator as he walks about the halls. He is good this one, he’s been hunting for a very long time.
I see what he has done in his past, the wet eyes and pleading lips. The looks on the faces of those he has sullied and then, put to rest. I can feel his exultation at the corruption he brings, how he feeds on the fear and the muffled screams of those he pins to the walls and beds and floors.
He thrills at the unmistakable fact that he is the ultimate in power in their confrontations and he alone is the master of a world that quite frankly burns for the end of innocence. The fires in him call with seductive voices as he prowls the house, he knows she’s home but the thrill is in the game. “Peak a boo” echo’s inside a tormented laughter as he sneaks from room to room.
“Peak a boo!” he stops for a moment, his body tense and his skin alive with little needles. Was that inside, or did it come out? Did he let slip his presence or is it really time. His mind dances on the thin edge of a piece of paper, “did I, didn’t I?”
It never really matters in the end. He moves now with purpose. He knows by instinct where she is and the hunt has now become a matter of execution. He will have her, to his joy and to her ruin because that is what he is here for, to cull the herd, to weed out the weak. To feast on the flesh of the living and deliver unto the fire, broken offerings of spoiled meat, for it is only a body and he knows many unseemly ways to break it.
He stands in the shadows of her bedroom, staring, feral, waiting. The scene must be just so, the second act must be perfect, so he stands and waits. The moon travels over her blankets, across the feet and up.
He sees them rise and fall as the moonlight plays across her chest. Saliva hits the floor as the hair on the back of his neck begins to rise. I can hear the animal within him growl as he begins to lean forward ever pulling at the restraints that bind him.
The moon crosses her face. She’s lies milky and soft as she slumbers unaware of the beast in her bed. She looks so ripe, so pure so full of food, he pulls with one step at the strings upon his back and they snap. He is free…
I see him slither to the edge of the bed, fluid, like time. He sets himself gently down on the side of the bed and as he stares at her, he brushes a stray hair from across her eye. She stirs a little and smiles.
The smile fades as conscious takes hold. I pound furiously at the cage I am in, bellowing to stay asleep, to miss the horror, DON’T WAKE UP! It’s never enough. Her eyes flutter.
‘Peak a boo…” he smiles as his hand comes down like a hammer across her face, and the feeding begins. I do not have the heart to speak of things he does to them. There is not enough strength in me. I have looked into the deep well of hatred and despair. I have seen the frayed edges of reality through the eyes of a psychopath and the only thing that wakes me from the haunted avenues of this wretched thing’s disturbed and fragile mind is the reflection I see in the mirror as he wipes the blood from his face…
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. The primal need for flight has faded now and I set alone in a darkened house waiting for the last howling shriek that poor girl made, to fade from my ears.
Four minutes. Five minutes. I am finally able to move around the room. I grab my cigarettes and a lighter to wash the taste from my mouth.
Six minutes. Seven minutes. I grab a bottle of whiskey to wipe the images out of my mind.
Eight minutes. Nine minutes. Ten minutes. I set and wait. I count the minutes that pass. I keep vigil, a lone sentinel over my own need for sleep. I cannot sleep, I must not sleep. I will not sleep.
Someone said “To sleep, perchance to dream”…I wish for neither.
Someone also said “Sleep those little slices of death, how I loathe them.”…I dream for both.
Twenty two thousand minutes. Twenty two thousand and one minutes. Twenty two thousand and two minutes. I no longer know who I am. Am I a free man? Am I his slave? When did all this begin? When will all of this end?
Twenty two thousand and three minutes. Twenty two thousand and four minutes. Twenty two thousand and…