Bubbles From The Deep


The cards spoke in such similar words before this weekend!  Three decks.  three draws.  Two ended with the hierophant, reversed.  One with the hermit, reversed.

After the rite, bunked with all the other women:

I remember saying ‘finally, dreams worthy of a rite!’  I hope I can recall them again!

The next night, on the couch at home:

My dreams, since my rite, have involved a little girl, bloody, angry, obsessed.  One was a ghost who tormented her killer without mercy.  She would never know when enough torture was enough.  Perhaps, due to the fact the little boy who destroyed her still seemed unprepentant, perhaps was incapable of remorse, that this drove her to even bloodier destructions.  But he would never feel.  And her attempts were spilling destruction  on others who were not tied to her bloody death.  (and my recruitment to sneak in on the celebrity and save him from Sandra Bullock, only to find he was a petulant child and she was his reluctant, weary caretaker, blackmailed into keeping his secrets and serving him, and she would have loved nothing better than to have him stolen away, or die, but I could not reach her due to body guards to commit that act)

The following night, in my own warm bed:

(Next night, something with the SCA.  And Mark, perhaps, more his friends than him.  and my cloak, now holeful from puppy teeth.  And feeling comforted and accepted by someone there, almost loved by one of the men, a friend?  a lover?  a potential?)

And in the apartment building, another of my own horror films unfolded.  People had been wickedly slain.  If you answered the phone, and there was no one there, then you knew.  They had called to see if the number was valid, if anyone was home.  And if you answered, and they knew, then they would call back with some unbelievable prize, some lure so potent that you would respond, and open the door for them, and they would kill you with blood spattering all over the walls.  He answered (my 1st husband this time), and I knew the terror.  He was aware of the danger, but I didn’t trust he would keep closed the door.  And then I heard the sirens, and I went running back and there was blood all over the windows, like pain splashed upon the newspapers in a closed store front.  Oddly, it was not him, for he had left also, but it was our two roommates.  Slaughtered.  Gutted. 

The danger was in the walls.  She lived in our building, this murderer.  She had portals in unused rooms, a tunnel between the floors.  and she carried the demon which demanded blood.  She wasn’t happy, no, she was obsessed with feeding the demon.  A baby, which bawled and she jumped to calm it, lest its insatiable needs rise and force her to kill again.  She did not kill for lust, nor love, nor desire, nor obsession.  She killed to keep the baby stilled and quiet, to keep it from doing worse.

To keep the demon sleeping.

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