Гробокоп: другие произведения.

have a nice grave

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  harsh noises and rusty voices the horde slowly approaching from the desert ragged and parched eyes sunken teeth bared fingers gnarled kicking dust and moaning yet nobody in the village bothers cos those are exiles they will not be tended to in any way not burned after dying like they do with proper warriors just buried hastily in a shallow mass grave without any rituals any incense burned bones broken faces panicked some of them kids some of them still alive
  
  the grass is green and so is the sunrise reflecting the toxic cold outside smeared with the sticky scent of leaf buds and fruit blossom still not convincing and the camp is excessively excited for war craving for bloodshed that i keep denying waiting for them to go mad enough to be set on any target i point at like a pack of rabid dogs which they are
  
  my immediate concern sinks in my memories slipping out of focus leaving shadowy dust in the darkest corners of the room and i take another sip of my stout fancying the ghost of a scene from a few days ago in which i was crossing the suburbs with a precious doll in my car to the red lights careless the rest is grayed out and sour making me sleepy yet separated from it with an elastic membrane of insomnia
  
  repetitive ugly bullshit of routine minions asking for attention in the form of heavy beatings and humiliations don't get me wrong i'm always up for caving skulls and spinning jaws but not for discipline and so i slowly sink into dozy dysphoria praying for them to get drunk and tire down vainly seeking for a place to bury my own cravings in as i ghost Mischa's calls not willing to douse her with my petty annoyance scatterbrained chatter anger livid and tense like a gallon of static i drag around on my head spilling here and there
  
  good reflexes but poor coordination
  
  all i really want is to return to that dark place he's so eager to hide me in and disappear from the existence for a few hours or days or weeks woraus i return reborn and the world's squeaky clean shining polished tasty and colorful as if i were to die every time yet using this weird thing we have as safe space would be the worst decision and the fastest route to killing it
  
  the horde crawls on the floor moaning begging making noise for attention i hate their attention and their endless thirst for mine in return
  
  one doesn't become a necromancer one has to be born with it it's a talent a sin an inborn defect this ability to notice the dead so they get so excited start clinging to you asking for more and more and more but in fact it's the same as with every other exchange you should never address them out of pure curiosity never show any mercy never give anything out for free you should only acknowledge their presence in case there is something particular you need to be done wait for them to fulfill their part of the bargain first pay accordingly and that bargain if necessary is the only thing to be honored cos there's nothing else worth attention 'bout the dead there's stale black blood oozing out of their gobs pus for brains rotten sleazy bits of carrion for hearts and the warmth they promise is the warmth of decay liquefying their insides into perfect manure
  
  that's all there is to you baby manure
  
  their insistence is tiresome once a dead boy approached while i was busy wasting my energy on the school stadium with the same wacky look of a lunatic on his face that kind that annoys you immediately cos the dead they can't say anything directly without additional kicking and screaming in response urging them to come clean they will try to cover it up with as much manure as they can in attempt to lure out more attention from you and the boy he asked me in this manure-covered manner if i was kind enough to share what i knew BECAUSE YOU OBVIOUSLY KNOW and i told him that the things i know are not to be shared they're to be learned on your own and fuck you if you're too feeble or dim to figure it out by yourself but he wouldn't cease buggering me asking the same thing over and over until i got tired from it packed quite a punch straight into that milky white foggy eye of his and he cursed me whining and sobbing crawling away in his demented language of evil sacred zombie books told me that god hates it when you don't share what you have well of course he does i said his god for that matter not mine since i don't follow the god of the dead
  
  cos my gods have made it very clear that i'm not allowed to be dead and the incessant desire to become so might have been the reason why i was granted this wearisome gift of communing with those condemned those damned dead un-dead antidead locked inside themselves and unable to die for good stuck haunting their own rotten bodies and molded bones out of fear anger stupidity shame inability to move on to feel to enjoy to express to choose to desire
  
  banishment is a blessing they don't deserve
  
  mindless generosity is a sin since it's the dead who got stuck in time and got no images to conduct using it so they waste away slowly lonely eager to drag you along just for company
  
  waste of time unless there are particular things you desire in return such as representing you in places where you don't want to be seen shielding you from the stuff you don't wanna associate with that kind of stuff pretty pragmatic
  
  you pay with candies rum tobacco a few hours of listening to the white noise they utter for words and of staring at the black bubbles forming at the corners of their rotten lips as they gurgle with bile you pay with a few hours with a few cups of attention but beware of falling for the illusion of company in their presence because every little detail you might accidentally spill so deceived will be used against you once their time is up and you get in den Begriff to walk away and there is nothing humane to be expected cos it's worthless to them in their desperation no tact no aesthetics no manners manure doesn't care for beauty nor purity it forgot the very words long ago
  
  purification rites that i need involve his endless black abyss of sorrow cold and clean like the outer space around
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