Popis Boj

I left the grounds of Lady Marie’s home at a sprint. Consumptive lungs screamed me to a wheezing halt. In foreign surroundings I scanned the sky for signs of the familiar. To the West, the setting sun was engaged in a lazy descent, shadowed and pockmarked by the black industrial belch from London’s many mouths. The road I was on was threatened on all side by nature, battling on many fronts to hold back the invading grasses and roots. Neither side was going the direction of my misasmic home, but the left turned quickly to tree covered darkness, while rightwards took me back past the house towards a small cluster of hovels down a hill. The trees whispered upon the wind for me to come join them in the darkness.

I had not travelled far. It seemed I had barely moved, the fields passing either side of me a barely changing tableau. My aching soles told me I was not stuck in stasis and had travelled a not insignificant route already. London remained a mere decoration upon the horizon. My walking continued monotonously, a gradual slowing that of unwinding clockwork.

A sudden stabbing throb sparked through my midriff, knocking me off my feet. A heat radiated from my stomach, consuming by body with a needling heat. My vision blurred. Not a temporary blindness, a bending of the corners. The creeping in of that other world that lies inside me. Fingers tore at the back of my eyes, fighting to be let out of their psychic imprisonment. A screwed by eyes tight and drew my arms and legs inward. Foetal, I lay on the ground for a moment attempting to absorb the pain. Evening birdsong shrieked through my pain, sent it scattering outwards to my fingertips and into the chill air. I lay limp for a few seconds before thoughts began their whirring processes. I need to find a book. That deep want inside me needs satiating. My hidden dark dependencies demanding attention. I set off at a run. The pain already hitting of panting lungs and deadened feet mere esuna compared to that which was threatening to return soon. A signal of hope was carried to me, a grey spectred pillar was rising from a near distant chimney.

The farmhouse was solid, its foundations rooted in the deep crust of the earth. I burst through the door, unlocked in the innocence of country living. A man turned open mouthed and open eyed, his features as cragged and old as the ancient granite of his house. His hair the grey of London snow. I opened my mouth to tell him of my plight, but words were cut off at the back of my throat, razor sharp lashings thrashing through me. My eyes dimmed again as I was brought to my knees. The man the last thing I saw, running past me, escaping the demonic tendrils pouring from me. Smokelike and dark, tipped in red, figures and shapes curled around me, pressing down upon my chest, pushing at the inside of my skull. I fought back, willing words of the real world to burst forth. A primal scream emanated from me, banishing the visions back to their falsehoods. Another would claim me, would end me. I must find a book.

I wished, I prayed, I called out to all things of aid to the innocent and in peril. I paced the rooms, searching for a desk, a case, a stand, anything of writing and words that could satisfy the urges of hyperreality. None were forthcoming. A house bereft of literature, uncivilised, uneducated in the ways of the city. A simple life I could only wish for. I sat down upon the hard wooden floor and held my head in my hands. A last reminder of my tangible existence. Then I saw it. An incongruity below the table. One leg was missing its foot. Its replacement a thing of paper and ink. Tattered and battered and forced into menial servitude. I lunged at it. Pulling it from under its wooden master, sending the table toppling with a rattling cacophony. I tossed the book into the fireplace. The flames licked hungrily at the pages. The author’s name flashed briefly in orange, illuminated by the phosphorescence of the crisp page burning. I immersed myself in the swirling smoke and gave myself to Kafka Dreams.

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