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It's sinking through my skull and soaking into the soft tissue named for me as 'eyes'
It's corrupting my thought paths, initiating no sane commands.
Or so I think...
There may be one, sane command left in my system.
It's trying to infect what's left of my sanity.
Don't let it consume me! Don't let it into my heart!
If it stays in my brain, then let it rot there, but please PLEASE!
Don't let these orders consume my inner being.
I'm a monster. I'm a terrified monster.
That's even worse than an angry one. It's a shame that I'm that too.
I am all that you never want me to be.
And it hurts so much...
I don't want to be consumed, commanded, controlled or or ordered to do such things!
But the truth is? I am being controlled.
I'm being commanded.
I'm being silenced.
I'm being quietly throttled into non existence.
It's his entire fault.
That's why it calls on me. The order. The order I can't fall to.
It wants me to strike. It wants me to fight back. But I can't!
I can't fight back! If I do, mat
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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