Diabolus Lacuna

And they said she was insane; crazy: throw her into the asylum.

But she wasn’t, it was there. She could see it, touch it, feel it writhe under her skin and devour her frame. Burrow into her scalp and consume the decay she had become. Slither into the cavities of her mind and gorge on her sanity.

Why couldn't it stop?

A faint brilliance poured from the artificial lights overhead, illuminating the surrounding pale walls. The radiance was dim, seemingly a few heartbeats away from looking like shadows. In one of the musty corners of the room, crouched a silhouette. The figure was enveloped in a grey coat, stretching rigid against a skeleton, the pigment suggesting that it had been skin prior to defection.

Draped along the carcass was a flimsy cloth, welding onto the being as if it were disease, ravishing the remains for each hint of life. From underneath a jutted spine was clearly visible, protruding sickeningly from her coat.

Hollow, vacant orbs were sunk into the skin, concealed by translucent eyelids. Faint, incoherent murmurs drifted from quivering, cracked lips. She lifted her gaze as well as her fingertips heavenward, a crimson liquid staining her pale skin: her own crimson liquid.

Another shudder rippled through her corpse and her bones scraped along one another in protest. She felt a hiss escape through her teeth, evaporating into the stale air. The burning itch began to scratch at the surface of her bones, clawing under her skin again, begging to be unleashed. With trembling fingers she began to once again furiously scratch onto the wooden planks, nails chipping away and permitting the skin to emerge.

She needed escape. She needed quiet. She needed the fiery blaze to stop.

But she hadn't always been that way. Before, in the chambers of her mind she was able to evoke weak memories of a time when she wasn't simply an empty shell of a person.

When she wasn't the revolting thing she found herself to be. When she was innocent, when she was normal.

An autumn breeze struggled through the park, tugging along the overbearing pollution along with the clamour of citizens. A young girl stumbled on through the path, arms wrapped around her torso in a poor attempt for warmth. Winter was approaching and threatening to steal all the heat of the weather along with it.

A cherry tinge spilled over her cheeks, courtesy of the chilling wind, and goose bumps began to crawl over her tanned skin. Brunette ringlets were lightly tousled, shining with the healthy brilliance as a result of the haircut hours before. As she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, long nails dug into her sides while she continued to salvage any body heat.

A happy little girl, she was. An innocent little girl, she was. A living little girl, she was.

Through the flashes of orange and yellow hues, amidst the abundance of fallen leaves, a sleek, black notebook seized her attention. The leather-bound diary lay discarded between piles of leaves, beckoning her with silent cries. Her interest was piqued. She obliged.

In a few moments, she was trailing her fingertips along the spine, inspecting the book intently with curiosity drowning in her chestnut orbs. Slowly she flipped open the cover, unveiling aged, tattered pages, vacant of any type of scribbles. While it appeared to have been used, the blank sheets proved otherwise.

Even though it didn’t hold any sort of beauty, and gave a dreary impression with the raven cover, she couldn’t fathom why someone would abandon the book.

Her interest was captured by the inside of the cover, where intricate lettering lay, forming words and sentences printed neatly in black ink. From what she read, it promised her that by simply writing any whim into this book, her wishes would be fulfilled. Any dream she could conjure would be real, any fantasy that seemed unattainable was easily within her grasp.

And she drowned herself in those promises on that day.

Why wouldn't it stop?

Her heart began beating irregularly, pounding against the bones. Underneath her skin a burning fury itched, coursing through her veins and infecting her entire being. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the metal pen, groping the desk blindly until her fingers came in contact with the cool writing instrument.

Anger collected in her eyes in the form of tears, the salty droplets racing down the sides of her cheeks akin to waterfalls. She couldn’t form any coherent thoughts in her fit of fury, all that she knew was she needed to carve the words into the pages, and nothing else mattered.

She had given her heart to him, allowing him to tug on the strings attached at his every impulse. Anything he wanted, if it was in her power, she would give it to him. She would do anything just to see him happy; she had given him everything, her body, her mind, her heart.

All she asked for in return was a little love, a little appreciation.

And what did she get? A fucking slut in his bed.

An ugly tramp tangled within his sheets, reeking of cigarettes and sex; hickeys decorating her neck and a pleased smile on her lips.

The memory kept emerging from the bolted crevices of her mind, much more vivid than she would have liked. And with it, came the ceaseless tears pouring over onto her flushed skin.

She tore open the diary- almost ripping the book to shreds in the process- and pressed the tip of the pen to the blank sheet. Her hands shook slightly, but she managed to scrawl fairly legibly as she pushed the point forcefully into the page.

“I want Tyler,” she mumbled through gritted teeth, rickety breaths following, “to gouge his own eyes out.” The eyes she had always adored. “And I want his teeth to rot in his mouth.” The teeth that he always displayed in a breath-snatching smile. “I want bugs to bury themselves into his skin, and I want him to feel it.” He needed to feel the pain she felt.

“And lastly,” she breathed out, scribbling it onto the page as she spoke. “I want his dick to fall off, I want him to force it down his throat and choke on it and die.”

Her body was still consumed by the weak sensation as she threw the notebook to her side, leaving it strewn across her hardwood floor. Her eyes fell shut as she pictured what her dear beloved would look like after the entire ordeal, a sadistic smile twisting onto her lips at the thought.

And it was that day, that moment, that she was devoured by the words; engulfed by the false promises; consumed by the curse that infected her being and mingled with her blood.

Because that day following, they discovered her dear Tyler. Eyes gouged out, teeth rotten, bugs buried into his skin and a large obstruction in his throat; they found her dear Tyler.

Why should it stop?

Flashes of red intruded her fragile thoughts, body quivering. Trembling fingers continued to bleed and scrape the wood, but the homicidal tickle would not leave. Her fingers itched to pick up the pen and write, write as her heart desired. The throbbing sensation was all too familiar.

Death was constantly breathing down her neck, spilling its murderous gasps along her skin. She continued to scratch.

She couldn’t do it. She needed to escape.

“Escape.” Her throat was coarse as she whispered the word, pausing her continual scratching momentarily.

The blood was running down her fingers, staining her skin, the pain subsiding into a numb sensation. She needed an escape.

Wide eyes shot around the empty room, darting into every crevice and crook until she found what she was looking for. Her pen, the pen; her murderer.

Stretching out her legs, she stood tall and began running towards to object, the soles of her feet slapping painfully against the ground. Her feeble attempt failed as she collapsed to the floor, bones smashing against the planks.

As bullets of pain shot through her body, she exposed dreary irises that lacked any soul. They settled on the silver metal a few inches from her grasp. Abruptly, the pen shook under her bleak gaze, leisurely rolling across the wooden planks into her limp fingers.

She could hear the whispers flood into her mind, the sadistic tune sinking into her heart. It pleaded for her to write the devil’s words, to fulfill her purpose, to satisfy the bloodthirsty cries.

Once she had seized the instrument in her palm, she inhaled the stale ambience. Her breathing was heavy; her breathing was laboured; her breathing was soon to be gone.

Her fingers twitched, tainted with crimson. The burning began to ripple down her skin, leaving the fire in its pursuit. Another tremor as she tightened her grip, quivering with the remnants of her strength.

It lingered in the air for a moment before she dug it into her skin with a sickening crack. She twisted and burrowed it deeper, scarlet seeping from her wound and trickling onto the floor.

Yet she could still hear the demon whisper his sweet promises into her ear.

A cursed girl, she was. A damned girl, she was. A dead girl, she was.