“The Bringer Of Death” – A Horror Poem by Lesley Patterson AKA Lady Opaque

 

It began with a story from another realm that was but was not real,

Stirring up so many emotions that I do not know how to feel.

There was once a little girl who broke all of her dolls,

she was always getting the short stick of life’s slips and falls.

The preacher said, “The child needs to be blessed!”

And so, with her spirituality, they started to mess.

Of what once was and someday maybe once more,

she rapped ever so gently on the cellar door.

To her surprise, an answer arose,

Was really it so hard?  God only knows…

All she ever wanted was to be loved and protected,

but of this fact her parents shamelessly rejected.

She kept her small head high, just pushing forward and on,

but she had died inside already, that little girl was gone.

She sits in the corner dismembering dolls,

and she trembles in the recoil of her family’s harsh calls.

No one was ever there for the child,

and in her mind, she grew more feral and wild.

She wears long-sleeved shirts to cover the bruises,

but she will not ask for help, this she very sternly refuses.

The teachers all suspect, but they do not really want to ask,

“Who is that little girl who hides behind a mask?”

She adorns it each and every single day,

she yearns to break free or to just go away.

At night, the monsters under her bed,

well, they all slip inside of her head.

So battered, so broken,

not a single word of this she’s spoken.

To say it out loud would make it worse,

so instead, she suffers in silence from one hell of a curse.

In the dark, she prays for the Goblin King to, “Come take me away!”

but he never comes and so it is there she is forced to stay.

Her home life is so toxic that its profound.

If I said it out loud, how would it sound?

Scars crease her tiny wrists created by a blade,

that she had dug inside of her flesh, yes; mistakes were made.

Her mother is a distant, cold, and cruel bitch,

but the suicide didn’t go as planned it was thrown off the hitch.

Inside her head, she’s crying out loudly, and yet no tears have fallen.

She is dreary eyed and anxious; she seems so very sullen.

Her father forces himself on her in acts of wretched and hateful molest,

but she keeps that to herself, locked up tight inside her chest.

All she’s ever wanted was to just escape,

that and oh yes, a father who didn’t commit rape.

Incestuous, she never cries anymore,

but it’s rotting her to her very core.

Her parents are druggies and they live in a slum,

they think they’re so smart when they are actually dumb.

Dirty syringes, sharp needles, all urging her point of release.

When she can finally run away perhaps these thoughts will cease.

Burdened, mistreated, malnourished, and disrespected,

she wishes that they’d left her alone and instead neglected.

At night when she sleeps, she keeps on having this dream,

it is the same one as every night and that makes her want to scream.

It’s always about being trapped in a house with no doors, windows, or mirrors.

This same repetitive reoccurring dream has gone on and on for years.

Cracked like the foundation she uses to cover up her black eyes,

destitute, forgotten, she no longer cries.

She feels like a ghost, one of the walking dead,

as she runs from the demons trapped inside of her head.

They taunt her, and prod her, and poke her with sticks.

Reality or fantasy?  Either way, they’re dirty tricks…

She feels hopeless in a situation that she can’t fix,

her back to the corner, head down, clutching a crucifix.

She feels trapped like there’s no way out,

then the voices in her head get loud and they shout;

the most horrible things at her in a ghastly wail.

She’s too thin from not eating and she looks rather pale.

Another day of this horror she just can’t survive,

and often she wonders if she’ll get out of here alive.

Dank and damp like a basement long forgotten,

you can literally smell the decay as if something is rotten.

All she ever wanted was a little more love,

from her parents, her teachers, and God above.

She’s been plotting the day when she plans to strike back,

her heart begins pounding, then it fades all to black.

She grabs her father’s gun from off of the wall,

then moves ever so silently down the dark hall.

Slowly creeping into her parents’ bedroom,

with an ever-increasing sense of death and doom.

She’s in their doorway now as they sleep,

stalking like a predator, she doesn’t make a peep.

She aims the rifle at her daddy’s still head,

then she fires, pulls the trigger, and now daddy’s dead.

Her mother wakes up to the sound of the gunshot,

looking now as if she’s the one that’s been caught.

The little girl aims once more and squeezes the trigger,

and wouldn’t you know, just wouldn’t you figure?

Suddenly the gun becomes stiff and jammed,

the Gods are playing a joke on her, the very recently damned.

Out of bed and running past her, the mother tries to flee,

all of a sudden, the hunt is back on and this thought fills her with glee.

Her moms got no shoes on and is dressed in a skimpy nightgown,

the little girl pulls a knife from her pocket and easily chases her down.

In a panic now, her mother’s trying to escape via the front door,

and the fear in her eyes makes our heroine smile more.

Up behind her, she jabs the knife deeply into her back,

instantly she feels like it’s Christmas and Santa’s brought a full sack.

Again, and again, with such savagery so fierce,

the knife goes in and out; her mother’s been repeatedly pierced.

The little girl didn’t know it at the time, nor did she count her stabs,

her mother’s hands now bloody, in self-defense the blade she grabs.

She’s soon overpowered and knocked back to the floor,

where she’s stabbed over and over until you could quote the Raven, “Nevermore.”

By the time she was finished the total stab count was forty-eight,

and now that she’s finished the little girl feels great.

For the first time ever she’s actually free,

to do anything, or say anything, well, that’s what she told me.

She left both of their bodies in their own pools of gore,

but to be honest, she’d really like to knife them some more,

just for all of the pain and trauma that they both had inflicted,

but her thoughts settle now and become shifted.

This is all like a dream, a bloody fantasy gifted,

and off of her shoulder’s the weights finally shifted.

She finally found justice and she felt vindicated,

and now as she reflects, she sees that some love is over-rated.

So glad she was there to take from them their final breath,

no chains now, she’s the victor and the bringer of death.

 

 

by Lesley Michelle Patterson AKA Lady Opaque of WritingBeautifully.com

Copyright 05/26/2020

 

Lesley Patterson is an Award-Winning Author, Poet, Blogger, and Freelance Writer. She's a Shelter Pet - Rescue and Adoption Advocate and an Entrepreneur who is very skilled at Social Media Networking, Marketing, and Sales. Lesley is in her mid-30's and is a generational Scorpio Daughter, Sister, Wife, and Mother. She is a Spiritualist and a Natural Pagan Witch who offers Spiritual Advisory Services as well. Raised in the mid-1980s and early 1990s in Sacramento, California, she grew up in the Reno, Nevada area, and since then has moved out to Fallon, Nevada. She offers her various Services on a case-by-case basis, and she is very passionate about both what she believes in, and in what she writes about. She showcases her unique, original, and persuasive conversational-styled Writing here on WritingBeautifully.com and she runs both the website as well as her own Blog. You may get in touch with her at any time by emailing her at: LesleyPatterson@WritingBeautifully.com -- or by sending an email to the Admin at: Admin@WritingBeautifully.com #FreelanceWriter #WritingServices #Writing #Writer #WritingBeautifully #WritingBeautifullyBlog #Writers #WritersLife #WritersCommunity #ContentCreationSpecialist #ArticleWriting #NewsWriting #B2BWriting #B2CWriting #BusinessWriting #ContentCreation #ContentSpecialist #LadyOpaque #LesleyPatterson #GhostWriting #CopyWriting #Editor #Editorial #Journalist #Journalisim #Blogger #Blogging #ProfessionalWritingServices #ProfessionalWriting #ProfessionalWriter

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