Town of the dead
Ah, the grand, long-waited return in my hometown. Sometimes it feels like years since I left it, but my coming back leaves a bitter taste on the back of my tongue. Each and every brief time I visit my parents, it seems more and more weary and dreadful.
To be the witness of an ongoing wicked game, that my mind is playing on me. Dead memories and faces, emerging from the dark, dry ground, pulling me into their white, silky coffin, as if they've been waiting for me all this time, feeling disturbed by my absence.
People with one step into the grave, walking day and night, all over the city. Smells of dirt, sweat, dry tears. Old, foggy tattoos, crooked teeth. Vile, grim, appaling noise, that can be outmatched only by the lack of it, during the night.
It feels as if I'm the only one left with more summers and winters to pass by. It feels as if I enter Bram Stoker's notorious Dracula, as a clueless tourist, warned by any means possible that I may not leave the town, if I get too comfortable.
But I will not plummet into the 9 circles of Dante's hell, because I got a grip of myself and the ladder is close-by. God, if the ladder falls, I won't follow it, I will build a staircase, step by step, by any means. Even if its price is fearsome, the gift of freedom from this spine-chilling, blood-curdling place is a certain blessing.
Regarding God... Well, he is on the tip of every tongue in these parts, but little do they know, that God has long-forgotten them.
