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Horror: The Tome

I have spent my day periodically pouring over the Tome, in whose molted, crumbling runes I had hoped to find some clue as to the progress of my trial, yet with grief souring into despair I read on with a nearly morbid desire to find a negating scrawl possibly waiting for me just yet one page over despite the continuous worsening bitterness. At least knowing that I seem to be failing the trial alleviated the anxiety of ignorance. This tome, an incomplete fracture whose grandeur only the cosmos must fathom, fell into my hands a single page at a time throughout the years. I remember not shock when my eyes first beheld the skittering runes, for I was too far sick with the curse; I remember torment. For weeks thereafter I slept, guarding my body against nightmares, feeling slight comfort in wearing more clothing, sleeping with my covers about my neck, and guarding against the dark with the flicker of a candle, hiding away the thick parchment as if I could negate what I had learned, and that the curse would die with the memory of those runes. Of course my memory was scarred with those scrawls; how frail I seem to have been, and how frail I seem still despite the truth that I have grown far stronger, only the nightmares have grown stronger still. Fear kept me from that library, yet year after year the horrific cure forced my return in order to renew another twelve months of life, and upon every visit to that cold stone and hideous metal further leaflets caught my eye. Even if I shielded my candle and closed my mind, page after page sought my hand and that same morbid desire that perhaps the next might announce my salvation caused me to sullenly collect them as they appeared. Yet hardly can I read the winding letters and scratched inscriptions, and often in deciphering, one page contradicts another, and I find myself unable to decide which is truth or if both lie. Yet almost all continuously point to the barbaric cure that I induced all these years until it nearly broke my psyche. I hadn’t time today to devote to mourning my curse, and alleviated the mortal pain with a simple antidote whose recipe I had found years ago on one of the leaflet pages. I understand these particular spells, though not nearly as volatile as the recursive cure, eat at my organs, and could cause deterioration in my old age, however the combination of the moon’s curse and the fatality of its false cure beg to argue that no old age waits for me. Even as I write this I can hear my one friend’s voice, he who promised to comfort me through the trial from the moment I knew that it was upcoming, scoffing at my pessimism and making light lovingly yet with disregard. Luckily I have maintained my patience thanks to my psyche’s respite, and I am trying to be understanding that his coldness is most likely due to his own torturous demons. I cannot say. However, this day shone with the brilliance that for all those years had gone unnoticed through my eyes. Even at one point I laughed with enemies, safe in the confidence of my own strength, and realized how cured I felt. Cured only from shunning the cure. Possibly dying because of it.

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