Feelings

Phantoms of the House!

 

 

By Jing Villamil

 

WE are not frightened. We are very frightened!

This is a clear case of deja vu: here yesterday, here today, here again tomorrow. It is not just a dreadful dream; it is a nightmare most horrible!

The immortals stand triumphant once again. For the past days, weeks, months . . . the dark gods, seen or unseen, never eased up the pressure. The sharp teeth knew where best to bite, to draw blood. It didn’t matter much whether these were plump-red arteries or purplish veins twisted thin with old age and bad habits. Blood is blood. Crooked sharp claws rasped as they scratched, sliced through, then sucked out life from their victims clutched in firm vise. Vanishing hopeful to hapless.

After this feast, the dark gods shall be immortals for many more years. After this feast, the victims shall turn virtual slaves shall turn dark gods themselves.

There shall be no other way out for the willing ones who, in the first place, were lured on by their hungry, thirsty, greedy selves. They, by their own will, climbed over each other, grubby hands seizing stuffing chewing choicest cuts, juices spilling over from open mouths. Gnawing growling for more and bigger chunks.

Their cumulative wants, and needs, transcend beyond nocturnal. It is non-stop orgy under the hypnotic spells of temptation, seduction and mutual satisfaction. At night, darkness is their cloak and veil. At the dawning of day – thick walls, opaque glass plates and the blackest sunglasses shield them from the unforgiving glare of the sun. Shielded them, too, from looking at the accusing eyes of the angels.

When heaven wept, heaven wept hard. And because the angels have not seen into the darklings’ veiled eyes, heaven wept hard somewhere else. Where the innocents dwelled, and drowned with their arms raised pleading to the sky. They, whose shoulders brought the darklings to the House.

The dark gods had shown the way, the pack masters followed through, and the slaves barked forth their blind, senseless obedience. Yet, it only seem blind and senseless to the sinless and the less sinning. To the initiated and confirmed to the rites, their obedience was all-perceiving, truly purposeful and most sensible of all choices.

Because, for the gods, the pack masters, the victims-turned-slaves-turned-gods who yearn to be immortals for more than the prescribed years, obedience is a must.

There are still the scattered who dare to swim against the mighty flow of the pack. But their barks are more of whines, whimpers of protest and resistance. For only a few of them stays sinless for long, and the less sinning has other interests of their own. Their joined barks come out too weak, too ineffective to be heard above the shrills of the pack.

Though this is vampiric, this is not a story of vampires. This is about those who stand for us in our Houses, majority of whom had long ceased to stand for the majority of us.

The Houses have ceased to care. We had our uses, we are now ignored, discarded. Though, we continue to watch. We hear, we listen.

And, we are continually being amazed! Perpetually shocked, even horror-struck! We are dismayed, disgusted, sickened, nauseated . . .

May I be excused while I puke?

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