The demons are whispering to me again

They are telling me to do bad things. They stare at me with silver eyes in the dark shadows of my room, then they apply pressure to my knee caps, causing them to slide around in agony, while my protesting body does nothing to stop the muscle aches from slowing down. My loose knee caps wobble down like pancake batter at a 47 degree angle, and my body feels like posing manequine. I am powerless to do anything about it. There is a low frequency vibrational hum, and powerfully pistons seem to be spiking through my thigh, and my skull is nailed to the wall behind me.

The demons say I need to burn something. It will start out small, they say, like a fingernail. Then, they will need more, so I will start collecting my hairs thought my hovel. Concerned voices in my head tell me to burn sheep skin, first, but I deny them. Impudent bastards. What do they know about comedy, anyway. No, I must search my home, with a pair of reading glasses to help myself find lost hairs, at first, because mine already all burned off in the twin towers, because I could not stop counting grains of sand, and now I must find more to burn for the demons, because demons love the way burning flesh and blood smells. So I must search my home for more of them to burn, to reclaim my goals. Then, I'll pull out a magnifying glass in search, but then I'll get distracted by a speck on the floorboards, then I'll go out and steal an electron microscope, and devise a plot to really get back at daddy, because mommy is my daughter.

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Credited to DevineGrey 

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