"There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed."
-- Edgar Allan Poe, "The Imp of the Perverse"
I run. The wheel spins. My life is measured by its revolutions.
The madness is causing me to run; I know this, but still I cannot stop. I am a prisoner here in this cage, in this apartment, but someday I will break free and woe be to those who sought to restrain me.
The doorbell rings. Children come to the door, begging for treats. I spy them in their gaudy costumes -- pirates, princesses, witches, goblins. I watch them with my red eyes as they take their candy and leave, never knowing how close they've come to a real monster.
They say I'm mad, but I know better. In my so-called sanity, I allowed them to make me a lab rat, subject to their endless tests, poked and prodded beyond endurance. They abused the privileges I gave them, caging me, filling my body with chemicals until it could no longer tolerate them. Then, they say, I went mad. All I know is that I am no longer their scientific pawn. If madness is the price of that freedom, the reason that I am no longer trapped in the Keep, then I would gladly pay it tenfold, no matter who might suffer the consequences.
And there were consequences. I killed Hobbes, you see. I killed him not because he was annoying, not because he was threatening, not because he was offensive. No, I killed him precisely because he was none of these things. I killed him because he was innocuous; I killed him simply because he was *there*.
They found me chewing on his flesh, shredding it while the blood ran down my neck and throat, deep and rich, the color of red, ripe tomatoes. It was still warm; perhaps his heart continued to pump it through his veins as I ripped into his belly? I would have liked to have seen that, to have bit into that still beating muscle, blood spouting from my teeth marks, but they found me before I had the chance.
The Keeper, obviously, was upset by my condition. She blamed herself, asked herself how she could have missed the symptoms, let the madness progress so far. She ran more tests, then confirmed what I already knew: the madness was irreversible. No amount of Counteragent would ever make me sane again.
Sometimes I still dream about her, in my nightmares, that bitch and her snake, Lucinda. I swear, she loved that snake almost as much as I hated it. If I could have gotten away after Hobbes, I would have struck right at the Keeper's heart and killed that damn reptile. When I get free again, I still will. Do you hear me, Lucinda? Quake unto your scales; your days are numbered.
Ah, the doorbell again. My jailer gets up and answers the door. More children, more candy. He remarks on their costumes and fills their sacks with great fistfuls of treats. They laugh and leave happily, never knowing how close they've come to true evil.
He closes the door and mindlessly tears open a candy bar. He bites into it, then glances at me watching from my cage. He walks over, drops a bit of candy in. "There you go, little guy. Have a happy Halloween." I chew on the candy, thinking that someday, when I get free, I will tear into his throat while he sleeps and drink his blood.
I run. The wheel spins. My life is measured by its revolutions.
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