Within the constant high-pitched whine of the tinnitus, he crouched and rocked. For so long Damian Dastard’s life had purpose. A clear path and a calmer river running by it. Yet, as life can often do, all of a sudden, a deluge appeared to swell the gentle water, until the path and river were indistinguishable.
It was another bad trip’s phase beginning again, he knew.
The ritual followed the same horrific script:
The air around him became unbreathable as his lungs rebelled to strike against him. The cold loneliness of his own treacherous brain smothered his mouth and crushed his chest. The water, now rising to his shins, appeared to reach up like demons blackened fingers to pull him down into the depths of the murky, stagnant waters. He could feel their talons slicing, icy cold, through his jeans and his flaccid flesh.
Was giving in an option?
Dastard’d played this vile game too many times. It was wearing as thin as his hair line.
FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT, fuck it.
The water taking the rest of the air relaxed Dastard. He could live his death down here. Besides, it might be fun to hear the demons side of the story for a change.
“Get the kettle on, Abraxas, old lad! I’ll have tea, one sugar.”