The Cabin Floor

I sit on the shaggy floor of my lonesome cabin,  picking at carpet fibers. 

I hear a booming voice call for dinner, but I inch closer to the fireplace fire. 

My boring puzzle sits unfinished, my mind wanders off to the deep—dark woods.

I should’ve gone up for dinner, mother told me this place was no good.

It’s colder than I thought it would be, shivers wave over my spine.

Leaves crunch as I creep along. I should run back. Do I have time?

I hear little voices whisper their appellations as I creep further still.

Open your eyes, the thought bounces around and my head continues to kill.

My eyes are wide open, but it’s pitch vantablack.

The frigid wind blows up my shirt and slips right down my back.

The warm scent of cinnamon still lingers above my lip.

I reach out my arms, trying to find my way, but my finger, it gets pricked.

Blood trickles down and I shove my finger in my mouth, desperate to stop the bleeding.

The bitter taste of iron fills me now and takes me back to that awful, terrible beating.

My heart is bruised and swollen, three times the size it was.

My brain wrapped itself in thick, heavy chains, we’re not allowed to love.

I feel a hand reach out from the darkness and it wraps each dead, cold finger around my arm one by one.

The fingers are frail, but each one stings. I call out, “Someone. Anyone?”.

I know he’s found me now. I should’ve turned back when the scent of ginger grew stronger.

He steps into the light and slides down his tinted glasses, I can’t hold on much longer.

His pale skin is glowing, his smile is just as sinister as before.

Alas my demon found me—even after I locked the door.

My mind favors his sneaky grin over my salty flood of tears.

This time the little voices have named him “tormentor of the year”.

My body quakes and my feet are frozen in position.

Tears stream silently down my face as his grip tightens and worsens. 

“Why are you crying?” He says as he wipes my tears, “My dear, you’re just so pretty.”

It would almost be comforting if I didn’t know the bastard was lying, thinking that he’s tricky.

Suddenly I can see, somewhat clearly,“Stop lying to me”.

I close my eyes again and force them open, weak and wearily.

The scent of cinnamon overwhelmed my senses as I find myself back on that old shag carpet. 

Loud laughter and voices still chattering above the ceiling, so close, yet so far from it.

The demon still owns his own little concession stand in the corner of my mind.

I can’t help but want to visit his sickly, skinny self to buy a drink from time to time.

It always takes me a minute to remember the nightmares are only my day dreaming.

I stand to join the bustling party upstairs, but why is my finger bleeding?