Letter From a Friend

Dear, Tereece,

I must thank you, for I have recently come to realize that in fact, my life is not totally meaningless and without worth. You see, I completely believe you in that we all may have a calling and I have found mine.

I went to that house, yes, the one off of Crenshaw and West, that decrepit building with its unkempt lawn and painted windows. I thought, surely this place could not have gone unnoticed for its activities as it stuck out more than the others around it, an unsightly, run down thing.

Go only past ten, is what you had told me and that is when I went; past ten to make the deal. If it was as good as you said, I was hoping to ease my debt in but a few short days, if I had the skill to push the drugs of course; and you know by now how silver my tongue could be.

To end my prattling, let me tell you what brings me so much joy. Of how I found my calling.

I went to that old, drug house with the sounds of sirens and far off shots of the hood echoing in the distance behind me. As told, I did not approach the front door but went to the back. However, when I went to do the secret knock, the door opened at but a touch.

I entered.

The bottom floor was empty but I could hear thrumming, some deep pulsating from somewhere high above. It started soft at first. And though some deep rooted fear gripped my heart, my mind was ever curious and my body began to move of its own accord–you see, from the moment I heard that noise I became entranced.

I moved up the broken, rotted stairs.

No soul could be seen on the second floor. I had no clue as to where the dealers must have gone but that beating had grown louder. My body knew where to go and the hairs on my arm stood on end.

I walked down a hall, past open doors with darkened rooms. When I reached the end, I turned down another corridor to see a set of stairs pulled down to what was to be the attic.

I could feel the pulse in my own chest now.

My friend, let me tell you, I expected my own death as I moved towards those narrow steps. I ascended them and found candles awaiting my arrival, like some sort of dark vigil. The bloodied body parts of who I assumed to be the dealers were littered about, sliced and bled oh so carefully.

And that is when I saw it. It looked to be a statue at first with its grey, stony, cracked skin but that beat, that sound! It was surely the sound of its grotesque heart.

That beautiful, monstrous figure with its pot belly and supple breasts. It had short, stout wings, crawling with worms. And though it was headless, I could feel it staring deep into my soul.

It called me. She called me. My headless angel, festering with maggots. She would crown me her king and make me a god if I could do what she asked of me.

With a clarity, I left that place and sought out your residence for I now had my purpose.

Tereece. Oh, Tereece.

I really do hope this letter finds you well.

4 thoughts on “Letter From a Friend

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