Lovecraftising.

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He considered them, after all, wholly horrid little monstrosities, devoid of the symmetric proportions and anatomical precision which makes the human most apparent.

He leant forward over the alabaster sink and sheared away the peak of his pimple, imagining that perhaps there would be something amusing, even triumphant, in annihilating his handsome face. He could shrug it off as a sort of biological stoicism;

‘Surely Daniel is still Daniel, no matter what his deformities? But, no...I suppose, they would shun me.’ Dropping the razor into the froth of the sink, he leant forward to gaze into the mirrored gaze of his simulacrum.

‘My God...I might look monstrous!’ The length and effort of his nightly excursions were clearly visible in the droop of the bags beneath his globes. Sweet intoxications had, clearly, deadlier outcomes. The thought of his returning home at night had been impossible, out of a kind of fear, which he was unwilling to mention to his landlady- the sense that, had he lain himself down in his bedsheets, and extinguished the lights, he might somehow have slipped into a waiting darkness- an eternity of horrors.

: 11 Jan 2009 10:31 |  Comments (0) |  Report a problem