What Follows Me Out - Bedside Limbo

What Follows Me Out - Bedside Limbo

The first time is the worst -

the most intense.

My bed, my sheets, my pillow,

became an altar, became chains, became a vice.

I want to scream, but all I am in this moment

is a ball of wrinkled meat in a bone bowl

peeking out of a set of holes.

She is standing at my door,

long dark hair like black scratch marks

draped over her face down to her faded fingers.

I gasp shallow breathes dying to deepen.

I cannot understand It,

as my vision begins to redden.

My sputtering engine purrs.

Every padlocked joint and tendon

explodes in a frenzied bolt of sudden synchrony.

I shoot up so fast I ought to break,

but she is gone.

I explore my recovered mobility and look around,

but I'm alone in my room.

I sit for a moment, just trying to process It.

Though shaken, I get up,

remembering that I have things to do.

Two years later

things get a bit strange.

I find myself in a darkened lecture hall,

taking notes on blurry bullet-points.

I start to cough. Loudly. Sharply.

The hand covering my mouth gets wet,

I see it is dotted in a thick, tarry bile.

My stomach shrinks, and a cascading mass

of inky, oily flesh erupts from my jaws.

Tiny tendrils wipe sickened tears

from my bloodshot eyes.

I'm suddenly in bed, a different bed than before.

Though it seems that the same defiant limbs

are lying in this one too.

It happens.

My sealed lips part, and birth the very horror

that had found me moments before.

I can taste It. Feel It.

Its eldritch arms caress my cheek

with an audible slimy swipe.

And then, like a morbid matryoshka,

the black bud breaths

a haunting gaseous orb

that rises high, phasing through

the bed above me.

No one saw anything.

My teeth were clean, my face dry.

I feel unmade by what I saw.

Unmade, and yet, reformed.

It's been a while since that night.

Two years, I think.

Distressing as It was, I cannot help but feel

like I'm...overdue.

Dismissal came early this morning,

a chance to reel in some slack.

Window closed, comforter earning its name,

facing the wall in silence, I drift off.

Voices come. At least a dozen.

I cannot turn to see. Do not want to.

They murmur dreadful things,

though I do not understand their words.

My periphery catches a gelatinous halo

wrapping my head like a hellish crown

as a single, chilling finger

presses my neck and follows my spine

to its pointed end.

I am thrilled.

But It does not last, as the magic dies

with the coming of my waking body.

I have been jilted,

left with a thirst.

Could I call out to It?

Chase It down?

Insist that It stay?

I close my eyes once more,

and catch that warping wind with ease.

I am visibly bound.

The sight before me gives credit

to my immobility.

Wrapped in a silken husk

that would scar any other,

I smile warmly at the many hundreds

who encase me with my wish.

Pale little weavers

with blood-droplet eyes

tickle me all over.

I must be mad -

this is a nightmare.

Why am I so wracked with joy?

It was I who beckoned that they come -

that It return in whatever form It liked.

To grant me even the slimmest insight.

To hand me the reins.

Now,

I may finally understand.

• A.T. Buesching