Lost Blooms

         Pleasances all around, the cat curled by the wall; she placed herself square to the humming radiator in the corner along the baseboards. Gentle lights streamed gold across the polished floors, meeting her gangly legs in a heap by the warmth.
         It could have been beautiful, but something was not right.
         And it was indefinitely escaping through the meek creature-of-a-human’s eyes. Unblinking, unflinching, she let the deepest black of her pupils cave into her–into her soul void of perception and void of compassion. No flicker of life danced across her eyes as the room rested in incandescence. Invisibly, her state pressed through the room like a wave of torture. The air grew unbreathabley stale. The scent, one of rotting corpses, twisting into a stench worse than even death itself–the unsalvageable smell of fear. Fear grown manically wild; fear bound by no cognitive control or reason; fear in its absolute Godliness.
         Here, a child died. In death she returned to virtue. But as she departed (the body left in surrender), a stalk penetrated her heart and chest. The gentle buzz cleared and ceased from below, the room distorted into raging dementia, and a bud progressed.
         Here – the blossom of fear was born.