Dead Dog Sunday

DEAD DOG SUNDAY

Past and present merge as my sleeping demon stirs. He’s waited for decades, subsisting on crumbs of my over-compensatory pride, cast-off pieces of self-loathing, and half-suppressed fears. Each step I take rewards his decades of vigilant patience.

Leaning forward on his greasy throne, he salivates for the fresh meat and the energy and from my inevitable destruction. My personal demon is intimate with all I’ve done and all I am. A dark calliope from the grave, he whispers with a wink, “You can’t go home again, not unless you die first.“ 

"I don’t want to die,” I whimper.

The demon slurs and his words elongate, “Come home. Die a little. We miss you.”

I’m not prepared.
Not even a little.
I never have been.

Entire communities of my personas, through all timelines, scream for me to stop, to run, to flee!

And Dead Dog Sunday begins.

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Coming Soon!