Summary:
A man's descent into insanity is obviously horrifying. Fears, apprehensions and z personal distorted sense of reality is a lonliness we can only imagine.
For this touchstone upon the immured mind, which I call my own, I do not anticipate any conception from any. I wish only to the portentous internecine workings of my imprisoned persona in hopes of setting it free. One might call me an aficionado of death. All day I prepare those whose vitiate pointless lives have come to an end for their obsequies. In sooth, I enjoy it. While I am working there are no nauseatingly maudlin nor insouciant people to endure .I have often felt tendentious to those who do not give homilies or philippics about the way in which I run my life. It just so happens that most of these people are those same that I so blissfully spend my time operating on. One must have a certain panache when dealing with the dead to be in such a profession, a panache that results only from respect.
Often I have speculated about their abortive and prurient lives. The whole of my time not spent laboring over them is spent with my wife. She is both the bane and the stimulus of my life. However, she no longer holds that once commensurate spark of love she once had towards me. Though I like not to mention it I have often contemplated how much easier she would be to deal with were she deceased. Always then after, she is rendered sacrosanct by my still surviving love for her.
For the a while now I have had no sound nor consistent sleep. I see always the same when I close my eyes and always awake to see my wife lying adjacent to me. Each time I drift into slumber I immerse myself deeper into the matrix of this nightmare. Each time this nightmare has little vicissitude if any at all. At first this dream began at a door which opened to reveal my lavatory. I watched as someone made to the sink and washed blood from his hands. He scrubbed harder and harder but the blood remained ensconced upon his skin as if it were an emolument for a vicious act he had committed. For a week it was only this I saw and always I thought of it as I washed the drained blood of my patients from my hands. I could not concentrate on my work, I became curious yearning to learn what crime this man could possibly have committed. Even in media res of the embalming of Mr. Decepoate I began to fade into thought of this matter and I am no maladroit practitioner who does such often. Why does this dream have such a traumatic effect on me as if it sickened me to reflect upon it"
The following night I plunged farther into the vision I watched as the man came down my hallway to get to the door. So it was thence forward that each time I unveiled another small piece of the puzzle each night and each night it became more and more foreboding. Always I would awaken to see the form of my laying next to me and always I would get back with that same image. I was too preoccupied with the dream to care what problem had occurred between she and me. Was this dream a prescient vision or just a recurring nightmare?
The wonder of the dream took me over until it became an obsession. I had to finish it. I do not care about the people's bruit and their iconoclastic dictums about my life when I drifted into thought on the job. Those I work with are in no hurry they have no time anyway. What do these people mean to me? Nothing, they mean nothing, they might as well be diaphanous as far as I am concerned. What right do they have to browbeat me for pursuing my obsession? What right do they have to foray my genre of work with their abuse and declare it a systemic joke? It does not matter what they say I am almost finished. I will finish it tonight, it will end tonight I can feel it.
So I lay aside my wife trying to fade into the nightmare, to end it. But, alas I can not. What ironical and contumelious failure. I have tried it eludes me that treacherous bastard that is sleep. Wait, it comes I must haste to give in.
It is done. The man is I and the blood was of my wife whom I had so calmly executed. How could I do such an atrocity? Who am I? I am not myself. Surely, I am not myself. How could I imagine such an act. I will not do it. I will protect her. No! It is not prescient, it is reflection, she is dead. Gone forever. How could I? I do not remember. No wait, I remember. She deserved it; they all deserve it. They all do. I have to put her in the basement with the others. I was never asleep. I was awake. Each night it had been a new victim. I followed the rule of quid pro quo, all who talked of my state or of my profession and insulted me needed to be quiet. They can't plague me without modulation now. They are pests that need to be exterminated, nothing more. The deaths were all salubrious to me. There are more, I must finish. I can not stop now. I am so close, so close to the end. Besides, they are all so much easier to deal with when they are dead.
This is the complete article, containing 927 words
(approx. 3 pages at 300 words per page).
