Placebo: a Nightmare.

It’s a typical household, but a joyous one at that.

Nourished placebo veers off distrust as we watch the young children scatter.
Our frail experiments have come to a halt.
 
Broken promises… teeth, bones, and limbs.
He remembers the rush of pain,
the loss of trust,
the hate that swells within the veins of ancestry,
and the blood of gold.
 
Covered in bruised arteries and man-struck ivory,
the little one’s belly grumbles.
Limping to the table of sorrow and distrust,
he takes his chances.
 
At least that’s what he likes to say.
 
Instead, the boy scavenges,
finds bits of muck and grime.
Little roaches and fine, prime meat,
of mammal,
of warm blood,
spilling freshness over our dearest ancestors.
 
Frothing at the mouth, surgery is performed.
Excavating the delicate corpse from its sweet, motherly bond,
the glistening infant squirms in pain,
before the little one sips up his brain,
biting it off, bit by bit.

In hopes of savoring the glory of ripe nourishment in the belly,
he pauses.
 
He mustn’t eat it all at once.
 
The corpse can wait.
The corpse will wait.
 
Early morning rises, the little ones are up on their feet.
He’s a good boy, he must go down to eat.
Spoonful at a time, the littles wonder
who will take their final breath?
The disgust, the jealously, the chance of luck.
The calm before the storm, the reunion of the Angels of Arc!
The gurgles begin.
 
Half the littles go to sleep.
 
Too hungry to care, they give into the screams of intestines.
The ripe angst against their tongue.
They give into what a child can’t miss,
hunger is our greatest fear.
Hunger is the predator,
and we are the prey.
 
The little one fears a gruesome death,
one of poison, one of purpose.
A mocking tingle that voyages ‘round the spine,
the warning sign, a simple second too late.
 
The boy is right; no risk is worth a warm meal.
Slipping out with ease,
the torture awaits him.

 
Running to the bathroom, swiftly lifting the planks.
Jogging over cadavers with a grin on the cheek,
the soulless corpse smiles back beneath his feet.
 
Slowly turning the nob, scared of being heard—
the little one runs into a shadow.

“You mustn’t panic dear one. Embrace it. The fear, the anger, and the pain,”
the pale one tells him.
“You shall run, far and wide and reach the corner of this Earth.”
 
The little one smiles,
yet he is small, he is confused.
He’s just a little
boy.
 
In the minds of others,
the worthy must pray for the poor, the incapable.
In his mind,
fear is the creature of creation, the monster that must feed on the blood of gold.
The blood of a warrior,
of him.
 
The creature shall survive the silent treatment.
 
“No”, says the little boy.
“I stay, you stay, we stay togehter.”
His tummy rumbles.
 
All at once,
It grows dark.
And for the first time,
 
the little boy dreams.
 
 
 
PS : 
In my arms, the limp body of the little one.
The gruesome clotted blood,
found in our skin.
I’m sorry,
You didn’t deserve such hellish misery.
Accepted my apology,
                                 my only son.
 

9/12/22