This Wild Thought comes with its own history. It comes from the bottom of a blog I had long, long, loooooong time ago; a post from October-2008. Take a look at it and tell me what you think, humanies.
Or not, your choice.
When I looked behind me, it was too late already.
It was night. SOMETHING was following me. I couldn´t know what it was; I couldn´t see anything in the pitch dark, but I could feel its rough breathing, as Darth Vader, on my nape. It was a typical horror-tales night. It was raining. This subtle rain that seems unable to soak you but ends seeping through your bones.
I was walking by the avenue, thinking about my shitty day. He didn´t even looked at me. He had gone to smoke with the Evil Witch of the archive, while I was finishing my work for the Excellent Twisted-Glasses King.
Depression started to make a mark there, righ there, on that part of my brain where I could here her whisper: «you will never be anything for him, or any other one. You are just a dickhead short-sighted oficce worker with thick thighs and thin hair. Your mother used to tell you so: you will become an old maid…»
So, when going back home, I decided that the best move was walking accross the empty park by myself at night.
It was just me and the poplar… or so I thought.
Rain was starting to soak me up and that breach, where Depression comes into with Insecurity to whisper in my ear, was opening its doors again, so I got myself ready to go back home. I would drown them, no remorses, in a hot shower and a mint infusion.
But then I felt it.
A hoarse murmur, a wore out teeth and hooked spit rustling. The worst possible scenario crossed my mind, I didn´t know what to do… My hands were sweating and my teeth were chattering while I tried to control the fear that overwhelmed me.
When I looked behind me, it was too late already.
There they were.
A dragged-steps babbling and knitting needles hiss are the only sounds I remember… and tartan slippers.
I woke up in the hospital, after a week in coma. Serious craneal damages. A weird fondness for soap operas I didn´t previously know even existed. A red newly knitted sweater…
If you dare to walk across that place at night, go with an escort.
They know no mercy.
Writiria 