He’s pretty. Delicate. Milk and honey skin that’s soft to the touch and you know he’ll be sweet to the taste when you get your teeth in him – and you will. There’s no doubt that it’ll happen, that you’ll give in, and he’ll let you because he’s a good boy and what you want from him is yours, yours for the taking.
Because you’re allowed.
Because he lets you.
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October 3rd, 20—
Father says that God doesn’t exist. Father says ‘He’s an imaginary machination, created out of humanity’s inability to accept that there is nothing – nothing – after the return to the Earth. They cannot grasp the emptiness that follows our departure from this worldly Hell, so they made Him up to appease themselves.’
I know the truth, though. I know Father is a liar.
And I know there is a God.
At night, I see Him. Our God. In my dreams, His voice is a beacon. It resonates ferociously in a language I do not know, but I crave desperately the sweet release it promises. It echoes, deeper than melancholic bass, from the depths where He resides, causing waves to crash and flood against the shores. The beings of the ocean writhe and wriggle to its tune, for they know His rise is coming soon, and it fills their bodies with obedient joy.
Too often, I find myself, too, writhing in the covers as I sleep to the cadence of the ocean creatures at the sound of His calling. I long as They do, with a yearning I cannot explain. Father, roused by my uncommon nightly noises, often thinks my dreams must be something wicked and lewd to have me emitting such sounds and undulating so in my sleep, but I know better.
It’s the response to the Call, to the impending awakening the world will soon know. The elation can’t be contained, even in dreams.
He’s coming. Rejoice.