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The Revelation to John
Reader discretion is advised.
Also trigger warning - discriptive of mental health issues, self harm and violence.
Running. I'm running. I knew the enemy couldn't contain me in their grasp much longer. I'm alone...am I? Maybe not, it doesn't matter too much. This dense smog is suffocating me, but I mustn't stop running . I’m not prepared, I must run, I'm not prepared, I must hurry. I’m not ready, I must prepare.
~200mg of Sertraline and 2.5 mg Procycladine on a morning, another Procycladine at dinner and 30mg Dalmane, 500mg Seroquel and another Procycladine before bed.
Fucking criminals, it’s poison, but I already feel better, and the only way is up following my detox from that shite.
They feed the nanomites through the tablets, I don’t give a fuck what people say. I know they’re devouring me so they can replace me.
I can feel the pain in my Cerebellum; a pain that moves like a snake up a ladder, it scales. It’s spitting on my tongue, I can taste it. Moving on my tongue. I can see it, it’s crawling, pulsating,under my skin. It’s okay though, because pain is irrelevant now. Only one thing holds any relevance and that is the war. The Lord will heal me... even beyond the grave.
Caesar's forces are closing in. I reach the door of the munitions stores - Locked. Infiltration is no problem. I just hit the wood with my boot.
The fear in his eyes upon realising his troop's shortcomings in their attempts to restraint me twitched in time with a frantic mass of men, seizing to then liquidate upon his demise.
He utters some bollocks, it’s the silly cunt’s attempt of mind control but my suitably adjusted Gillette spared my ear drums.
~What's tha done that for thi slack 'oyle. Look at the flaming mess! Ya'v fucked it now, kid!
Shut the fuck up.
Silence. My hunt continues. And it continues. Fumbling in the blinding darkness, I curse my spectators. They must have moved it in a bid to annoy me. I watch it materialise before me. The cold metal burns my fingers. It's glowing, God is happy. Thank you? It's glowing.
BRIB? No you dumb cunt its BR-18. You call your self a soldier.
I remove my adaption of the Gillette from the degenerates jugular. I feel his filth ooze on to my skin; I think I'm getting an erection.
I must pay for this atrocity - I take...
Also trigger warning - discriptive of mental health issues, self harm and violence.
Running. I'm running. I knew the enemy couldn't contain me in their grasp much longer. I'm alone...am I? Maybe not, it doesn't matter too much. This dense smog is suffocating me, but I mustn't stop running . I’m not prepared, I must run, I'm not prepared, I must hurry. I’m not ready, I must prepare.
~200mg of Sertraline and 2.5 mg Procycladine on a morning, another Procycladine at dinner and 30mg Dalmane, 500mg Seroquel and another Procycladine before bed.
Fucking criminals, it’s poison, but I already feel better, and the only way is up following my detox from that shite.
They feed the nanomites through the tablets, I don’t give a fuck what people say. I know they’re devouring me so they can replace me.
I can feel the pain in my Cerebellum; a pain that moves like a snake up a ladder, it scales. It’s spitting on my tongue, I can taste it. Moving on my tongue. I can see it, it’s crawling, pulsating,under my skin. It’s okay though, because pain is irrelevant now. Only one thing holds any relevance and that is the war. The Lord will heal me... even beyond the grave.
Caesar's forces are closing in. I reach the door of the munitions stores - Locked. Infiltration is no problem. I just hit the wood with my boot.
The fear in his eyes upon realising his troop's shortcomings in their attempts to restraint me twitched in time with a frantic mass of men, seizing to then liquidate upon his demise.
He utters some bollocks, it’s the silly cunt’s attempt of mind control but my suitably adjusted Gillette spared my ear drums.
~What's tha done that for thi slack 'oyle. Look at the flaming mess! Ya'v fucked it now, kid!
Shut the fuck up.
Silence. My hunt continues. And it continues. Fumbling in the blinding darkness, I curse my spectators. They must have moved it in a bid to annoy me. I watch it materialise before me. The cold metal burns my fingers. It's glowing, God is happy. Thank you? It's glowing.
BRIB? No you dumb cunt its BR-18. You call your self a soldier.
I remove my adaption of the Gillette from the degenerates jugular. I feel his filth ooze on to my skin; I think I'm getting an erection.
I must pay for this atrocity - I take...
