My mistress makes me wait in stony silence, looking down from above at those who pass below. I can smell their sins, their worries, their fear; but I’m not permitted to act on their misery. Just to anticipate.
As the eternity of time stretches ever nearer its end, I can’t help but grow weary of the wait. The never ending stream of wretched consciousness, the overwhelming stench of despair; all of it drains me as it feeds me just enough to continue my taciturn vigil.
I long for the taste of them to run down my parched throat, but I remain steadfast in my soundless sentry. There will be blood when my mistress commands it; and it will fall from the mouths of us all to spatter on the streets below.
Copyright © 2017 Julianne Snow