Beating the Demon Bastards

Demons writhe before my slowly decaying form. I am torn open and bare, my pulsing heart ejaculating my life’s blood over their eager, hungry faces. They are bathed in crimson, and scream in animalistic fervour, clamouring for the taste of my flesh.

I am drowning, choking on the bitter taste of my own despair. They come for me, drag me down into the depths of madness and I am lost to reason and the light. The darkness swallows me whole, and I am tiny and insignificant in this vast nothing.

I perish over and over, the ceaseless agony of my inner torment scarring me more deeply than any blade. I am a wretched, pitiful remnant of the person I used to be. The demonic audience leers at me through the dark and mocks my suffering. I am nothing more than twisted entertainment for the vapid masses.

And then I remember that I am no actor, and this is no stage.

A fire ignites and shines from within, beating back the dark and the things that hide there. The wretched manifestations shriek in fury as they shrink and fade in the face of the inferno. I rise, ablaze with light. They will not have me today. I exorcise the demons and stand upon their carcasses and a victory cry escapes my lips.

I have beaten them and I am stronger than them. And if they come, I shall beat them back again and remind them that they have no power over me. I am the warrior. I am the victor. I am the motherfucking master of my own existence.

(Take that, demon bastards.)

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