Down Into the Pond

Down into the pond he leads them; a wicked grin contorts his face, but they do not see it. I want to scream, to wake up. It’s useless.

I am a force of non-agency as I watch myself drowning innocent strangers.

There are two halves of me. The pond serves as the mirror, but also the wall, which reflects back at us, which separates us. The reflection I once saw only showed the one side of me, the one I live with. It didn’t look in, only outside.

When I died I broke through, falling inwards.

Then he came out. A replacement.

I am trapped within my soul, left to wonder if I am a ghost, left to wonder if this is real. Are those people truly dying; do they exist? Or are those metaphors, my past selves?

I smash my fists against the water, coming up against a wall. It greets me with pain.

One by one he dunks their heads in. When they are motionless corpses he allows them to drift off into the reeds; he leaves them to search for more. For him a few is never enough. Nothing is.

For myself there is one thing that I am confident in: that he will drown himself when there is no one else. It is inevitable.

Then there will be peace.

Then there will be true death.

Down Into the Pond, by P. L. Cobb

There are two halves of me. The pond serves as the mirror, but also the wall, which reflects back at us, which separates us.

Coopid, who may or may not exist, or who may be a parasite?

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