In my vision i was drinking in prison, the prison of La Bastille. The cells were deserted, the stone walls disturbed and the bars were loaded with rust. The emptiness echoed the rage of caged heroes while i sat enchanted and afraid. In my vision, i tried innocence lost in that prison but felt guilty amongst the shards of damned men.
Before i saw the shade, i heard the shadows his aura made dragged across the floor. Shifting into darkness and out of light, the shaman opened his eyes to drink from the night.
He rasped, This is the end, my only friend. The end.
The tips of his mane licked his cheeks like flame and hung over him like a halo ablaze. He looked down on me and i, beneath him, looked up to his Christ complexion and the passion playing in his grin. Collecting dried buds of my youth, i fashioned a pedestal on which to place him.
If you’re going down in a ball of flames, he said, you might as well make it one hell of a ball.
The smoke from his cigarette tightened taut in a knot like a noose around his neck before he dragged from his bottle and chain. He drank without stopping into a hole in his soul and each sip snuffed more of his flame.
Take, drink, he spewed, this is my blood. As he forced his poison into me, i watched his countenance dissolve until he became a shade of his former self. The violence his demeanor resurrected choked me like a bottle that broke in me as he spit his derision up over me like a baptism.
Before the beast could best me, the scales of a reptile king fell from my eyes and i identified his weakness. i’d learned enough from his black magic to release my own beast and batter away at the pedestal until he tumbled down like a clumsy clown to lay there wasted away.
At the end of my vision, in the center of my prison, was a broken mirror. Looking into it, i saw myself as i really was.