Your Prophecy (fiction)

You didn't ask for this, I know, but I'm not the villain. I am the mouth that hell spews its hate through. You aren't sure about what's coming, but that's the nature of beginnings, to be uncertain. Let uncertainty guide you, and you will come out of this okay. But know that if you fight it, you will not be a passenger, but a prisoner to your own mirth. You will finish reading this and think it meaningless, and that's only natural. For this journey is not one on tracks laid by men, but by the subtle imperfections of life. Think of this journey as a part of life. This is a journey based on trust. You trust me to take you somewhere, and I trust you to finish reading.

You will feel alone, but this won't be a loneliness born of solitude. You'll be with people you trust, some that you love, and others that you love in a way that is too tremulous to voice. They'll be talking and having a good time, and you'll be apart of that happiness until you're not. It will come over you so suddenly that it will push on your chest. Wrapped in that loneliness, you'll suddenly realize that your feelings to these people aren't metaphysical, but a result of your mind processing stimuli. Yet, to acknowledge this loneliness is to kill love, so you will force this out of your mind, as you do to so many other thoughts.

You don't remember them, but they remember you, and they have sent me. There is a graveyard in your mind, where you will send the loneliness to die. The dirt is fresh. The fog is thick. The walls are high. Each tombstone is unmarked, and the graves merge into each other like the endless tunnels of an ever-growing ant colony. For the dead are not put to rest, just to be forgot. In its center lies their queen, fed by the scraps of your doubt, by the lyrics you only heard, and the sights unprocessed but seen from the corner of your eye. She will birth new eggs as you take new breaths and together you incubate them.

One day you will speak in your voice, but the words wont be yours. You will be in such a state that you don't care of the source, only that your needs are met. In this way, you will send out the elates of the graveyard, and they will spread out to those you love, trust, and hate. They will dance about on the face of those you know, courting their misery, and someone will open their mouth to let them in. You will listen to their words, but understand that they are an act. For the queen and king need a draft to copulate in. If you look at them just right, staring into their mouth, you will see a new queen with fresh wings dancing the dance of domination with your king of callousness.

You will not know where the queen came from. Your ignorance will be a feint, another ant feeding the queen of your graveyard. As your legacy comes to impregnate them, you will know the depths of the darkness inside. Their darkness is fertile, full of soil for your union to flourish. You will watch them swallow and know that your progeny has found a home. Yet this too will go to the graveyard of your mind, for your society demands attention. Their words come not from stories, so they must be answered.

You will calm down and wonder why you said the things you said. You will wonder about the source of your outrage, or bigotry, or entitlements, or a thousand other words for my masters, but you will not look to the graveyard, for it lies behind high walls obscured by fog. Instead you will wander the mansion of your mind, looking for something to blame. Books come to fire. Videos turn to black mirrors. Memories rot. Work done, you sleep, and the ants come to gather ash, glass, and regret.

*** Author's note: I was challenged to write in second person future tense, so I came up with this. I like the overall tone and messaging, but I wonder if there isn't enough dread. I used will far more than I liked, so I'd definitely need more experience to do this well. Still, it was an interesting exercise.