Return to the ominous door

OctPoWriMo 2024, Day 29

My pulse was entrapped, and flailing out of its sac. Its panicked sweat quivered the slats of my fingers. I spoke above the din to my maker, my injurer, and I told him his misdeeds. The first time is the hardest: first time a first child climbs off the pyre and answers with fire. The first time an indictment, although quaking, is given. If I am theophoric, I have also been deicidal. Other molochs: of work, and faith, fell before me. I am out of control.

© Tolu Oloruntoba