INSCRIPTIONS IN THE DARKNESS

Leila Samarrai

WAITING FOR MORE

TRANSLATED CHAPTERS!
 

I will translate this demonic inscription in all the

world’s languages, because I want to at least post
this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part
of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see
that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell
myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of
dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs
resting in me, being revived in that final clench of
humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all
humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn

down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives,

their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s
sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it
together, as per a deal. They are so well organized
that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called
normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted,
moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us,
fall to pieces – and they do not stop.
As I sit here, in my final cage, as the world
disappears from my eyes, upon everything that
happened, I still yearn for freedom, I laugh and
scream, in a fever. I cry, my eyes bulged I tumble
like a spirit. I hit my own shadows. They pop out of
the walls and slap me. Get out of my head.

They are counting.

Today is the last day, after my bloodshot eyes read

the final murderous thought, after I set aside the
revolver, bought with loan money, which I meant to
use to blow my brains out, I sit at the table, and my
mother, a living corpse, her hair gray and messy and
her mouth slobbering in fear, is merely looking,
silently reading this text, this goodbye and does not
talk back, does not talk me out of using the gun, the
noose, for she knows, she is the only living witness.
They took her – for me and with me, and, buried
alive, stuffed her like a taxidermy animal! Like
those birds forever trapped mid-air, shot with an
arrow of the final reaper on earth. Death turns away
from us disgusted, does not want to talk to us, the
old Gods are dying of laughter, and the devil joins
them. Either the asylum or the sword remain.

I will die a hero, but in order for them not to do it

to others…for them not to do it to someone else, I
will…I will…in the name of humanity, I will get up,
grab a sword and like a horseman of death (for I know
where they are) I will cut off their heads mid-flight
and their heads will be a beautiful flower bouquets
that will adorn my dying flowerpot, like that of a
philodendron…ah, but you want to know who they are?
Is this but a ramble of a lunatic?

How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five.
Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see…
Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know
the exact number. They know how many of us men remain
on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an

online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for
me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl
nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order
for him to convince me that I should live, and I have
been preparing to tell him this story and I know
that, just like my mother, even with his professional
upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified,
stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not

even him, because is it really possible to believe
it?

Let’s go.

The first specter was back in school. That’s how they

began. They choose the most innocent of faces.
Someone you would least suspect. Then you come to a
sort of metamorphosis, when a spirit of darkness
enters the chosen body, takes control and in the grey
matter and its synapses under the owner’s forehead,
whether good or evil, crafts a sort of idea,
emotional conditioning, they maybe use genetic
engineering, Imhotep’s wisdom, Lovecraft’s magic,
maybe. I have not uncovered this with certainty. The
metamorphosis process lasts for years, without the
body noticing, but somehow thinking that the thoughts
that were sent by THEM their own.

This is where the separation begins. The tearing to

pieces. The introduction of chaos. The whirlwinds in
the devil’s plan from whose monstrosity I shiver even
now when I don’t give a damn.
Why would a man not accept an offered cup of coffee,
a hug, comforting? It was always a group. First the
school. They had to choose the most vile, monstrous
among them, in a group, to attack me the minute they
saw me. It started with silent hatred, despising and
revulsion as THE BODY OF THE VICTIM, and I speak for
myself, although I’m sure there are more out there,
turns towards the ATTACKED BODY AND MIND in the state
of metamorphosis.

This becomes the leader of the brood mother. Then the

other hornets retreat after they had set the stage.
The leader, a turned humanoid, addresses me as ‘dear
friend’, he sits in my lap, he even awakens in me if
not lust, then the desire for human closeness.

They mold us. When they are done, they use us as

manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our
mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic
structure of the Chosen ones. Scientists! Scorpions!
One living human system upon another – they transfer
the universal genetic code, they intertwine
hereditary material of pure, living instinct and
submit to it friendship, love, affection and
humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthetize

their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human
genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.

The spirit of darkness, it is the world which

crystalized the supernatural world of pure
unadulterated terror. Subconsciously they work on the
victim, and the CHOSEN MIND is chained to its
protectors with wickedness.

This way, THEY head the earthly peoples. In time they

learned that it’s somewhat more wicked and effective
to work on individuals and they invented the method
of destruction they used on me.
THE BROOD MOTHER takes info from the virus chain and
the virus releases its wrath into the poisoned mind,
into the senses, and it slowly creaks open the door
of the supersensual world in Man and give him a few
glimpses into him being able to sense it all…to be an
announcement, a witness, a howl in the desert, only
to finally get him in an asylum or make him commit
suicide.

I did not believe all of this before, that there was

an anti-spiritual leadership, a sacral dragon of
darkness, a creation of a sick human mind in a lonely
world which suffers for the destruction of the old
world and the advancement of the new one which is
created, maybe a long time ago, in dark caves of
blinded pyramids, somewhere at the dawn of time,
caves where select corpses for scientific observation
and reanimation tumbled.

They planned this out well, but missed one crucial

detail – there are too many writers in the world.

Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to

work it out, that it is about a particular type of
implanting self-possession which is dictated by a
trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down
every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former

gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any
rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.

They use corpses, the most vile, cleverest archetypes

of whores and killers…they implant their brains in
the human molecule, the dead cell remains dead, but
it still multiplies unusually imitating the human
immune system, to make it look like human living
tissue, but it isn’t. They behave in the early stages
of metamorphosis like wise men or somewhat more
reasonable beings than the average lot.
It is then that they send the information on a
mysterious wave which they insert into the molecule,
the brain of THE CHOSEN body, they send the
radiation, create a mutation, and it creates a type
of hunger, desire to devour an individual it came
down on completely, at the beginning of an
unconscious process that’s occurring.

This is how a soul starts getting dirty, getting vile

and dishonored. The creature, turned, despite looking
human on the outside, is but a replica, born in the
night, a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about
caves. In order to cover up the deathliness and the
enormous wickedness of their plan, the Chosen ones
have the fairest faces and words, like hidden knives
they were taught to use to pick the victim’s
innermost layers of brain cutting their cingulum,
with pleasure, a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty
pleasure craves blood, reading all of my innermost
desires and fears from the deciphered map of the
mind. This is when I also go through a metamorphosis.
I become a stumbling cave dweller who blindly feels
everything up in the darkness and stumbles along the
catacombs surrounded by whirlwinds of dread and howls
of the killed and the slaughtered and ready for
testing. The brain exchange is complete, and the
proof of this are the retarded statuses I post on
social media and the blood I spit on the screen, upon
vomiting – for in the final phase, some try to
resist, an unplanned, human, nature-provided ability
to shift focus and fear for the bare sense. The
optical ability enhances, images of merry demons
smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues, upon the rapid

degradation of potential to maintain one’s own I and
in this struggle, the eyes expand, bulging in fear,
staring at the monster, the shifted human form which
has the same countenance, but shaded and bloodied
with lack of feelings, whose disgusting, dry mouth
open and utter the Kafkian judgment: She is bad, she
is selfish and only thinks of herself.

This is where the compilation comes of several

entities pretending to be friends, godsisters and
neighbors in one singular entity, hostile, radically
evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

THE MAN goes through the processes of disbelief and

self-accusation, for at the end of the day the
question of personal involvement in the clash and the
following sudden departure of a loving being comes
in, a being that uttered a judgment out of nowhere,
using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think, to
use a flaw in its mind map, while the CREATURE had
for years been accumulating the power to submit the
man to its own moral metrics and laws of fidelity.

This is the human propensity for the animalistic.

This is his propensity to go in pairs and be bound to
a pack, they know it. Even if the pack was, in this
case, by way of modern technology, made up of a
single person that holds meaning to this man which
will take a few more appliances with her to
completely destroy, compromise and annihilate the
person.

I was fleeing the city where the first Creature

caught me. After a decade of lying down, my tired
eyes opened. I was alone, but I got up,. I knew that
the provincial folk of K. are nudging and laughing,
maintaining that my experiences were, indeed,
unusual, but worthy of psychiatric study. This was
how I lay, alone, in black wreckage, while my mother,
as well as my aunt who still wasn’t transformed at
the time, extended their hands, replaced the pledgets
on my head and carefully watched me, always from the
same point, mildly creak-opening the decrepit mouse-
colored door, peeling and crumbling.

I would stare ardently at them.

– I was stripped of control by that bastard the Lord.

I was in church… and I saw the Buddhist from Burma
standing on his head.

– Poor kid – my desperate grandma would say. No one

could transform her. To her even without the
Controller the universal reality consisted of no more
than a handful of cigarette buds and other than rage
at the useless, impotent God who punishes the good
and awards the weak, she made her own, by a strange
unnamed force, knowledge of something that cannot be
known, but merely believed, but she behaved as if she
knew. It was her hiding spot.

I wonder if the reason for her immunity to the cult

Lunatics in the disunited country and my resistance
to it was in fact the golden vein instead of a
regular one, the one in our bodies. In hers Russian
white flowed instead of blood. I bet that even her
blood was white. Like with the popular White Walkers,
two decades later, with their thing being to sow the
blood and death, stopped by a hero… while in
actuality like any experienced Satanist they sold
money and water in order to give the weak-minded,
like the Turned, the hope that they will live in
peace with their zombified brain until the…well, the
end of their days.

In that black wreckage my ass was joined to the bed,

the femininity was no cause for hysteria, but rather
the end horror of it. The grotesque calls were
repeating themselves. Still, back then I still
believed that the wicked calls are a secret devotion,
an unbending pride, a battle not to disembark the
ship of illusions that the friendship between me and
the monster, called Ivana, was possible.

It wasn’t a friendship I owed moments of erotic

bliss. Whenever she was entering my head, she did it
with roots, the wind, the breath of tropical sun. Is
there anything more sweet for the Controllers than to
make that particular misshapen friend deal a powerful
blow, with a knife in the chest, and then to devote
insane and grotesque calls which left me mute and in
the most horrific of pain

And when the Creature sticks a knife in your back,

everything moans in bliss.

No, that swift knife did not come by itself from the
hand of my beautiful loving friend. This was my
fault, me, Aitia, the cause, I did something horribly
wrong, shameful and wrong. What? Does it matter? I
snobbishly discarded the cowardly lack of will of the
people to stand up against the dictatorship of S. M.
and peddled at their flaws.

In other words, I was using my distraught brain seek

the cause even in my own guilt and burry myself
deeper, not have someone else do it, like Mengele, on
one of his ecstatic cult-like performances behind the
black curtains, but…ah, this is self-examination!
This is how I got their attention.

– She requires a more subtle blow… Resistance is too

big…I repeat, Huxley, the resistance is too big. –
Where did I hear that before? It sent chills down my
spine, it pierced through me like a horn, me at
lobotomy class and still nothing. They must have
planned to leave me here to lie and die. They were
too powerful.

I could say so many things of my lying, which was

preceded by an awakening, and in it was born a dream
and again an illusion, then pain, memory, repenting.
Too human. Maybe they’ll cut my throat during sleep?
No, I must do this myself for them to mask their
existence, and I would liken an insane person and
they would become one more victim the richer, those
who know of the human mind more than before my death,
then the further development of technology of
destruction of Man would ensue, right there near the
end of the century, on the threshold of the creation
of modern man.

I won’t speak of the particulars of me moving to

Belgrade, for that cannot be approached in any other
way than the old fashioned one: what does a prisoner
feel when the jailor lets him go? A neat little zero
that I was, a pathetic dying woman with new
adventures before her, I made a step into another
dungeon, bigger than the first. And the first one
contracted, shrunk and tightened into a cellar that
pulsates into the mind where locked up demons scream,
the slobbering spirits of darkness, and I am sticking
my tongue out through the keyhole and stick the tip
of said tongue through an old well-crafted jail lock,
so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.

Me, poor and nameless, triumphantly felt the walls of

my tomb in Kragujevac, while the other Crag-ujevac
folk stared at me squinting a tad, not openly
wickedly, but rather like they were holding up their
breath and the liturgy words of exceptional power and
magical pretending that they care that I’m leaving
(to a degree they did, at least the ones that weren’t
Converted).

But, there were ones who told me that the ones who
remained I was looking at with an eye of mockery, as
if they were mages, insane and criminals, as if…as if
we were the ones who held you against your will.
And it was no longer important what was said, nor the
enchanting passion and force behind the ‘Ah, you will
come back to us soon’ wickedness with a wink, but a
concept of rhythm and tempo wherein the uttered swung
enchanted, rooted in the intuition of this spirit of
darkness or whatever was sent to get me to pick
completely gray, meaningless and messy faces and
plant in their mouths narratives, sentences and
judgments which their minds, thinking humanly
intuitively and wickedly, could not say it at all,
because those judgments were uttered with a dark
force which the mind of the provincial person which
collapses itself into the nothingness of the subject,
i.e. itself, with its icy passions, cannot even hate
too much. They especially cannot express themselves
in that magically silent way in which the great
demons terrify, threaten and curse every person who
manages to force them out of his or her body or to
fight back.

What a speech it was: rough, brutal, yet silent and

dark as if pumped with the presence of the spirits
there for eons , the true polyglots, storms of words,
yet calming, mildly warning, a style much too
stylized for these gargoyles, in no way grounded, but
rather tactless and hyperbolic.

This is how it would have been, and I explain this in

detail for such situations and masquerades performed
by the Evil Spirits will go on in what I can now
fairly call well-directed film intervals:

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere, for I had

not seen so many people while I was by myself, as if
a pseudo-country was forming, a mass of people,
conventional shoulder-patting, well-intentioned
advice from good people whose faces I have not seen
once in my life. Panel:
Soft, muddy picture, then the image comes into focus
and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes. Then the eyes spoke
with fiery passion and that would last for ten
seconds or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand

recording what is happening down there, everyone who
ever hated me, eating sandwiches and sowing leather
jackets that I pay on a loan, then all of the things
in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things in it as

if they were laying my corpse in a sarcophagus . Who
are these men? How come there are so many good
intentions in this…

Ah, they are counting.