Poisoned Candy

"Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; one drop of that elixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would have impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have produced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his respiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was; ten would have destroyed him." The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

From My Homepage's Quote for the Day - A repeat!

"Justice is always violent to the party offending, for every man is innocent in his own eyes." Daniel Defoe

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A few years ago, her home was bought for a song by a stalker with a lot of money and no scruples. A killer of talent and quality who infected lives with false promises of riches and fame. This miscreant of the lowest order purchased her house and started corrupting every inch of her existence right away. It started by invading the air around and about her, immediately going to work on every bit. Every friend she had and the few she would make, along with her boyfriend, family, colleagues, bosses, doctors even! Everyone and everything spouted bullshit - sometimes, most unnervingly, a thinly veiled echo of her own life.

One day, she went to work, blissfully unaware that she was being tracked. As soon as she was out the door, It stepped into the picture. Its shadow barely missed hers after she hopped down the stairs on one bright and sunny morning. It crept to the top of the landing and into her space. Her room. The atmosphere therein was blighted by its presence, changing, thickening almost, as it moved around. It went through her things - her things! Her pictures, her clothes, her property - fingering and judging her life and every tangible thing in it. Then, It decided - I can break this. I can take this. I can take a picture of this. I can do anything I want! This is my building now. She's just an occupant, sucking down air in my bought-and-paid-for space.She's a mere speck - I am all powerful because I own this. It is mine. This is mine. That is mine. Right then and there, It felt omnipotent. It turned completely around to assess its property and thought Life is good. My life is power.

Then - It put an ad in the paper asking - WANT TO MAKE SOME QUICK BIG TIME CASH? CALL 1-800-SCUMBAG. It didn't take long for the replies to come flooding in. Apparently, there was no dearth of human kind willing to do whatever was necessary to line their pockets with ill-gotten gains. This sad fact gave It the slick confidence to start building an army of sycophants. The number of these miserable bootlickers grew with the dollar amounts of its increasingly bloated promises. It slunk into the background in enough time to savor World War III. It wouldn't be long however, before these enticements would bend under the weight of deception and burst in its face. But those fireworks, Oh! It loved how those lovely detonating beach balls of vivid color splintered in the air. They disintegrated everything along the horizon. Its horizon.

It was originally from a murky place of points unknown, but later inched a little closer to where it set its sights on her, or - more accurately, her life. It directed some of its "army" to start polluting her workplace. These select few got a keen idea to ooze some poison thru a little porthole in the ceiling above her desk, causing a tremendous mound of irritation on her left arm. When it gradually subsided, a smaller one grew in her chest. Others chosen knew she had worked off-hours at a factory downtown called Tiny Time Digital (TTD). It selected and specially trained some of these flunkies on cameras and sound, putting the minions to work immediately on the 24/7 "Project" of recording her life. It paid them inflated salaries and ordered them to start defiling - STAT! They were only too happy to work for the gargantuan rewards that came with the job of life dismantlement. Nothing she did was free from the taint of lies, spies or erroneous presumption. Everything in her world was overcast with the stain of their lying, spying filthy fingerprints. They were always right behind her. Ahead of her. Around her. Always. It never paid them to think or to do the right thing. NO, that was not what this was about. This was about Control. It was all about Control. What else was there in life? Soon, all her genuine relationships started to be infected - contaminated, incinerated. These Control Freaks spread like a cancer over every inch of her life. They didn't stop until they pulled the rug out from her very existence. Why her? Because of a picture taken a long time ago. It fixated, obsessed on her image and decided - that's the one - destroying the very thing that it claimed to love so dearly. It wouldn't stop, you see, until there was nothing left. Eroding the walls, corroding the boundaries of her life every which way - with the stink of its lying, prying army of soulless empty vessels - until she disappeared altogether - with the only trace of her existence a vial of poisoned air - the remnants of her last exhalation - her last breath - containing all the bile and venom of her unresolved anger, unfinished life - suctioned from the very room in which she lived. A curly cue of stench, frozen in time from the moment it came out of her head.