The idol

I stared at the motionless, black eyes of the idol, and I found myself transfixed. The scratches on its face, the carved features, once prominently displayed, now becoming more and more akin to the rock it once was. The whispers in my sleep, the dull throb of that ever-present voice putting sweet nothings into my mind, I knew it was calling to me, it wanted me. 

Yet again I found myself looking into its eyes, but this time, it was different. This time it was looking back. I knew what I had to do. It wanted blood, and I would deliver. It was exhilarating, the touch of steel on my fingers as I brandished the knife, the high of raising it and the satisfaction of feeling it plunge deep into my victim’s flesh. I felt the last remnants of my humanity scream in terror, but the whispers of the idol grew to a crescendo, drowning out the pleas of my sad existence. I went back to the idol, my hands dripping with blood and I knew that it was smiling. I held it in my arms and felt the maroon ambrosia spread, and I laughed. 

They caught me, they tested, and they treated. I felt my humanity rise up inside me once again. I told myself I did it not because I wanted to, but because, I had to. I blamed it on the idol. It was the idol. You could sculpt a rock into anything, but with time, it would smooth out and go back to the way it was. As I lay in my cell, I may have imagined it, but I heard a whisper…

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