I suppose I could have run up to the street to get a better picture of the clock tower as it glared down at me from under a perfectly bruised morning sky.

Had I done that I suppose the picture would have been perfect, the man sitting on the train who I captured on accident and later cropped out wouldn’t have  had to pretend so hard that he didn’t notice me taking his picture and a handful of morning commuters could have mindlessly streamed by me instead of paying attention to where they were walking.

But I wanted that image because at that minute, when I looked up I knew exactly what it felt like to have a spell cast upon me and I knew what it felt like to not be able to care.

 

 

I knew what Lucy felt like when Count Dracula first locked eyes on her and then with that single infamous bite on her neck, damned her to Hell.

I was Doctor Frankenstein watching his creature brought to neither life nor death but something in between and what it was like to fall into that abyss, that bottomless pit he dug with his own two hands.

I knew what it left like to have something dark cast it’s shadow upon me and I knew what it felt like to not be able to scream myself awake from that endless nightmare.

 

 

I know people who think they can cast spells and fancy themselves creatures of the shadows and children of mysterious Gods and Goddesses.

But they can play at it all they want because on this morning, under a perfectly bruised sky, the Clock Tower at the train station came to life and it was not playing with anything-

except for maybe

me.

 

Inspired by The Inktober Prompt: Spell