The needle pierced the iris of the dream, and from within welled a dithering pointillism of bloody fumes. The lids wiped free a milky haze only to replace itself with a more virulent wash of the scene burnt there before. Two fingers, erected parallel, obstructing vision, press at first gently. Check – no result. Press harder – same effect. Digits pan inward, and the hand violently thrusts backward until the palms are resting on the high cheekbone. Now that the eyes were gouged out, it was no longer important to worry about the fading world before them. But when the full length of the stems had been dislodged from their deposit, sand flowed freely where blood should have. Bodily liquid had been replaced with fine rock, and to free the pressure held back, every orifice secured by skin burst open at the seams and poured forth into the air did the corruption of person stuffs atomize. Left behind was a shadow of a man, engraved into the concrete as if they were too close to the epicentre of a nuclear explosion.
From the shadow emerged an egg and from the egg arose a dragon. Within time, the dragon matured into an adult beast. Texts of old taught it how to fly, speak, sing, and where it could find others just like it. The flecks of dust that remained where he’d been born evaporated over time, yet on their fringes was caught the scent of a man. Resonating vaguely familiar, all of what could be mustered in memory hinted naught of this dwindling phantom. All the same, said library held little as to the subject of identity. Relying instead on more motor faculties to guide it, the dragon took taste of what sand remained.
Then, what had been long held as sacred was at once revealed to be nothing more than a fraud. This thing, this man, was judged more putrid and vile than any contagion whose objective was mass extermination. Behind every persona lay a master scheme whose mission was self-maximisation. The degree to which perversion of sociality and sexuality had both permeated and dictated his core was nauseating. All faults considered, there existed a sliver of compassion, unfortunately overshadowed by his hell-pact.
From this the dragon had sprung, and to preclude its volition did these sins seek. It too harboured a similar capacity – shaded by a different hue – feeling concurrently the desire to masturbate and to sever the hand and mind for treason. The books instructed in one manner, the people operated in another. Birds have wings that they may fly – and fly they do – as people have legs that they may move. When the bird flys, does it not seek expediency for efficiency? Flying longer, while dangerous, is conditionally useful. Why then would man not desire the same conquest? If, as was revealed, some held stay for personalisation in virtually every aspect, then some did desire inefficiency. They begged and pleaded on hands and knees in contaminated soil for absolution, private gain, disequilibrium, judgement, hatred, sadness, joy, food, shoes, all of it to be provided by right of something which they could not comprehend and was consequently pillaged from a poorer soul – deemed so by the same that put them in place to exploit. No harmony was to be found. These people were born to hate. Goodwill itself was a liar looking first to profit, next to mask it.
Here and there the grass remained the same. Sometimes tainted by drought, other times drowning in blood. None of this stayed the flight of the dragon. Manoeuvring feverishly through the skies, it was hellbent on a single objective: the dissolution of its birthright plague. Only a few times did it stop to tend its own corporeal demands. Each landing was met with a handful of frolicking plebs who danced about in some bizarre ritual, attempting to moot some foregone pact to bring about a tidal shift in their own private affairs. More often than naught, the intended recipient was the dragon, perhaps out of a fear sourced from an empirical size discrepancy. Occasionally, some of the nutters thought to pray to god, despite being within arm’s length of the dragon. Fools, it thought. It had been to the heavens countless times, and never once met with anything other than air which they couldn’t see. If ever there were a god, surely it was a man, for only a god should be so utterly incompetent to create and allow the continuance of such backward creatures. Not that it mattered either way. The dragon cared not of the goings on of man, and it wasn’t about to stick around long enough to see the end of it all.