The ultimate weapon against the undead

I spent the last 48 hours within a state of intoxication, like a tornado swirling around and turning my world upside down, my mind was saturated with a blur. At last when the winds died down, I kept hearing his last words. Words that haunted me…
“A word of caution: Never, ever speak to demons, even if they speak using a language built out of your own weaknesses.”

It wasn’t truth my mind was contemplating, or focused on, it was the man whose words impacted me so deeply, so completely, that I’d remember them all, but not much else.

Within my mind the meal was pleasantly set, and now my thoughts were feasting on meat and drink, but my stomach needed relief from liquid abuse and my natural-born hunger.

If only I could remember where I last placed my clothes?

Finally, after finding my little pile of clothes, I quickly check my pocket for the vial of holy water. Instead I  found another empty vial of scotch, and a few odds and ends that I had picked up along the way, and, aw yes, here it was…The ultimate weapon against the undead. I shook it a bit, just to hear if I could, how much was left in the vile.

Like a pocket of loose coins gangling together, new thoughts commingled, they came out from their hiding places within my mind. New thoughts of different what if’s. Could it be true? Could there be some yet newly undiscovered reality, a new use for this ultimate weapon–could it by chance also solve a nights worth of drinking scotch? I didn’t quite know if it was the head ache or the attempt of thinking so deeply that rushed me to such thoughts. All I knew was I needed relief, and the sooner the better.

I unscrewed the vile top, my hand trembled at the thought, what if it didn’t work? Would I have wasted it so easily, so quickly, when at some point I may need all I have to face an overwhelming force–a mob of blood thirsty undead? Will I be able to survive them should our paths cross? Or will I look with dread and regret, when the last drop of holy water falls short of it intended mark; all the while thinking I shouldn’t have…

I used a moments worth of my remaining life’s time contemplating this vial, with its clear substance and it many potential uses. How many times must I still use it in order to keep my head attached–my thoughts attached and thinking still? Either I must find more of this magical water, or I must muster the courage yet needed in finding more of my kind–other unaffected humans. Together we may yet stand–divided we certainly will surly fall to what seems like will be my present fate, to fight to the last drop….

I was no longer willing to live in hypotheticals driven on the fumes of liquid courage . Opening the door to the hide away I dashed out into the cool damp night, meeting my future on my terms.

I called out indiscriminately to the black of night:

To all who are alive, yet are one dying. Thither I speed to twist and turn the knob of deaths door. I call out to the earth and sea half-held by the night, as my newly minted power that gives me flight. Stare with dread into the craggy sockets of the abyss, and marvel at its resemblance, its shape of your very own prison in another man. This world, a graveyard it will become. Damp, musty soil of its sharp, yet distinct whiff of today, that decays under it own weight of ignorance. It’s been far to long, and greatly limited, where I could not take part….but now, I stand before you, no longer a mythical read from some book–but an invited guest to it end.

I  had plagiarized different writers with this little speech. but I rationalized, who had influenced whom in the first place? A spirit full of life yet to live, or one who had drowned himself in lost hope?