Читать книгу Were not were - - Страница 18

He is ill. Or, to be more precise, it had a parasite in it. Something deeply alien, foreign to him, nestled inside his body.

It entered him in a dream. How it happened, it was no longer important for him, but what was important was only WHAT was now mature and growing in him. Something that lives off his body, his thoughts, his life force.

He was often tormented by mood swings, when an unbearable blues was suddenly replaced by hysterical fun and fits of unbridled rage, which he could not, and did not want to control. What lived in him against his will was torn out, and he realized with horror that he was ready to die, if only to free himself from the presence of a stranger in himself.

And finally it happened. He gave birth. He gave birth to something that he had never seen in his life. One fine day, or rather, one terrible long dark night, his offspring crawled out of it. One only, but what!

Baby, the little one that he had nurtured under his heart for the last nine months: fed with his own blood; grew out of my mind. A monster, more beautiful than Frankenstein’s homunculus, born of Mary Shelley’s sick fantasy. A bizarre mixture of insect and plant.

But children are not chosen: those who then bury their parents. A child can only be proud of. And he’s proud. Now. Because father. By my son. A son worthy of his father. Son equal to God himself. Bigger than God.