The Reality Institute

That thing with the screaming brain

In the abandoned city of los angeles, one of those things stuck its head out the window of a room on one of the higher floors in one of the few skyscrapers in the city. It did what they always did and clutched its scalp, practically digging its claws into its own head.

Of course, it’s a vile creature, but the screaming in its brain is a pain that I wouldn’t wish upon animals of even the lowest order. Its lurid yellow eyes saw nothing but the terrible sound, seeking distraction as their only form of relief, which wasn’t really relief at all. And, hence, it swept low to the ground at speeds of seventy five to eighty miles an hour, sometimes faster or slower depending on the thing and the scenery. It burned villages and robbed the elderly. And some days it retired to some skyscraper or mountain peak as if to find solace in its loneliness, knowing all too well that it would always be in the company of the terrible screams in its terrible brain. It was not a companion that you would ever grow fond of, missing its presence when it finally left. In fact, the screaming was much more than an unwelcome guest and it caused those creatures to smash up automobiles, orphanages, and homeless shelters. The high pitched sound replaced any presence of a real heart and that thing could feel no pity.

This particular beast flung its body against the walls of whatever empty office it currently occupied. Pain to overcome pain, I suppose. And perhaps it worked for a moment, but in order to muffle the screaming, the thing would have to take such a beating that its body might go into some sort of shock leading to death. And even then we don’t know if those creatures can rest.

And those things let out a scream of their own at times, ones as high pitched as the ones inside their heads. Only to hear the screeches of other demons far off return with equal anguish. What did the thing’s screech mean? Probably nothing.

They held no kindness for their own kind or so the story goes. They held only pity for their brethren, which was connected, in a way, to some sort of deeper self-pity and were known to dash the brains of fellow demons against the concrete below. Air battles could be seen from suitable hiding places as the creatures tore the wings off of one another with blood as red as their skin coming down like rain upon the viewer’s eyes. And the viewer could feel some appropriate sadness before a more tangible thought came to mind, “Better them than me.”

Life would indeed be better if there were no screaming at all, if the creatures could get some rest. We would all be a lot happier, I think. Perhaps one day, this will be the case, but, for now, the demon and its screaming brain is a very real presence.

So the ghastly machine of diabolic creation burst through the windows of the room of one the higher floors in one of the few skyscrapers in los angeles. It soared upward, with the sun beating against its wings. And it was hot. And it paused there with grace, letting the rays soak in beautifully with only the nurturing wind to cool it down, until the pulsing, chronic sound entered its consciousness once again.

I feared for us all.

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