there is a house in new orleans
There's always talk of evil around these parts.
The discussions can be mild tempered, even keiled, talking about the theoretical passages of time and theoretical destruction of soul and mind. The path that leads to hell - is it paved with good intentions? Does evil wear a trench coat and stalk you from the shadows? Or does evil - true, daunting evil - smile through white, straight teeth while shaking your hand?
I always reckoned the first was the simple kind, the type that drags dirt and uses flash and bang to make their point. They're the gratuitous violence without furthering the plot. They're the "every female character should be barren or assaulted - to build character" type. They've no concept of evil.
See, evil is insidious.
Evil takes its sweet, savory time.
Really, though, I'm speaking in theoreticals. Theatrics.
Who can blame me? I'm the walking stereotype - handsome save for this eye, the color of the night, born of the strange and deranged. It was only a matter of time and patience before I really ascended to the thing I am today.
The thing I am today, which stands in the meadow alone.
The thing I am today, its swollen prolapsed eye forever staring outward, turning white and blue with time.
The thing I am today - waiting.
h o y t