Parasympathetic Parasite

People were trying to tell him he was a genius. Perhaps, if he were as ignorant as they were, he would think he was. But he carries with him the burden of knowledge. He knows what it took to get here, to be viewed as someone with such unquestionable talent, and now regret wears his soul ragged.

His voracious followers chase at his heels, unaware that he is nothing more than a vassal, a tool, a trap waiting to be tripped. His vacuous ventricles hold little more than impending doom, yet he cannot escape the all encompassing feeling of shame. He knows they don’t deserve this, but it isn’t up to him now. Like zealous fools do, he misstepped. He just wishes he were the only person who had to pay the price for his poor choice.

The cheery atmosphere shifted, and flesh fell flat, left to fertilize the soil. The icon they were so infatuated with was nothing more than a disfigured pile beneath their feet. Where he stood loomed a growing threat, having abandoned its selfish vessel in order to enact its own will. The people watched with wide eyes as the misty mass began to sweep through the crowd. One by one, they each met the fate of their leader: consciousness gone, reduced to mangled meat.

The last left standing turned to flee. But the mist was still hungry, and it could not feed alone. It made its way to his brain, and the lone survivor saw visions of fame and glory. His fear response turned hazy, and he was enticed with promises of riches and rewards. As his chest was hollowed out to make room for the gluttonous mass, he was offered false fantasies that were just too good to be true. How could he not give in to such a promising opportunity?