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“Jane” was a woman alive, a magnificent soul. Instilled with the breath of inspiration and enriched by the blood of imagination, she was a vision of God in miniature, a sliver of divinity who only wanted to fulfill her potential and ascend to the heavens to contribute to His works and be a daughter at His side.
However, much as the immature flower’s bud captured in the first potent freeze of the year’s dying months, “Jane” was unprepared when the demon Melancholia struck, driving his frigid trident into her unarmoured breast, engourging her heart with ebon ichor that started at once coursing through her veins.
Succumbing to this malaise, “Jane” turned to those she believed to be her protectors, seeking salvation from the black toxin which arrested her. In turn, she was belittled, demeaned, and cast into the Outer Darkness, where she was ensnared within the razor-keen strands to the thrice-damned web of pseudoscientific chauvinism. Had she fought with ferocity, she may have been freed, but as she put up only the most feeble of resistance, the inescapable lines of silk tightened about her, cutting into her skin, drawing precious life’s blood and pain, until they drew so tight they snapped, sending her into free-fall.
From there “Jane” plummeted, falling ever faster, into the depths of isolating emptiness. She could not fall forever, however, and soon she came before a whirlwind – a maelstrom of foul yellow winds alive with the screaming of the insane. “Jane” was swept alive into that aureolin chaos, that microcosm of inconceivable angles, bulging eyes atop off-kilter necks, erupting fungi, and entrapped women, and it was there where she opened herself to her gifts and glories. Her imaginings grew, flourished, then burst, spoiling and festering, turning against their parent.
With time, the typhoon of sulpher tints faded away, but not before releasing a child reborn from its miscarrying womb; “Jane” came forth, an animate abomination of unbridled, creeping madness!
