I’m the raggedy man, this is the name god has given me, I know no others. My clothes soiled thread bare, my being stinks of death itself. Teeth the sickening yellow of long spoiling disease, gums receded blackened. My eyes sunken, a deep burgundy color of blood and sickness. People cross streets; children rushed, they run hide in stores, alleyways, all avoiding any contact with this soul. Cafes empty on my entering. I’m treated with contempt but gently, wishing not a horrific outbreak of insanity, they feed me freely only wishing my departure. I talk, laugh, scream words of damnation at phantoms. I walk these streets alone.
I hear people behind hands; he’s probably has bugs, diseases, he’s the crazy man. I think; I love my life, what little I know of it. The voices in my head very good friends, they tell me things, teach me, they are my constant companions. I have but one thing that causes me distress. The itch, never ending itch. It moves me. Sometimes blocking out even my friendly voices. It drives me to screams. I scratch, dig deep within my tattered clothing searching the demon that bear me this torment. I bleed, skin torn ripped, the itching never slowing. I wear no bandage, fester, rot this body cares not. I roll, rub upon walls, door anything which might reach to sleep the evil which grips me.
I have a knife, long and sharp. I, a master at sharpening steel. It’s a gift; god has given to me. I’m able to fashion any metal into a weapon of death. I have used these not, given only to others of my kind. I hear whispers of their use, this pleases me very much. Makes me grin, a choked giggle. I’d like to see the result of my craft. The blood, torn flesh, screams of agony, these are the sights, sounds that fill my night.
God rejects me not, I’m the raggedy man.
From the Ramblings