Left to rot, a devil's plot, angry throats unspoken

Location, location, location, the old adage goes, but I would argue that success actually hinges on timing, timing, timing. And his is impeccable. Take a mind, ordinarily so rigidly controlled. Now introduce a substance that makes it so uncharacteristically malleable, enters it into a state where suggestion only too easily becomes a new reality. When another's will is imposed on a vulnerable brain, what becomes of it? When fear on a girl is becoming, perhaps death becomes her even more. So lock the doors now, never turn my back to them, but a lingering voice reminds me that this only delays, maybe even invites, something altogether inevitable. For too long, I have felt stuck, and these restless legs long to stretch themselves again, but there are two ways to run: towards something, or away from it.