Bell woman

She holds a bicycle bell, in her left hand always. This woman no more, for she lost all distinction two decades ago, falling from grace to wander the streets of Tokyo, forever searching for that that shall not be found.

It's night time, I'm drifting when I hear the bell. Regaining conciousness, I come to and hear the shouts. First the bell woman, then men wanting to beat the kintruder with their baseball bat, just polished that evening, shiny with blood and brain matter.

I see them running down the street, chasing the hobgoblin, who scampers away, faster than it should, peeking back over it's shoulder at the blood lust in those eyes.

Bells are ringing then the sirens appear, circling above in a din, screeching so loudly that my ears are bleeding hot globules of wax fat.

I begin to weep, wet tears of despair...