I regret ever knowing of the accursed Imp Bottle. A tiny phial, with a weighted spherical base, known to be impossible to lay flat if one is not aware of its hidden ability. It has driven many former friends mad with frustration. It has long lured me, despite its despicable appearance. I have coveted it since I first discovered it, but the dignity it excavates from my soul has earned it a place on the shelf of my most hideous heirlooms, my worst of treasures.
And the imp! The tiny imp inside. I hear it at night trying to chew its way out, or dig its way out with its tiny claws. The tiny imp, I fancy, is just like me, trapped in its detestable form. Neither of us can acclimatize to the world it has been deposited in.
And so, in the evenings I have taken to donning one of my old robes. After my usual dose of tinctura opii camphorata I place the phial on my desk and address the imp.
"What is it you want?" I ask. "What is it you want so much out there that you couldn't be content here? What is it that you want that I cannot provide for you?"
My words are met with silence, but still I talk to him, talk to him until I can feel the tinge of madness scratching at my skull.
"What is it?" I ask it.
And it whispers back to me, I hear its words.
"To be free."
