The Dead Imago

He woke in a start. His heart raced. Had it been a dream or was this a nightmare that even daylight could not chase away? The first sign of where he was came by way of the assault on his sense of smell. A miasma of stale alcohol and tobacco odors hung about the chamber and made the air heavy and difficult to breathe. He felt nauseous.

What sort of life could he lead if the dark deed loomed over him everywhere he went? During the day, he felt he was being followed. It could be an agent of vengeance or retribution. It could be an agent of the law. Maybe it was both. At night, he was tormented by lurking images and crouching shadows.

He had meant no harm; events simply got out of hand. His only lacuna is a failure of decisiveness, but that's not a crime. He didn't know whether to oscitate or laugh out loud. If only he could do it over again. But wait, how absurd! He caught himself imagining a magical and serendipitous turn of events, or the unfolding of some felicitous synchronicity, as the most plausible resolution to his horrific plight.

Painting: Caravaggio (1571 - 1610), The Sacrifice of Isaac

This piece of fiction was inspired by the Writer's Campaign Second Flash Fiction Challenge:

Write a blog post in 200 words or less, excluding the title.
The post should:
* include the word "imago" in the title
* include the following 4 random words: "miasma," "lacuna," "oscitate," "synchronicity"