|Echoes in the Dark
Author: Chromaticist PM
I think this was supposed to be about death...Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Spiritual - Words: 975 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 11-13-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3074136
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
First he feels nothing. And then he feels the pain.
Now he feels nothing again. And before he knows it, he is asleep.
In his dream, he is standing on a straight road, which he cannot feel under his feet. This surprises him, not because he has no feeling in his feet – dreams do that sometimes – but the fact that he has realized this. His normal conscience is always lost in his dreams.
He also realizes that this path is in the middle of nowhere. The only thing he can see is this road in front of him, while everything else is black. He can tell that this is not from the existence of the night, for this road is not cloaked in a twilight hush, as normal roads are veiled in at nighttime. It is as if God had forgotten this road and left it here.
His spine tingles, and he knows that he has to get off of this godforsaken road. When he tries to step off into the darkness, he finds that he cannot. His soles stop in the air, as if against the surface of a barrier, and he knows that's it. He is obliged to obey. He has no choice; this is not his to choose. He takes a step forward.
He lurches down this barren path with no idea in mind. He does not know where his feet walk. He wants to get out of this dream.
He walks for a long time. It feels like he is walking in place, but finally the path splits into two.
This is interesting. The right leads to a glowing door. And the left fades away into nothing as if erased. Where they lead he does not know. But he knows that he does not want to walk down a road that doesn't exist, so he plods forward with his eyes on the door. He will open it and see what lies beyond. He is curious.
The door is close, and even closer now. He reaches out. The lightest feather brush of a fingertip – and a mouth opens, deep, dark, darker than anything he's seen before. It looms over him. It swallows him. And he falls down, down, down, down –
He does not know what happened. He does not know a lot of things in this odd dream of his.
He is falling. The darkness is swirling above him. He is falling, yet he is not. He falls while still standing inside this wretched door.
He fallsfallsfalls, and then it stops. He is in the same place, in the same darkdark place, with the same open glowing door behind him.
He stands still. He does not know whether he wants to go on, go further into this darkdarkdark place. Wake up. Wake up! wakeupwakeupwakeup –
My lord. The voice echoes. The voices echo. Echoechoecho.
My savior. It comes from nowhere, multiple voices, all synchronized into one sound. It is harmonious, melodious, it is a song, a song, a song, and he wants to sleep.
Thank you. Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. They are thanking him. He is uncertain. He is scared. Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup –
My gracious lord. Tell me what to do. Tell me, tell me. I am lost.
Lost, lost, lost, lost.
He must wake up. Wake up, me.
He takes a step forward. And the door shuts. It is closed. He is closed. He is trapped, caged –
And then, and then, and then he is falling again. He fallsfallsfalls. He is falling.
My lord. You are my god.
The voice is unfamiliar, not like those other voices. It reverbrates in his brain.
You are my god. You are God. You are God. I am God. He is God. He is God.
It is like his being splits into two. He is falling, and he sees himself. They flash by, his memories, and he remembers things, things, things that he had forgotten. He is an infant in a white white white place, coated in a sticky sticky sticky red liquid, that he does not know, and he is uncomfortable, he is uncomfortable, uncomfortable, a sound is coming out of his mouth, a loud loud sound.
The years pass, and he remembers it, lives through it, he is living his life over again. He is falling still. He has fallen for years already. It does not end.
Wake up. Wake up, up, up.
He is a toddler in blue pajamas, there is laughter and he is giggling his toddler giggle, and he is crawling on the forest green fuzzy soft carpet, and it is soft soft oh so soft, and there are hands, hands trying to catch him, and now he is crawling under the shiny shiny mahogany table –
He is a snot-nosed little kid in kindergarten, and he is drawing a picture of his house with crayons, but the red one breaks, so he is asking the girl sitting next to him for one –
He is carrying his cool new brown backpack that he got, and there is lots of big kid stuff inside, and he goes to his classroom and greets the tall black-haired teacher that always has a smile on her face and sits down at his big kid desk –
He is lugging the heavy heavy backpack full of homework to be done, and he is going to his second-to-last class, and he says hi to the girl who he has been friends with since kindergarten, and he has flutters in his stomach, and he thinks that he might like her but he doesn't know what say, and he sits down, and he gets a new assignment that he thinks he might not be able to finish –
His parents are getting divorced. He shatters like glass. He is brokenbrokenbroken, scattered on the marble floor.
He is in school and his friend shows him her new boyfriend. She giggles. She is kicking apart his shards on the floor. He is freshly broken again.
He is still picking up the fragments when he meets a girl.
He is walking down the aisle, in a black tuxedo, and she steals his breath away.
It is a plus, a plus, a plusplusplus. It's comingcomingcoming, definitely coming. Her belly isn't bulging yet, but soon. He'll just wait. Two-hundred something days left. Just nine months.
He is an infant in a white white white place, coated in a sticky sticky sticky red liquid.
He cries. He is uncomfortable.
It doesn't end. He is still falling. It never ends.
He never wakes up either.