If
he were a falcon, he would soar away on those perfect sharp wings. If he were
rat, he would scurry through the closest hole he could find and lose himself in
labyrinths no one can see. If he were a shark, he would thrash and tear with
jagged teeth until some poor soul ended his misery. But he is not any of these
things.
He has forgotten.
And he cannot escape.
Where he is, only those outside
know. What they want, same story. And his name has vanished long ago. He wrote
it once, scratched it into the floor for safekeeping. Only to see it covered
under layers and layers of dried blood. Some his. Some...whatever else they put
in here. Darkness hides most things, the ones too terrible for the light to
shine upon. When they come, darkness follows, blood right on its heels. How
many times has he lived it? Only those outside know.
They watch him. So closely they
watch his life leak from open wounds, his fitful attempts to close tired eyes
for sleep, and the spectacle of him trying to think. Oh, that elusive concept:
'thinking.' Harder and harder it becomes. To dig into that useless brain and
pull something out. Anything. Maybe a memory. Or what he believes is a memory.
But they're painful. Complex. Burning of a thousand colors locked in endless
war. Nightmares too real to remember. Thinking might get him killed.
He's survived so far with just
instinct. Run. Dodge. Punch. Bite. Kick. Eat. Shit. He doesn't forget these.
They coat the walls of a retreating mind. Why take up more space than needed?
Those outside are before him. They
are shapeless forms black on a horizon of white light. They do not move. Only
talk.
“Fires eat so they can burn. Fires
burn so they must eat.”
“This fire eats and eats. Still
eating. Always eating.”
“He burns strong.”
He curls up, hiding in shadows. Eyes
were not meant to look upon them. They would rip into him like the monsters
they bring.
“Leave!” he cries. It is always
strange to hear a real voice. Even his.
They do not have real voices.
“This fire wants to be an inferno. Wants
to light the darkness with flames.”
“He is just a spark.”
“The smallest spark may cause the
greatest blaze.”
“But a blaze cannot be. This fire
will fade, into little fingers of smoke. They all fade.”
Darkness covers him in soothing
blankets. Those outside are gone again, vanished from his crypt. Only dots of
pale light flicker in this place. He has learned to see in the emptiness. He
doesn't want to see more. That would mean more memory, more thinking. Why take
up more space than needed?
New blood always paints the floor.
The wet, warm feeling on his feet, between his toes. Only thing left by the
monsters. Always disappearing. Or taken away. He is weaker now. So very tired.
Even the darkness doesn't seem dark enough anymore. He can see the blood reflecting
shadows. How can he see so much now? Fading. The fire is leaving. Fading to
black.
Those outside are before him. He
doesn't look away. The light bathes him in pain, but those outside sing
wonderful darkness. Calling him in. Escape from it all.
“This fire is flickering.”
“Soon he will be smoke.”
He nods, reaching out for guidance.
They will keep him safe in their void.
Blood splashes underfoot. He looks
down. No shadows live in this reflection. Only him. His face. Skin and hair.
Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, everything. So long since he's seen himself. He
remembers what he was. What he is. Falling to the ground, gazing at the wonder
forgotten so long ago. Brought back, only through the light.
Those outside stir, “This fire...he
grows.”
He looks back at them. Their hideous
shapes tainting the light around them. Disgusting darkness squirming.
Thrashing. Trapped.
“This fire! He burns!”
“He was smoke! He should have
faded!”
He stands back up, letting light
wash over him. Cleansing him. He can see everything. Everything he'd lost. His
body. His actions. His thoughts. And they are glorious.
Those once outside are now in. They
cannot escape. And they scream, fading far away.
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