I wrote this a while ago, maybe more than a year. I don't really remember. Normally I don't really like things I wrote so long ago, but I sort of like this, so I decided to post it.
Am I dead? I hope so.
Pebbles crunch under my feet as I spin in circles, breathing in the mountain air. I’m up high, higher than should be allowed. Clouds cloak the sky thirty feet below me. The sun’s so bright, but my eyes only feel its warmth, not its burn. The smell of tangerines twirls around me, and then it strikes me; I don’t know what a tangerine smells like.
A euphoric giggle slips through my lips, then turns into a chuckle, then a chortle, then I’m laughing so hard I clutch my stomach to repress the rippling pains.
Am I high? Probably. That’s a more sane idea. But can being stoned transport you, or at least your mind? I wouldn’t know. Never done drugs.
Drunk, maybe?
I stop laughing, stop moving, and stare out at the limitless blue surrounding me. Maybe this is all an illusion. Maybe it’s not real. Maybe I’m going to wake up, hung over, forced to return to normal life.
Cracks appear in the sky, like cracks on concrete, jagged black lines. Piece by piece, the sky falls, leaving a gaping hole, bottomless, sucking, a vortex, a vacuum. It pulls at the clouds, and they siphon upwards, spiraling through the gaps.
Tears form in my eyes. No! It’s not over. It’s not breaking, my unreality isn’t breaking. Isn’t shattering. I refuse to let it. I’m not drunk or high, I’m dead. Or something equally one-way.
Everything quiets, then trembles, then slowly morphs, falling back into place. The sky shoots back up and fits together, like pieces of a puzzle. The cracks seal up, repair themselves. Fix my utopia. My shelter. My sanctuary.
Shivers wrack my body, and I fall to my knees. I bite my lip. I want to scream, at everyone and everything. Or nothing and no one, since that’s all that’s here. And that’s how it should be. Just me and nothing that can possibly hurt me. This is how it should be. Alone. Perfectly alone. I don’t need anyone, I need nothing. Just… just me. Just me and myself and I and this mountaintop and the clouds and the sky. Here, nothing can touch me.
I stand up, still clutching my stomach, eyes closed, and spin, in circles, around and around. I shudder, over and over, but keep spinning. All I have to do is keep spinning, keep moving, just keep going. Focus on this, this alone. That’s all. Just… just make it. That’s all I have to do. Here, nothing can touch me.
Buzzing fills my ears; static, my vision. The ground below me quakes, and I’m almost knocked off balance as I spin. But I keep spinning, keep moving. Just keep moving. Just keep moving. It’s alright. I’m safe here. Here, nothing can touch me.
My foot blindly steps onto a small rut, and the rut shakes, toppling me over. I brace myself, expecting to hit the ground and to feel pain, but I feel nothing. Nothing except the feeling of falling. It’s almost better than being on the mountain. Falling, it’s perfect. Here, nothing can touch me.
Cold air rushes at me, but I keep my eyes closed. I hold myself tighter. I forget about the bottom, forget how I will smash into the ground, how the pain will seize me. I focus on falling. All I have to do is keep falling. Here, nothing can touch me.
Over time, I realize that I’m no longer falling. I’m standing. I did not notice the transition. I open my eyes, peeking through my lids. I’m standing in a sauna, warm air pelting me, shriveling my skin. It encompasses me, a cocoon of steam. The hiss of water on hot rocks shrieks through the room. I just stand there. I don’t move. I can’t see through the fog, and I don’t want to. As long as I don’t perceive anything around me, there is nothing around me. All I can take is here. Here, nothing can touch me.
The hissing stops, and the fog clears. Clears to blackness. The heat retracts, and all I feel is a bone-chilling cold. Everything is nothing. Nothing’s good, right? As long as I stay in nothing, nothing can touch me. Here, nothing can touch me.
Wrong.
Here, something can touch me. The voices, they found me. They haunt me. I thought I had rid myself of them, but they found me. Here, they can touch me. They scream in my mind, in my ear, names, accusations, torturing my soul.
Adulterer. Prostitute. Liar. Thief. Luster, envier. Tormentor, kidnapper, murderer!
I fall to my knees, pressing my hands to my ears, trying to block out their words, their evil, too true words.
No! I shout. I beg. No! Stop! Stop, please. I can’t take it, stop, please, stop! Stop! Please!
Tears fall down my cheeks, coating my face, drowning my eyes, submerging my heart. Cleansing it. Purifying it. I think. No, I don’t. Nothing can clean me, my heart, or my soul. I’m dirty, horrid. The voices, they tell the truth. They only reveal my own treachery. But what they say, it’s painful!
I weep, begging for my euphoria back, my utopia, my nothing. Begging for death.
Don’t you get it? the voices whisper. This is death. You are dead. This is Hell. You had your chance, but you lost it. You gave it away. Welcome to Hell. Welcome, but never good bye. You’re going to stay here forever.
Sobs push me over.
No. No. No! I’m not in Hell. I can’t be. They’re lying. Yet… something tells me they can’t lie. But why? Why? Why?
A light, a soft pin prick of a light, appears, just a little, not even there, barely there. But it’s enough. Without thought, I stand up and run, fleeing to the light. I need the light. I need the light!
The ghostly voices follow me, pull me back, push me back, but still I run, ripping through them, away from Hell, which is everywhere, everything, in me. But still I run. Because I can’t stop. Stopping is submission, and submission means I’ve given up, and giving up means nothing will change. I keep running. I have to run!
The blackness presses against me, suffocates me, steals my breath. But still I run. I don’t need breath; I’m dead. All I need is the light.
I flee through the darkness, but no matter how fast I run, how far I have to have traveled, I never get any closer. The light’s still small, small and out of reach. Unattainable.
No. No. No! I keep running. I keep running and running and running. I run until I cramp, my muscles strained beyond capacity. I tumble over, unable to carry my own weight. My adrenaline from seeing the light fades, my energy fades. I am drained, empty. And it scares me. But I can’t do anything about it.
Adulterer. Prostitute. Liar. Thief. Luster, envier. Tormentor, kidnapper, murderer!
Here, nothing can touch me. Nothing but the hellish voices trapped in Hell itself.
But I can’t summon the energy to cry.
Here, everything can touch me.
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