5 October 2015

Broken

here is a small extract of a potential story:

I could start with the darkness, the way it would crawl into my ears and mouth and eyes the more I screamed, the way it blinded and choked me or illustrated fresh horrors in the corner of my eye before I blinked, which was rare. I do not blink. The notion of blinking in here is like the notion of moving at all. The concrete scratches the inside of my legs like old man's fingers and the whispers of the terror of previous captors causes my eyes to twitch uncontrollably and my hands to twist themselves into impenetrable knots. If I were to reach up and touch my hair I would no longer feel the free wave of a red sunset, but a matted mess made of the silent screaming that takes place at midnight. I could start with the way saliva foams underneath my tongue and spits when I scream or the rags that do nothing more but cling to my skin like dead beggar's hands or the cold that does little to numb the terror that grabs and twists my insides. I could start with the way i have grown accustomed to hissing at the darkness and the blood that is drying upon my cheeks as we speak from compulsive clawing at my eyeballs. But I will instead start with screaming.  When i was first slung into this room i screamed as a baby screams; fresh and high, bright and clean. This scream could have cut through human flesh and pierced through metal. Now my scream is a scream of the dead. My scream is a wail of pain; my throat is raw and bleeding from years of relentless screeching and howling and wailing and moaning and sobbing and yelping and shrieking.  The sound that rips from my throat is no longer human, I am no longer human, I am just an animal. Hungry for the taste of the blood of those who locked me away between the damp, rotten walls that spin and spin until I'm sick onto a different pool of vomit and blood, between the walls and the darkness that stays so consistent; so consistent that it's constantly mutating into something worse. I no longer spend my seconds pleading to the fantasy of God, I am all alone in this dark room and I am never coming out. I am only ever going to taste this rotten air and never again the soft flavour of sunshine, not even the tang of a rainstorm. I can't even die. I'm cemented in time, forever living in this hell.

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Thank you // Jeani