Grey skies. He was so tired of that endless grey sky reaching down and merging with the distant grey horizon. Never ending blandness stretching out in all directions driving him mad and making him wish for anything at all to break the monotony.
"I thought you were supposed to be the hero of that story," came that familiar voice from just over his shoulder.
He revised his wish. Almost anything at all. Anything but that voice and the floating light image of a small winged being that was its speaker.
"Heroes are not supposed to die in their story," it annoyingly announced.
"Life isn't some story like in the books. There are no heroes," he answered gruffly.
"Then why was I sent to guide you?"
"You weren't. You are just a delusion, a figment of my imagination, a mental defect. You aren't real. You are just part of my eternal punishment."
The image floated around in front of him. "Now that is just mean. Saying I'm not real. Look at me. I'm right here. Of course I'm real. Why else would you be talking to me?"
Screaming in frustration he dropped to his knees. "Just leave me alone! Go away! Haven't you already done enough damage? Caused enough torment?"
I can't leave you. I'm your guide. And you are going to need me to get out of this place. And I'm not here to torment you. I'm here to help you."
He gave up. He wanted anything but that bleak expanse of greyness surrounding him. Anything but having to hear that voice again. He slammed his head against the hard ground with all his strength. Pain shot through his whole being and for just a moment there was a hint of sweet black nothingness at the edge of his perception. Again and again he beat his head against the ground. The pain grew but unconsciousness was always just out of his grasp.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You are already dead and there are no painkillers in Hell. You are just going to give yourself a massive headache," the voice said with sickly innocence.
To be continued?
I wrote this last night. I wanted to write a poem but a story came instead. Not that I know what the story is trying to say. But once I got to the line about there being no painkillers in hell I laughed and knew I needed to write it down instead of just trying to remember it until I woke up today.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Sound of breaking glass,
As my heart lays dead on the floor.
The hole in my chest is not fresh,
Just never fully healed.
The old familiar numbness spreads,
Illusions shattered as I stumble on.
Most people can't see the hole in me,
Just like they can't see the hole in themselves.
Some holes are half healed,
Others bandaged with alcohol or drugs.
Some are fresh and still bleeding,
Still others are festering with rot.
Yet we all continue to stumble on,
Neither living nor dead.
A zombie apocalypse far more camouflaged,
And not caused by any science or virus.
Just the oldest of illusions,
And the simplest of magics.
The sound of breaking glass,
My heart lay dead on the floor.
12-31-2013It's not my finest work, I know. But hey, those were the words that got written down. As always some lines were forgotten while I was in the process of writing. No clue if those lines would have made it better or worse.