Miasmo
04-09-2007, 06:52 AM
Against the Wall of Death
The memories seemed disturbingly foreign. They been contained in the potent but fleeting passions of a now extinguished mind. They were lost in this present man’s past reality, so distant now that what was left of that dead man could hardly be called such. The vicious maggots of time and beetles of change, with their unyielding appetite for dead flesh, thoroughly completed their task long ago, leaving only a skeleton of what once was. Only on faith could the man believe that such a reality of his had ever truly existed at all.
What felt like chasms of time separated the reappearance of wounds from each other, wounds he’d earned from his first death, which had occurred just after these memories that haunted him. The injuries progressively gained strength. Each wave that slammed into the escape he called his current reality pinned him more painfully to the wall that represented his next demise. The wall held strong, though. He could not flee this pain from the past. His slits turned to slices, which tuned to gashes. His bruises turned to craters, which turned to breaks in the very bones that supported them. It was during those silent chasms of time between each whispering recollection, each howling wave of regret, that he easily and willfully abandoned the faith that told him his past was real.
And it was during those final flooding moments of agony, experienced each and every time the surge would roll off his exhausted human form, that he remembered enough of the dead man’s failure and prayed to any god that would listen for complete extermination of the memories that bit and clawed and tore at his withering heart.
All gods heard his pleas, as all gods do. The battle began for possession of his soul. His past, present and future. Battles that terrified the very gods that participated. And if there is any form of being superior to these gods, surely they would have cowered just as much in suffocating horror at the acts of unfathomable devastation that existence was inflicting upon each other to save this precious man.
If he had only stilled his shrieks of terror during those final moments of each crashing torment--the only moments the gods could wage war against each other--he may have realized he had a better chance of salvation through himself alone. But he did not relent in his onslaught of blasphemous outcries desperately riddled with prayers of reprieve. He let the gods decide with their boundless weaponry and sacred blood, unbeknownst to him.
He became weaker and weaker still, pathetically so, as the gods continued their warfare. He lost even the slightest finger’s grip on all reality. Although his past consumed him, at the same time he was delirious and unaware of that past which was strangling him internally. And eventually, inarguably, evil won, bringing eternal silence to one man at last.
The memories seemed disturbingly foreign. They been contained in the potent but fleeting passions of a now extinguished mind. They were lost in this present man’s past reality, so distant now that what was left of that dead man could hardly be called such. The vicious maggots of time and beetles of change, with their unyielding appetite for dead flesh, thoroughly completed their task long ago, leaving only a skeleton of what once was. Only on faith could the man believe that such a reality of his had ever truly existed at all.
What felt like chasms of time separated the reappearance of wounds from each other, wounds he’d earned from his first death, which had occurred just after these memories that haunted him. The injuries progressively gained strength. Each wave that slammed into the escape he called his current reality pinned him more painfully to the wall that represented his next demise. The wall held strong, though. He could not flee this pain from the past. His slits turned to slices, which tuned to gashes. His bruises turned to craters, which turned to breaks in the very bones that supported them. It was during those silent chasms of time between each whispering recollection, each howling wave of regret, that he easily and willfully abandoned the faith that told him his past was real.
And it was during those final flooding moments of agony, experienced each and every time the surge would roll off his exhausted human form, that he remembered enough of the dead man’s failure and prayed to any god that would listen for complete extermination of the memories that bit and clawed and tore at his withering heart.
All gods heard his pleas, as all gods do. The battle began for possession of his soul. His past, present and future. Battles that terrified the very gods that participated. And if there is any form of being superior to these gods, surely they would have cowered just as much in suffocating horror at the acts of unfathomable devastation that existence was inflicting upon each other to save this precious man.
If he had only stilled his shrieks of terror during those final moments of each crashing torment--the only moments the gods could wage war against each other--he may have realized he had a better chance of salvation through himself alone. But he did not relent in his onslaught of blasphemous outcries desperately riddled with prayers of reprieve. He let the gods decide with their boundless weaponry and sacred blood, unbeknownst to him.
He became weaker and weaker still, pathetically so, as the gods continued their warfare. He lost even the slightest finger’s grip on all reality. Although his past consumed him, at the same time he was delirious and unaware of that past which was strangling him internally. And eventually, inarguably, evil won, bringing eternal silence to one man at last.