SevenWritez
New Member
This is something I recently wrote and had fun putting out, even though it turned into something I hadn't planned. And the subject topic isn't entirely original, either, but I suppose that's why it turned out short. Anyhow, criticism is very appreciated and eagerly asked for. If you want to tear me apart and tell me to give up and go shoot myself and perhaps jump off a cliff for good measure, I'll gladly accept that, too.
The End
His eyes were no more than dazed slits, the blue behind the lids goggling back and forth, trying to take in the world; but the world was too bright. He could hear voices, some soothing, some condescending, meshed together in a slow tune that he couldn't decipher, though he knew it was not aimed at him, that sound, those voices. Shapes above him began to shift, to move, like whisking phantoms seen in the imaginations conjuration of a cemetery, their lines distorting in and out of place, blurring into sheets of gray, there one moment, gone the next. He looked up to see a white ceiling passing like a road, the square tiles cut by thin black lines, in each of these segments a smaller shape of the same contoured design, only brighter and stronger, blinding and stinging his vision further, so that he squinted once more until again his eyes were finally shut, seeking the darkness. The darkness was there, and with it came comfort. He would never leave, not if he could so choose.
He could feel the distant sensation of being lifted, not by his body but by some platform beneath him, moved sideways, and with a lightly felt thump he was still again, the voices louder and seeming quieter than before, as if far away. Something pricked at his skin, then slipped in, and moments later the substantial pain he had not even noticed was there, seeped away into nothing more than a numbed throb, patting at him like a lazy drum. He could hear a soft beeping above him, holding its breath for two to three seconds before making another note-not until he heard the fast panicking ringing of an actual machine did he understand that the softer sound was coming from inside. The voices were frantic, yet still they seemed muted, off in some other place and not by his side. He tried to open his eyes, and with something almost like panic he realized that it cost him great effort to do so. When the lids pulled back there was a blurry recollection of something before this when, this place, but soon the image distorted like the reflection in a puddles wakened surface, leaving behind nothing as he was again greeted by graying images, swaying to and fro. Someone was speaking to him, and he saw that out of the many shadows one was leaning towards him, the lines crossing through its features like static now giving way as he could make out a hardened forehead and creased eyebrows. Was it talking to him? The eyes of the person were fixed on his, so yes, he was being spoken to, but beneath all the ringing of both outside and inside, he couldn't make out the words being said. His eyes again began to close, and as they did he saw the man's brows creasing further into a vicious v and his voice becoming louder, urgent, but no longer aimed to him. As he fled beneath his veil, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the man pulling back, the static of the outside world grabbing hold and again blurring him in with the haze. Something warm washed over him suddenly. He did not remember any strong glares of light when looking up towards the man; and that was odd. Even in the darkness, a coruscated glimmer feigned to wink at him in the distance, as if it a doorway down a far road. Had he been unknowingly walking? That shining door seemed to be creeping closer.
A scream cut through the dark like a knife, and his eyes crept open-slower than before, and with considerably more effort-and as they did that silhouette in the dark did not diminish, but instead grew larger. His head turned slowly, and light passed before him, the door from the darkness following, still in the distance, still waiting. He could see a another door not ten yards from him, and though the outline of the person standing there too expanded and retracted in fizzled proportions, something recognizable about it made him want to see the face behind the gray, to not go back into the darkness. But even wishing this, the door from the dark did not wink itself away, and through a thin slit cut down its center, he could see mist whisking out then coiling back, calling to him like a thousand beckoning hands. A blur crept towards the woman, and though he did not know how he knew that there in the doorway was a woman, he knew for certain that he did not want her to be hurt. He saw another outline of a person nodding to her, but beneath the ringing in his ears, the ringing outside (and it had fastened now, it had become so fast), he could not hear what was being said. She ignored the other one-she ran towards him. Not knowing he was doing it, he attempted to lift his hand towards her; he wanted to hold her, but his hand moved an inch, no more than a slight lift.
And for the first time since he could remember, he heard a clear sound, not a rising cacophony of both confrontation and consolation jumbled into one. He heard the woman scream a name, and the name was Achmed. He tried to scream back, what he didn't know, but his mouth opened to no more than a twitch before going still again. That voice again, that scream. Achmed-Achmed!
She is pulled back, two shapes taking her from the doorway, the others around him still blurring frantically, like a turgid river with a set destination. He was so numb, his body was so numb, but his mind was clicking, desperately picking up the pieces and trying to put them together. He had it then. His heart and soul cried Miriam back to his fiancé, back to his soon to be wife, but the outline of her shadow was gone, though her screams echoed his name in sobs down some unforeseeable hall. The beeping from the outside screamed its note every half second, perhaps faster than that, and the almost silent sonnet he had heard inside his own mind now matched pace. Miriam.
That door is much closer now, opening, and the hands no longer pull, but reach for him entirely. He can not run away, and though he wishes to, he does not try.
He is on a swing, laughing, sitting by a boy he does not know but undoubtedly recognizes. The boy holds an apple, half of it gone in a jagged chomp. He offers it, and Achmed takes it, still on his swing, and takes a bite. They are the same age. And then it is gone. He is a boy, on the verge of becoming a young man, staring out the window of his room and watching as two birds nestle comfortably side by side, perched on a branch jutting from the base of a dying tree. In this particular scene, the birds seem to note him-to turn and wink at him, almost nod, as if everything is going to be ok. And then it is gone.
He is holding Miriam's hands, but the only thing he can see are her hands in his-the hair, the eyes, the smile are all gone, lost behind an incoming glare plowing towards him from all sides, slicing through the images, ruining them further, explicit paintings ruined by waters touch. She is smiling, and something winks at him in the reflection of that springs light, circled around her finger. He can not see her face, but now he sees the smile, a large, beautiful, white smile, and to its near left he sees one tear running down. And then it is gone.
He is in a car, an adult, a man with a woman whom he loves, and he is making his way back home after a dinner out. He is on the phone with Miriam. He is stopped at a light, and before he can process what has happened, there is a sense of being impaled by a spear as his body propels forward, forward, forward…into blackness, into a haze. Then there are blurs, and the rest is lost.
He cries out for Miriam, but only with his heart-he can not move. The ringing in his ears rises to such a pitch that everything else seems unimportant, moot. The door is closer now, and though he wishes to run, wishes to hold onto the sights behind the haze, he does not fight the hands pulling him. He cries one last time to find Miriam, one last time to find the key that will shut the door and seal it, if only for a little longer. But with the door comes two doves, staring at him, paralyzing his thoughts. They seem to nod. To say everything is ok.
There is a light. And then there is darkness. And then, as the voices cease, as the darkness dissipates, and as the last of the images blink away in the white calling of a door, it too, is gone.
The End
EDIT: Sorry, forgot about paragraph pre-editing and what not...
The End
His eyes were no more than dazed slits, the blue behind the lids goggling back and forth, trying to take in the world; but the world was too bright. He could hear voices, some soothing, some condescending, meshed together in a slow tune that he couldn't decipher, though he knew it was not aimed at him, that sound, those voices. Shapes above him began to shift, to move, like whisking phantoms seen in the imaginations conjuration of a cemetery, their lines distorting in and out of place, blurring into sheets of gray, there one moment, gone the next. He looked up to see a white ceiling passing like a road, the square tiles cut by thin black lines, in each of these segments a smaller shape of the same contoured design, only brighter and stronger, blinding and stinging his vision further, so that he squinted once more until again his eyes were finally shut, seeking the darkness. The darkness was there, and with it came comfort. He would never leave, not if he could so choose.
He could feel the distant sensation of being lifted, not by his body but by some platform beneath him, moved sideways, and with a lightly felt thump he was still again, the voices louder and seeming quieter than before, as if far away. Something pricked at his skin, then slipped in, and moments later the substantial pain he had not even noticed was there, seeped away into nothing more than a numbed throb, patting at him like a lazy drum. He could hear a soft beeping above him, holding its breath for two to three seconds before making another note-not until he heard the fast panicking ringing of an actual machine did he understand that the softer sound was coming from inside. The voices were frantic, yet still they seemed muted, off in some other place and not by his side. He tried to open his eyes, and with something almost like panic he realized that it cost him great effort to do so. When the lids pulled back there was a blurry recollection of something before this when, this place, but soon the image distorted like the reflection in a puddles wakened surface, leaving behind nothing as he was again greeted by graying images, swaying to and fro. Someone was speaking to him, and he saw that out of the many shadows one was leaning towards him, the lines crossing through its features like static now giving way as he could make out a hardened forehead and creased eyebrows. Was it talking to him? The eyes of the person were fixed on his, so yes, he was being spoken to, but beneath all the ringing of both outside and inside, he couldn't make out the words being said. His eyes again began to close, and as they did he saw the man's brows creasing further into a vicious v and his voice becoming louder, urgent, but no longer aimed to him. As he fled beneath his veil, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the man pulling back, the static of the outside world grabbing hold and again blurring him in with the haze. Something warm washed over him suddenly. He did not remember any strong glares of light when looking up towards the man; and that was odd. Even in the darkness, a coruscated glimmer feigned to wink at him in the distance, as if it a doorway down a far road. Had he been unknowingly walking? That shining door seemed to be creeping closer.
A scream cut through the dark like a knife, and his eyes crept open-slower than before, and with considerably more effort-and as they did that silhouette in the dark did not diminish, but instead grew larger. His head turned slowly, and light passed before him, the door from the darkness following, still in the distance, still waiting. He could see a another door not ten yards from him, and though the outline of the person standing there too expanded and retracted in fizzled proportions, something recognizable about it made him want to see the face behind the gray, to not go back into the darkness. But even wishing this, the door from the dark did not wink itself away, and through a thin slit cut down its center, he could see mist whisking out then coiling back, calling to him like a thousand beckoning hands. A blur crept towards the woman, and though he did not know how he knew that there in the doorway was a woman, he knew for certain that he did not want her to be hurt. He saw another outline of a person nodding to her, but beneath the ringing in his ears, the ringing outside (and it had fastened now, it had become so fast), he could not hear what was being said. She ignored the other one-she ran towards him. Not knowing he was doing it, he attempted to lift his hand towards her; he wanted to hold her, but his hand moved an inch, no more than a slight lift.
And for the first time since he could remember, he heard a clear sound, not a rising cacophony of both confrontation and consolation jumbled into one. He heard the woman scream a name, and the name was Achmed. He tried to scream back, what he didn't know, but his mouth opened to no more than a twitch before going still again. That voice again, that scream. Achmed-Achmed!
She is pulled back, two shapes taking her from the doorway, the others around him still blurring frantically, like a turgid river with a set destination. He was so numb, his body was so numb, but his mind was clicking, desperately picking up the pieces and trying to put them together. He had it then. His heart and soul cried Miriam back to his fiancé, back to his soon to be wife, but the outline of her shadow was gone, though her screams echoed his name in sobs down some unforeseeable hall. The beeping from the outside screamed its note every half second, perhaps faster than that, and the almost silent sonnet he had heard inside his own mind now matched pace. Miriam.
That door is much closer now, opening, and the hands no longer pull, but reach for him entirely. He can not run away, and though he wishes to, he does not try.
He is on a swing, laughing, sitting by a boy he does not know but undoubtedly recognizes. The boy holds an apple, half of it gone in a jagged chomp. He offers it, and Achmed takes it, still on his swing, and takes a bite. They are the same age. And then it is gone. He is a boy, on the verge of becoming a young man, staring out the window of his room and watching as two birds nestle comfortably side by side, perched on a branch jutting from the base of a dying tree. In this particular scene, the birds seem to note him-to turn and wink at him, almost nod, as if everything is going to be ok. And then it is gone.
He is holding Miriam's hands, but the only thing he can see are her hands in his-the hair, the eyes, the smile are all gone, lost behind an incoming glare plowing towards him from all sides, slicing through the images, ruining them further, explicit paintings ruined by waters touch. She is smiling, and something winks at him in the reflection of that springs light, circled around her finger. He can not see her face, but now he sees the smile, a large, beautiful, white smile, and to its near left he sees one tear running down. And then it is gone.
He is in a car, an adult, a man with a woman whom he loves, and he is making his way back home after a dinner out. He is on the phone with Miriam. He is stopped at a light, and before he can process what has happened, there is a sense of being impaled by a spear as his body propels forward, forward, forward…into blackness, into a haze. Then there are blurs, and the rest is lost.
He cries out for Miriam, but only with his heart-he can not move. The ringing in his ears rises to such a pitch that everything else seems unimportant, moot. The door is closer now, and though he wishes to run, wishes to hold onto the sights behind the haze, he does not fight the hands pulling him. He cries one last time to find Miriam, one last time to find the key that will shut the door and seal it, if only for a little longer. But with the door comes two doves, staring at him, paralyzing his thoughts. They seem to nod. To say everything is ok.
There is a light. And then there is darkness. And then, as the voices cease, as the darkness dissipates, and as the last of the images blink away in the white calling of a door, it too, is gone.
The End
EDIT: Sorry, forgot about paragraph pre-editing and what not...
