the short story that i promised...
The idea intrigued me. An entirely objective, yet conscious view of the self. The eternally abstract made into a semi-stable, tangible reality. This was the very definition of self discovery. Confirming all that you knew and embraced seemed enticing enough to confront what else may lie in the shadows. After all, how much could a person not know of themselves?
I opened the door, not knowing what to expect but willing to accept anything that waited. Stepping inside, the blackness penetrated my eyes, forcing me to blink so as to verify my existence. I looked around the room, confused by the boundless emptiness. Slowly the void began to develop into various shapes. The shapes became recognizable objects and soon I was standing on an empty, bloodstained stage in a derelict theater.
I spun around, taking in my surroundings. The walls at the far end of the theater were cracked and broken. Some parts were completely crumbled, leaving holes that allowed the midday sun to shine through in dusty beams that fell on the empty, rusted seats. Before I could ask myself the significance, I became aware of the person that I now shared the stage with. I turned around, leading with my head and allowing my body to follow until my eyes fell on a single nude male sitting in the center of the stage with his head resting in his bloodied hands. Across his chest was carved in large, blocky, bleeding letters "the poet". He appeared to be breathing, but that was his only discernable movement. At his feet laid a pile of bloody razor blades.
I stared at him for a few minutes ashamedly hoping he would initiate the contact I was too afraid to. When this appeared to be unlikely, I began to get an uneasy feeling similar to that of a preteen girl dodging through dark alleyways hoping to get home before dinner.
Not knowing what to do, I gave the room another once over, an action that's equivalent to a throat clearing in this situation. When a person engages in this awkward action, it is never with the hopes of discovering some minute detail that they had passed over before. So you could imagine my shock when I noticed the back wall of the stage, which was now lined with over a dozen equally nude bodies. Some were male, some female, but they shared one detail: all were carved with a title. The Lover, The Child, The Warrior, The Lonely every role a person could hope to play was represented.
Each body had a small staircase in front of it and was impaled through the chest from the back, leaving three inches of polished steel protruding from the wound. Of these altars only one remained unoccupied.
I was now painfully aware that I hadn't taken in air for quite some time, and hurriedly sucked in, giving me a head rush that knocked me to the floor. I remained there, eyes fixed on the scene in front of me, paralyzed by pure shock. I heard movement and turned to see The Poet standing, moving towards the empty altar.
I watched as he purposefully ascended the stairs, and turned to face forward. As he pushed himself onto the spike, he forfeited a small grunt and closed his eyes, presumably for the last time.
I began to rise, hoping to escape from this world, escape my own mind, and was stopped by an unprecedented pain in my own chest. The room began to flicker, everything returning to the shapeless void it once was. I blinked, hoping to restore something tangible, and was greeted by a grayish blur. As the vagueness began to take shape, I recognized my surroundings. The soft cushioning under me now revealed itself as my bed. Beside me sat the book I was reading, book marked not one half way through it. The book was entitled "Life After Life: Surviving Suicide" I was home, but something felt wrong.
I glanced around my room, taking in the familiar surroundings, feeling the comfort of home. I looked up and found the comfort of my poster covered ceiling. This left one possibility. I looked down. I found my hands resting upon a handle, to which the remaining matter could not be seen. But I felt it. There was a hunting knife plunged handle deep into my chest, and I held it. My breaths became shorter, the blood covered my naked legs and fell into puddles on the floor. Had I discovered myself? Had I found an answer? No. But I was at peace
The idea intrigued me. An entirely objective, yet conscious view of the self. The eternally abstract made into a semi-stable, tangible reality. This was the very definition of self discovery. Confirming all that you knew and embraced seemed enticing enough to confront what else may lie in the shadows. After all, how much could a person not know of themselves?
I opened the door, not knowing what to expect but willing to accept anything that waited. Stepping inside, the blackness penetrated my eyes, forcing me to blink so as to verify my existence. I looked around the room, confused by the boundless emptiness. Slowly the void began to develop into various shapes. The shapes became recognizable objects and soon I was standing on an empty, bloodstained stage in a derelict theater.
I spun around, taking in my surroundings. The walls at the far end of the theater were cracked and broken. Some parts were completely crumbled, leaving holes that allowed the midday sun to shine through in dusty beams that fell on the empty, rusted seats. Before I could ask myself the significance, I became aware of the person that I now shared the stage with. I turned around, leading with my head and allowing my body to follow until my eyes fell on a single nude male sitting in the center of the stage with his head resting in his bloodied hands. Across his chest was carved in large, blocky, bleeding letters "the poet". He appeared to be breathing, but that was his only discernable movement. At his feet laid a pile of bloody razor blades.
I stared at him for a few minutes ashamedly hoping he would initiate the contact I was too afraid to. When this appeared to be unlikely, I began to get an uneasy feeling similar to that of a preteen girl dodging through dark alleyways hoping to get home before dinner.
Not knowing what to do, I gave the room another once over, an action that's equivalent to a throat clearing in this situation. When a person engages in this awkward action, it is never with the hopes of discovering some minute detail that they had passed over before. So you could imagine my shock when I noticed the back wall of the stage, which was now lined with over a dozen equally nude bodies. Some were male, some female, but they shared one detail: all were carved with a title. The Lover, The Child, The Warrior, The Lonely every role a person could hope to play was represented.
Each body had a small staircase in front of it and was impaled through the chest from the back, leaving three inches of polished steel protruding from the wound. Of these altars only one remained unoccupied.
I was now painfully aware that I hadn't taken in air for quite some time, and hurriedly sucked in, giving me a head rush that knocked me to the floor. I remained there, eyes fixed on the scene in front of me, paralyzed by pure shock. I heard movement and turned to see The Poet standing, moving towards the empty altar.
I watched as he purposefully ascended the stairs, and turned to face forward. As he pushed himself onto the spike, he forfeited a small grunt and closed his eyes, presumably for the last time.
I began to rise, hoping to escape from this world, escape my own mind, and was stopped by an unprecedented pain in my own chest. The room began to flicker, everything returning to the shapeless void it once was. I blinked, hoping to restore something tangible, and was greeted by a grayish blur. As the vagueness began to take shape, I recognized my surroundings. The soft cushioning under me now revealed itself as my bed. Beside me sat the book I was reading, book marked not one half way through it. The book was entitled "Life After Life: Surviving Suicide" I was home, but something felt wrong.
I glanced around my room, taking in the familiar surroundings, feeling the comfort of home. I looked up and found the comfort of my poster covered ceiling. This left one possibility. I looked down. I found my hands resting upon a handle, to which the remaining matter could not be seen. But I felt it. There was a hunting knife plunged handle deep into my chest, and I held it. My breaths became shorter, the blood covered my naked legs and fell into puddles on the floor. Had I discovered myself? Had I found an answer? No. But I was at peace