What a God is... is Infinite

A normal man seeks to discover understanding beyond his realm, and a Being attempts to dissuade him.

"You humans are so cute. You try to understand anything you can. But sometimes... it isn't cute. It's dangerous. You'll drive yourself insane if you keep at this, darling."

A blood vessel ruptures in Larry's nose. It trickles down his nostril, creating a bright red path, which climbs over his lips and chin before letting a thick, warm droplet of blood fall onto his lap. Several follow thereafter, like a river flowing through his body just to exit in a single file line onto the brown garments on his legs.

The chair he's in is ornate, yet simple. He can feel it under his legs, but the sensation is alike to the feeling of sitting on a couch for several hours, without moving. Legs, numb, and the boundary of thigh and cushion grows blurry. This cushion lacks even a distinct texture. An innate feeling that the chair he's supposedly sitting in isn't real strikes him, and the blood vessel in his nose rips further, causing the blood to flow faster.

It's hard to think. A thick fog is between himself and the place he's in, and the only things he can make out are beyond what he should feel. He isn't in a place. It feels as if, instead, a place has been put into his mind. He isn't sitting in a chair. Something is roughly recreating that sensation. There's a table in front of him yet he has a distinct [idea][feeling] that if he were to reach his hand out, it wouldn't be there.

Still, he reaches out, and feels his hand come into contact with a solid object. He can't make out what it is, what it is made of, its temperature, nor the shape. Rather, he just has the impression that it's flat and round with a base in the center. Things he can't see nor feel. It gets fuzzy when he imagines the floor, and he thinks there's a teacup on top of the table.

He reaches out to the cup, but reels back as soon as his finger brushes the handle. Theres no pain, but he knows another blood vessel popped in his other nostril, and one in his right eye as well. The blood pools inside his eyelid, which spills out to the outermost corner and down his cheek at an impressive speed, surpassing what a tear could do. The colorful track it leaves is haunting.

He pulls his hand back to his lap.

"Oh dear. Your body is already falling apart in this world. See now, if you hadn't been so smart, this wouldn't be happening. You think too much, darling."

He hears a voice. She speaks like he thinks. The sound is exactly the same as the voice in his own head, but he can feel a distinction in pitch. Like a woman. He can playback her voice as if they were his own thoughts. Over and over, naturally passing through the words as if they had been placed in his head, rather than spoken. Perhaps they had.

It takes him a few times before he comprehends what her words mean. Whatever she put it in his head had to be put back together. Piece by piece. He did it unconsciously as the words played in his mind until he grew sick of them, and then played them one more time when he finished.

Some blood vessels rip open in his ear canals. Both of them start bleeding simultaneously, equally affected by his success.

Vaguely, he understands that the more he thinks and questions, the faster his body will deteriorate. This realization tears at all of the blood vessels ripped so far, and his eye starts bleeding profusely, drawing several more lines over his face. He has one eye left, but he can't see anyway. He's looking without seeing. It's the same reason why he's fine despite not breathing- he hasn't inhaled or exhaled for the entire time he's been here; wherever 'here' is. It isn't uncomfortable at all- and that's exactly what makes it uncomfortable.

"I don't want to cause any permanent damage, so I'll end this quickly. You will stop your research. Never take up this work again. You are an exceptional genius. It is your beginning, and it will become your undoing. I've watched it happen. Eyes down, soldier, because the sun is bright. Appreciate the glances you've had before you lose your mind."

The words fall together in place this time. They sort themselves out, like when he did it unconsciously. Feeling as if someone else was doing it, and not him. He stops himself from contemplating the matter further. The warning is clear.

His curiosity reins its nasty head at the prospect of discovering something new. He wants to see the thing in front of him. The idea of something sitting on the other side of the table is tentative, but it only makes sense the longer he contemplates it. This round table is surely a table for two. If so, what does the being on the other side look like?

Without control over his raging mind, he focuses on the other end of the table.

A blood vessel rips open painfully in his lungs and he reacts violently by throwing himself off the chair only to discover himself lying on his bed at home.

He opens his eyes. One is covered in a red gloss, uncomfortable and stinging, and his pants are covered in blood.

He feels as if he's just woken up from a long dream. Blood continues to drip from his nostrils when he distinctly tastes blood in the cold air he gulps in through his mouth. He quickly pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the flow, sitting up to make the blood flowing into the back of his throat stop.

However, on the side of his thumb which he props onto his cheek for support, he discovers a trail of blood had been running down his face.

He jumps out of his bed, running to the connected bathroom to look in the mirror. His face is grotesque. Blood is smeared all over his face, presumably from thrashing around, but he notes the odd trails with an unsure heart.

The lines of blood all run down. His eye, nostrils, and ears.

This could only be possible if he had been upright. If everything had occurred in a dream, they would have run in several different ways.

He races out of the bathroom again, testing the temperature of the bed. If he had been laying down for the time he was inside that... place, the bed would be warm. If it was cold, then he must've been somewhere else. Perhaps he had been sleepwalking. But if he had been laying down, that would mean that whatever was affecting him was stronger than the laws of his own world. Gravity wouldn't matter if his body was under the influence of something stronger.

His hand firmly tests the temperature of his bed. He ignores the wet blood on his palm and fingers as he splays them out onto his prior placement on the mattress.

The bed is warm.

His heart palpitates, and he has the strange sensation of the world falling before he collapses onto the floor.

Oh dear.

Author's Note

Yes his name is Larry. I just wanted to practice writing something like this, and Larry stuck with me. Should I change his name? What do you think of him?

Reviews

[skibidivan]

Wow! Its really interesting. I love how you describe things. It looks so aestethic!! About the plot, i really liked how Larry still continues to try understanding. Its cute (i feel like the god lol). And I liked that its kinda real/realatable (the fine line between madness and genius). I love these kind of stories. Continue writing!! ^^

[Rustling Leaves]

Thank you! This was practice writing actually. I wanted to practice describing things in very vivid, slow ways, and I was struck with inspiration when I thought about bloody noses and stark red on white. I'm glad it comes across well! And the plot is exactly what you're saying, Larry can't help but dive into his curiosities, just like the reader can't help but wonder what's on the other side of the table. But the reader understands as much as he does that he shouldn't. I love that you said "the fine line between madness and genius" because it just resonates so well with this scene. Thank you for reading!!!

[skibidivan]

Its so cool that you do practice writing!! I dont really do that so my writing style is a little weak :') I think i have to do some practice writings too 😭

[Rustling Leaves]

Practicing writing can be super fun! It's interesting to try new things, especially when you realize you're good at something. It's only not fun when you realize you suck at certain stuff T-T then the practice REALLY becomes practice... oh I wouldn't say your style is weak! I haven't read enough to tell but I would guess that it's probably too strong in one area, so it'll be inflexible. That isn't a bad thing! It just means you can try expanding into different types of writing now :))) improving on what you're weak with will help improve what you're strong at! personally I've been practicing dialogue and action

[skibidivan]

And i think the name Larry is fine. It sounds so human :D

[Rustling Leaves]

Thank you this makes me feel better about it :DD