A Figure in the NightA Story by ewest1220Please. Help me. I cannot Remember. It isn't real.... It isn't real...A Figure in the Night By: Ethan West Reality. Can it really be as simple as what you see, what you hear? Or is there something more? Is reality what we can perceive or is it something we could never hope to comprehend? Even if it was would we even be able to recognize something beyond our senses if we do not have the ability to sense it happening in the first place? What reality is truly there when you can read what a writer has brought before you and enter the world he created? What sense exists that allows you to enter a world your senses cannot tell? I beg you to remember that this story is not real. Your senses cannot tell my story, only I can. You see words shed in ink on the page but you cannot see the beating heart behind them. You hear these words as if they're your own but while the words are in your voice they are yours. Created by you for a hope of understanding what your senses cannot depict as real. So please remember, as far as your senses can tell, this story is not real. In that same sense I am not real. I'm simply the ink on the page that, by you, has been given the face of man. I don't exist because in your reality I have not been brought to life. And in that sense of false reality I tell a story reality has kept hidden from itself in your eyes. I will tell you a story that reality, or lack thereof, will prove false. It was a dark night the night it happened. However my heart was ever darker, making the night around me appear bright as day through my tormented eyes. But while my eyes brought nothing to mind but the headstone at my feet my imagination ran wild. I jumped at the soft wind; I pointed my pistol at every shadow. It was all in vain, for these fantasies I could not comprehend. Something was there I know it! It was too peaceful in the graveyard for the sins I was about to commit! Too quiet! To kindly! "Where are you?" I screamed as I fired my pistol into a dark corner. A form fell from within the shadow with a soft thud. I yelled in triumph at my victory. My eyes rolled back into my skull in demented pleasure as my wild screeching laugh rent my mind asunder. I ran towards where I had seen the body fall and reached into the shadows. But my hand met nothing but the cool air. I screamed in frustration and ran back to the headstone. My crazed eyes scanned the area around the headstone. In the corner of my eye I saw the shadow move again. This time however I stopped. Waiting for the b*****d to make his move first. He just stood there. Am I mad? Does my mind play me false? The figure approached me without so much as a sound. I felt a fire burning in my heart as fear overwhelmed my fragile soul. It was at that moment; when the pain was about to completely overtake my ignorant mind that I was foolish enough to look down. My eyes brought me reality. My chest had become a white-hot flame. I screamed in agony. This isn't real. Please oh please it cannot be real. The man drew ever closer, and the flame increased in intensity. "My god the pain in unbearable. I cannot escape it!" I raised my pistol and squeezed the trigger. The man fell as the gun melted in my hand. The powder in the bullet casings ignited and the gun burst into liquid fire. Melting away the flesh from my hand and forearm. The pain is unbearable. I was unable to stand any longer. I fell to my knees poised to pray. But I can do nothing but scream. The flames were, are, gone. My heart that had once given me life now hastened my demise. I have long forgotten why I am here. I simply watched as the blood rushed from my arm in frenzied bursts. The blood my heart rejected, the life I could never have. I had forgotten my original intentions. However I had killed the dark figure. I reached for the figure but my pale hand closed again on nothing. I clutched my forehead. My head is spinning and I cannot move. My ears are deaf. Life itself, is killing me. I am dying. I have lost myself. Am I telling this tale or living it? I cannot tell anymore. The figure stood up. Its torso scarred heavily and shining with warm puss. His forearm was gone, and blood was pulsing rapidly from the wound. What did I do? Have I done this to myself? I'm grabbing a knife. I'm holding it up to my throat. I'm smiling. Please. Help me. I cannot remember. It isn't real... it isn't real... © 2012 ewest1220Author's Note
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Added on July 17, 2012Last Updated on July 23, 2012 Tags: short stories, dark, reflective Authorewest1220Columbia Falls, MTAboutI have been writing for as long as I can remember. I have been featured in about 4 books, have won several contests for my work and currently have a paperback edition of my works. (Titled "A Winter Wa.. more..Writing
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