The Death of the Already Dead
His death had been one of absolute
and inevitable necessity. His heart had wanted it, His soul had craved it, and
his mind had needed it. The insects that devoured his brain had devoured too
far. He had forgotten all that he had known, but was unaware that he knew all
that he had forgotten. He saw things that didn’t belong and didn’t see things
that were truly there. He heard voices of sinister things, whispering in his
ear to do what he had never dreamed of doing, do what he had never thought of
doing, and do what he had never knew of doing. He saw wounds in his flesh that
hurt like they were there but which weren’t really there at all. He saw his
mother in the corner of his little white room waving to him, telling him to
come inside for dinner, and telling him how her heart ached for him every
second of the day. He felt a need deep inside his soul to rip at his hair and
claw at his skin. He didn’t like this feeling inside of himself. This
overwhelming incitation to do the unthinkable, to perform the deadliest sin… to
partake in the work of the Devil.
He had never seen it coming, though
he knew that it would come. His last days were spent in a dark abyss of
loneliness, a move that was entirely unintentional yet not at all accidental. He
became estrange to his family and friends, yet of friends and family he had
none. He veiled himself from everyone who wished him aid, yet not a benevolent
soul was aware of him. The insects in his head got bigger and hungrier than ever
before, completely dissatisfied with anything he had to offer. He felt as
though he had no other option than to succumb to the desire of bereavement that
dwelled within himself, bubbling like a cesspool of misery; ready to pull him
in whenever he let down his slowly weakening sentinel.
He had been forever trapped in a
cloud of sorrow and engulfed in a sheet of despair that choked with the noose
of solitude. While in the lonely room that killed him he forced himself to
think of the only things that had ever brought him joy, however few there may
be. He saw himself when he was no older than a young boy, and he saw his mother
with her loving grin. He could suddenly smell the aroma of happiness, the aroma
of joy, filling his nostrils with the light scent of apple pie and a spring
breeze. There were moments that he could truly feel as though he was being
engulfed in the comfort of the ocean waves that he had taken solace in
countless times before. He could hear the rush of its waters on the rocks
inland, he could feel the supple oceanic foam in between his toes, and he could
almost experience that momentary ecstasy he had partaken in so many years
before. As he sat in his loneliness he had laughed. He laughed like he had
always laughed; a high pitched giggle that echoed off the walls of nothingness,
reverberating through his ears like an ever beating drum. He laughed at his
friends’ jokes that he heard again in the depths of his ears. He laughed at the
Saturday morning TV show that he was watching with his brother. He laughed as
though his entire childhood were happening again, right before his eyes.
But, right when the ecstasy was at
it’s fullest and his heart was nearly ready to pull itself out of the pool of
melancholy it was drowning in, the waves rose up higher than they ever had in
real life, and the suddenly vicious waters of the unforgiving ocean pulled him
under, suffocating him with the hands he had always considered nearly as gentle
as his mother’s. For a moment he had been able to make out his face; the face
that was behind all of his suffering. All he could ever make out were two empty
eye sockets bearing nothing but a deep abyss of black oblivion, and a face
covered with nothing but a thin layer of skin, clinging to his pointed bones as
though it was made entirely of leather. Then, right when he was sure that the
one thing he had always called part of his home was going to kill him and his
throat was going to crush under the pressure of its fingers, the face began to
laugh a maniacal laugh of demonic joy, and then it was over. All of it. He came
to the realization that he still sat in his little white room in absolute
solitude, and his laughter ceased, replaced with tears and screams. His life
had been one of attention and success when he was younger. He had had dreams
and hope. He had had ideas that he could no longer conjure and thoughts that he
was no longer able to produce. He had been filled with love, sadness, joy, and
hatred; many of which he was no longer able to feel. Love had been entirely
overtaken by hatred and joy had been conquered by sadness. His ever
deteriorating mind was caving into the emotions that everyone fights so hard to
evade, and slowly detracting from any emotion whatsoever.
He was a man half dead; a man half
gone. A man half owned by the Devil and half owned by the dark soil of our
earth. He had nothing to live for yet live on he did. His mind was filled with
sorrow and empty of hope, yet hope to eradicate his sorrow was all he ever did.
With his hands on his knees and his knees on his hands he thought of nothing
but of what he used to have. He dreamed of having dreams and hoped of gaining
hope. But, for a man already half dead, half gone, half of the Devil inside,
hope for hope and dreams for dreams were pointless. He was too far gone, too
far dead, to ever come back to the world of our minds. His mind and his soul
had left his body even though they did not leave at all. They had entered a
non-existing world; a universe for the rejected, for the despised, and for the
condemned. His mind was never to return, for it had traveled too far into this
world of absolute darkness. And, it was only a matter of time before his body
succumbed to the evilness that was keeping him alive. His mind was ever
deteriorating, getting worse and worse with every passing hour even though it
was not getting worse at all. The faces he saw and the voices he heard were
getting more prominent with every hour. The whispers got louder and the threats
got darkener. The claws got sharper and the needs got deeper. He saw no hope in
his narrow tunnel of possibilities anymore. He saw nothing but a dead end with
his gravestone facing him.
He did not know what had killed
him, even though he knew everything that had not. For his mind was no longer
his own; it was controlled by a higher power, a power with evil plans and evil
wishes. A power that intended for him nothing but sorrow and loneliness for the
rest of his painfully short life. For, he himself would never intend that,
never in all his life. This eerie feeling of sadness that filled him from head
to toe was not his own doing; it was the doing of someone �"or something- else.
Someone who was out to smite him, out to hurt him, and out to kill him.
The sight of his empty eyes and
empty heart made his eyes hurt, though no pain they felt. The soft whispers of
horrible truth in his ears made his heart stop, though beat on it did. The
solitude he was forced into and the sadness that engulfed him made his head
spin, though flat on his neck it sat. The demonic half inside of him made him
turn on himself, though loyalty was all he ever had been. Never had he wished
himself death, even though death had been all he had ever desired. Never had
the longed for a malicious spite to fill his soul even though malicious spite
was what he was searching for all along. Never had he thought he would plunge a
knife into his heart as the Devil watched with a satisfied grin, though he
dreamed of it every day. He had never wanted his life to start or end the way
it had, though he had never wanted it any other way.
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