The sharp clicking of keys is the only sound present the sleeping house.
You must login to vote
The soft electric glow of a monitor is the only light in the dark room.
The house, although seemingly dark and silent, does not sleep.
He types furiously, hoping that the words on the screen match the thoughts in his head. Oh, what great ideas they are. The jumbled fury of thought whistles by his ears and fragments itself into coherence on the illuminated screen of his computer. Those beautiful thoughts, some as soft and flowing as the wings of a dove, others sharp and jagged like the teeth of wild beasts.
His teeth ground together while his brain concocted beauty…and above all else, freedom.
She steps out of the rain, her long, black hair soaked from the storm, but she is happy. In fact, she is ecstatic. This night is all she’s ever wanted, and more.
Slowly, she makes her way to her room, and turns the handle. Her bed waits for her, calls her name. This is love, she thinks, and lies down, resting her head in the comfort of her pillow.
She is happy, she sleeps, she dreams…
It is good stuff; he knows it, but not great. It’s the kind of thing that could’ve gotten him laid in high school. Hell, he’d played that card many times. Write a poem to get the girls to loosen up, easy…but now he needs more than sex.
The clicking of keys stops, and silence rushes in to take its rightful place. He sits and thinks.
In his head worlds collide. Ideas, stories, memories,
all rush and merge and engulf one another until all that remains are fragmented symbols that hold no literal meaning. Like when you mix two jigsaw puzzles together, even if the pieces do fit, the picture is all wrong.
He rubs his bloodshot eyes, and sighs. I’m loosing my grip, he thinks. Twice tonight he’s sworn he heard music coming from behind him, only to turn around and see his beloved replica of Dali’s “Persistence of Memory” staring back at him. Those clocks offer no music. He is going mad. He’s known this for weeks now, but has refused to face it. And tonight, with the depths of lunacy staring down at him, he fights it off, trying to flee into a world of words and imagination- Trying to leave insanity onto the page rather than in his mind.
It isn’t working.
The clicking resumes, furiously, trying desperately to encase insanity within its words. That would be greatness. He types. And surprisingly, finds the words.
Half-eaten amiss the decay laid the stairwell. His feet so torn that walking was the essence of agony. Beyond the rot, he sees his point of entry: The small blue light, blinking, like an eye with no end.
Then with a whispered roar, he cries out for reason.
The darkness answers him with silence
He continues writing, feeling the words flow from his veins into the computer. So into it is he that he almost doesn’t notice the return of music, and the impossibility that existed just above his head.
The clicking stops.
He stares up, and for a few seconds, his heart is lost,
then quickly, it finds itself again, and begins beating like mad. Above him, the ceiling has opened up, not to reveal the sky, nor the world outside, but an eye so deep. Blue within blue. The all-seeing translucency above his head did not blink, just watched, judgingly over the figure hunched over those keys, typing away.
Sweat now clings to his slender brow, his thoughts race through his mind, as his fingers race across the keys in their frantic dance. In his heart he knows this is what he must finish, if not to stop the weight of this overbearing insanity, then to show its true face to their eyes.
The eye, ever-present, watches. The music, soft and strings, grows louder. And a cold whisper licks his neck. The clicking continues.
Screaming, ever-screaming, the world closes. The night is not open, but a cage barraged with misshapen dreams and hollow thoughts. All this pressed in unto itself, creating confusion, chaos, insanity.
The walls grow smaller, and the eye is no longer an eye. It is still there watching, but now it isn’t.
Space no longer exists; there is no time, just the pressure…
He looks at the monitor, and sees it staring at him. His fingers, a blur of flesh over plastic….
…of success, the pressure of freedom. But all that is his is…
. He looks at the walls, and feels it there. Finally, he shuts his eyes only to find …
…empty, air. The starving tongue greets nothing, and the blue light lingers, the tunnel beckons, the heart races, and in the brief inner eye of a heart, a city crumbles under the weight of dreams.
…its presence is even stronger there. Almost done now, he sprints for the finish. An icy hand grips his shoulders, and holds him steady while he ends what should have never begun.
He falls forward, from the decaying halls into the blue. Falling, graceful and fast, the very fabric of existence compacts into his mind, an empty space, once met with free-floating synapses from an ancient mechanism, now the house of the universe eternal…within his eyes, he holds light itself…and it consumes him. To know death is to
A universe shattered, his head feels the pressure of a million worlds, a million thoughts, a million dreams, all of them rushing into one. A compact oblivion resting in his mind, drowns out his sight.
His hands fall limp, and his jaw, once clinched, slacks. The muscles in his neck lack strength and let a weary head fall forward to rest on a now empty chest.
In an empty room, in an empty house, nothing stirs, not even a mouse. A shell sits in a chair in front of a glowing screen, lifeless, motionless. And on the ceiling
above this now empty husk, is a crack which you can see ever-so-slightly. A crack caused by an impossibility, a crack on a ceiling that can never heal from such a night.
Oh, if walls could talk, would you let them speak?
"You have confused the true and the real." -George Stanley