I woke up feeling tired, I don’t know how long I’ve been unconcious and my memory of things are hazy. The last thing I recall was attending my brother’s wedding, I don’t remember the month, but it must’ve been in summer, because I was getting all sweaty under my tuxedo and Alana (his wife) remarked that I looked like a gentleman.
I think I am in my apartment, though I am not completely sure. The place is in a mess, my bed, living room furniture and the rest have been torn apart, deliberately it seems and the fixtures in my kitchen and toilet have come off from the wall, I woke up amidst a pile of dust, splinter and what seems to be blood, although I display no open wounds.
The hallways of my apartment are barricaded with broken objects, and my windows and front door has been sealed off with a panes of thick wood. I am not sure if its night or day, and behind these guarded walls I hear sounds that could be voices, though at times I hear a distant, vague blasts and screams that may be human or mechanical.
As for my body, my physique feels burnt, almost acidic right at the centre of my now hollowed-out chest, as if something toxic has just been dispelled from me, I feel deprived and hungry although survival remains a second priority, with all the unanswered questions to my current situation. I checked my reflection against a piece of broken glass, next to one of the two low-hanging light bulbs someone has fashioned into the ceiling, which has grown strange, ivy-colored veins that reach for the floor as if pulled by gravity.
There are patches of taped cotton on my arm and tummy, under which lie visible marks where I could have been injected or once punctured by something. There are scratch marks, on my thighs, long and shallow, and round clumps of dried blood in my nostrils. The shirt I found myself in doesn’t seem to belong to me, it is a blue polo tee that says WHO WANTS A CHEESBURGER? In large yellow print on the front, with the stain of a few dirty fingerprints at the back. Perhaps the most telling element in all of this, is my face, I fail to identify this man, whose cheeks have been sucked in dry, and eyes now droop despondently.
Within the mess I have spotted an old shelf, from which I salvaged an old diary, last used months before. With a blunt pencil and empty paper, I’ve resolved to jot down my every thought and experience for two reasons. First, I feel my memory flailing, the past disappearing in parts, and my body collapsing by the moment, I find myself passing out every now and then for no apparent reason, and must attempt to force my vision of time and age into a linear shape. Without proper documentation, I could wind up in circles, have my thoughts irreversibly blurred and disarrayed, which if coupled with the hard nausea and claustrophobia I’m wrestling with now, may prove challenging.
Secondly, I have no clear means of escape, a route beyond this apartment. I assume I have been put here for a cause, and the marks on my skin, along with every other query left unspoken for, will be explained with time. With no company, I must sustain a proper will to live, and maintain some kind of schedule with the diary. If the mind is left to wander, in such a boundless state of nothingness and isolation, I may prove destructive to myself eventually.
On Day 2, I found the strength to stand only to discover a few bits of what looks like flesh, or meat sprawled over the kitchen area, though in my state of excruciating hunger I overlook the danger, and they taste foul and rotten, my throat hurts with every swallow, as if pinched by small needles, but it is crucial I not let myself fall prey to starvation.
The next few days collect themselves into indiscernible hours, with no hint of sun or moon I lay contained in a quiet darkness, one with no dimensions. I hear a faraway grumble behind my front door, it is a sometimes violent and banging noise, followed occasionally by a storm of whispers. I place my ear next to the planks covering the door, and try to grasp the separation between myself and whatever world lies outside.
Again, I detect nothing, only a faint and occasional sound, one that seems to grow over time. After a while, I am sure I hear the layers crashing one by one, and a loud thump and swish approaching. I grab a piece of wood, the largest I could find, perhaps a table leg before, and begin to carve its end with a rusty pocket knife. Now I spend the bulk of my days waiting, right across the front door, sharpening my wooden stake and ready to pounce. The sound behind the door is now bold and thunderous, I feel the ground tremble under foreign weight.
I think someone is coming.
...
No comments:
Post a Comment