Lady Lyra
Interesting Sophomore
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 02:57:09 +0000
In Gjoberdik, a small fisherman’s village in the country of Bulgaria, on the dawn of January the first everyone closes their curtains and hold their breath for half a minute. Hours after the craze of midnight’s celebrations, children look questioning at their worried parents, but can not help to shiver in the embrace of their shaking parents.
One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short timespan. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these faithful 30 seconds, and even the birds will stop whistling.
Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.
The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.
One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short timespan. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these faithful 30 seconds, and even the birds will stop whistling.
Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.
The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 02:58:11 +0000
Don't know why, but I absolutely love reading this one.
An elderly man was sitting alone on a dark path. He wasn’t certain of which direction to go, and he’d forgotten both where he was traveling to and who he was. He’d sat down for a moment to rest his weary legs, and suddenly looked up to see an elderly woman before him. She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke: “Now your *third* wish. What will it be?”
“Third wish?” The man was baffled. “How can it be a third wish if I haven’t had a first and second wish?”
“You’ve had two wishes already,” the hag said, “but your second wish was for me to return everything to the way it was before you had made your first wish. That’s why you remember nothing; because everything is the way it was before you made any wishes.” She cackled at the poor man. “So it is that you have one wish left.”
“All right,” he said, “I don’t believe this, but there’s no harm in wishing. I wish to know who I am.”
“Funny,” said the old woman as she granted his wish and disappeared forever. “That was your first wish.”
An elderly man was sitting alone on a dark path. He wasn’t certain of which direction to go, and he’d forgotten both where he was traveling to and who he was. He’d sat down for a moment to rest his weary legs, and suddenly looked up to see an elderly woman before him. She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke: “Now your *third* wish. What will it be?”
“Third wish?” The man was baffled. “How can it be a third wish if I haven’t had a first and second wish?”
“You’ve had two wishes already,” the hag said, “but your second wish was for me to return everything to the way it was before you had made your first wish. That’s why you remember nothing; because everything is the way it was before you made any wishes.” She cackled at the poor man. “So it is that you have one wish left.”
“All right,” he said, “I don’t believe this, but there’s no harm in wishing. I wish to know who I am.”
“Funny,” said the old woman as she granted his wish and disappeared forever. “That was your first wish.”
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:00:01 +0000
I am currently sitting in front of my computer, scared witless. Any moment now I am going to be killed.
Today a friend of mine told me a story.
His aunt had taken care of him since he was a small boy, and she told him last night about how his parents died. He did a very fair imitation of her (I knew them both pretty well):
“They were doing mission work in some nasty little south american country when a man burst into the mission hospital one night, terrified out of his mind. He told them that his sister had been killed by a Muerto blanco, and that he was certain that it was coming for him next. What is a Muerto blanco? Apparently it was some sort of bogey-man, something like that dumb chupacabra or whatever. They called it the White Death or the White Girl, because it was the soul of someone who hated life so much that they came back in their shrouds to kill those who told of them.
The man had been told about the vengeful spirit by his sister hours before her death. It was a girl with dead, black eyes that wept bile. The thing moved without ever actually moving its legs, and it stalked its victims back to their homes. Now, if you weren’t already aware that this thing was following you, once it got back to your house, it would start knocking on your door…
* Once for you skin, which she’ll use to patch her own decaying flesh.
* Twice for your muscle, which she’ll gnash her teeth on between victims.
* Thrice for your bones, which she’ll make knives to pick her teeth and kill her victims.
* Four times for your heart, which she’ll wear around her neck.
* Five times for your teeth, which she’ll polish and keep in a box.
* Six times for your eyes, which she’ll see the faces of your loved ones through.
* Seven times for your soul, which she’ll eat whole - you can never pass while you’re in her stomach.
She has to repeat this on any mirror or door between you and her.
You can try to outrun her, but she’s faster than the fastest man. And if you leave your home while she’s knocking on your door, she won’t be so courteous when she catches up to you.
Now the man was certain that this thing had killed his sister, that he had tried to tell the police, but they would not listen. Next he had tried to tell his priest, but the priest turned him away when he saw that the thing was following him now - oh, that’s right, I forgot about that - it can only get you if you tell someone else about it, or you saw it kill someone else. The man, after finishing his tale, stole a car from the mission, and was never seen again.
Apparently his mother and father had immediately called his aunt about this when it happened. They were found in the morning, skinned and dismembered. Their bodies were covered in tiny, child-like handprints.
His aunt was really drunk the night before, and had told him about that. He told me this story early in the morning today at school, before the cops arrived. His aunt had been murdered that night. I called him later that night, and he told me that he was being chased by someone, and now they were knocking on his door. I told him to stop shitting me.
He held the phone away from his face for a minute, and I could hear slow, deliberate knocking. A moment later, I heard the door rip from its hinges and the dying screams of my friend.
Then a little girl’s voice spoke over the line: “WITNESS.” I hung up.
Three minutes ago someone started knocking on my door. She has to knock 28 times on my front door, 28 times on the mirror in the hall, and another 28 times on the door to my bedroom. She’s doing it slowly… I think she wants to scare me some more, let me know that my death is just moments away. I will not run - I couldn’t get to my car in time anyway. She started knocking on my bedroom door a minute ago, she should be done any moment.
Nice knowing you guys, it’s been fun.
Today a friend of mine told me a story.
His aunt had taken care of him since he was a small boy, and she told him last night about how his parents died. He did a very fair imitation of her (I knew them both pretty well):
“They were doing mission work in some nasty little south american country when a man burst into the mission hospital one night, terrified out of his mind. He told them that his sister had been killed by a Muerto blanco, and that he was certain that it was coming for him next. What is a Muerto blanco? Apparently it was some sort of bogey-man, something like that dumb chupacabra or whatever. They called it the White Death or the White Girl, because it was the soul of someone who hated life so much that they came back in their shrouds to kill those who told of them.
The man had been told about the vengeful spirit by his sister hours before her death. It was a girl with dead, black eyes that wept bile. The thing moved without ever actually moving its legs, and it stalked its victims back to their homes. Now, if you weren’t already aware that this thing was following you, once it got back to your house, it would start knocking on your door…
* Once for you skin, which she’ll use to patch her own decaying flesh.
* Twice for your muscle, which she’ll gnash her teeth on between victims.
* Thrice for your bones, which she’ll make knives to pick her teeth and kill her victims.
* Four times for your heart, which she’ll wear around her neck.
* Five times for your teeth, which she’ll polish and keep in a box.
* Six times for your eyes, which she’ll see the faces of your loved ones through.
* Seven times for your soul, which she’ll eat whole - you can never pass while you’re in her stomach.
She has to repeat this on any mirror or door between you and her.
You can try to outrun her, but she’s faster than the fastest man. And if you leave your home while she’s knocking on your door, she won’t be so courteous when she catches up to you.
Now the man was certain that this thing had killed his sister, that he had tried to tell the police, but they would not listen. Next he had tried to tell his priest, but the priest turned him away when he saw that the thing was following him now - oh, that’s right, I forgot about that - it can only get you if you tell someone else about it, or you saw it kill someone else. The man, after finishing his tale, stole a car from the mission, and was never seen again.
Apparently his mother and father had immediately called his aunt about this when it happened. They were found in the morning, skinned and dismembered. Their bodies were covered in tiny, child-like handprints.
His aunt was really drunk the night before, and had told him about that. He told me this story early in the morning today at school, before the cops arrived. His aunt had been murdered that night. I called him later that night, and he told me that he was being chased by someone, and now they were knocking on his door. I told him to stop shitting me.
He held the phone away from his face for a minute, and I could hear slow, deliberate knocking. A moment later, I heard the door rip from its hinges and the dying screams of my friend.
Then a little girl’s voice spoke over the line: “WITNESS.” I hung up.
Three minutes ago someone started knocking on my door. She has to knock 28 times on my front door, 28 times on the mirror in the hall, and another 28 times on the door to my bedroom. She’s doing it slowly… I think she wants to scare me some more, let me know that my death is just moments away. I will not run - I couldn’t get to my car in time anyway. She started knocking on my bedroom door a minute ago, she should be done any moment.
Nice knowing you guys, it’s been fun.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:01:15 +0000
During the summer of 1983, in a quiet town near Minneapolis, Minnesota, the charred body of a woman was found inside the kitchen stove of a small farmhouse. A video camera was also found in the kitchen, standing on a tripod and pointing at the oven. No tape was found inside the camera at the time.
Although the scene was originally labeled as a homicide by police, an unmarked VHS tape was later discovered at the bottom of the farm’s well (which had apparently dried up earlier that year).
Despite its worn condition, and the fact that it contained no audio, police were still able to view the contents of the tape. It depicted a woman recording herself in front of a video camera (seemingly using the same camera the police found in the kitchen). After positioning the camera to include both her and her kitchen stove in the image, the tape then showed her turning on the oven, opening the door, crawling inside, and then closing the door behind her. Eight minutes into the video, the oven could be seen shaking violently, after which point thick black smoke could be seen emanating from it. The camera then continued to point at the oven for another 45 minutes until the batteries apparently died.
To avoid disturbing the local community, police never released any information about the tape, or even the fact that it was found. Police were also not able to determine who put the tape in the well…
…or why the body of the woman on the tape did not in any way resemble the body of the woman found in the oven.
Although the scene was originally labeled as a homicide by police, an unmarked VHS tape was later discovered at the bottom of the farm’s well (which had apparently dried up earlier that year).
Despite its worn condition, and the fact that it contained no audio, police were still able to view the contents of the tape. It depicted a woman recording herself in front of a video camera (seemingly using the same camera the police found in the kitchen). After positioning the camera to include both her and her kitchen stove in the image, the tape then showed her turning on the oven, opening the door, crawling inside, and then closing the door behind her. Eight minutes into the video, the oven could be seen shaking violently, after which point thick black smoke could be seen emanating from it. The camera then continued to point at the oven for another 45 minutes until the batteries apparently died.
To avoid disturbing the local community, police never released any information about the tape, or even the fact that it was found. Police were also not able to determine who put the tape in the well…
…or why the body of the woman on the tape did not in any way resemble the body of the woman found in the oven.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:02:07 +0000
Have you ever heard the expression “an apple a day keeps the Doctor away?” Most assume, with no reason to think otherwise, that it is simply an easy-to-remember rhyme that stresses the importance of eating healthily to young children. But the saying did not originate as a harmless reminder. It was born in a frontier town in the early years of the gold rush, where food was scarce and money even scarcer. One August, when a bad drought had struck the region, a series of bloody killings swept through the town. Every night, a single house would be broken into, and anyone who saw the invader would be swiftly, brutally slain. Nothing was ever stolen, save for a few scraps of food.
After two weeks of this, the local grocer set out a few apples and a glass of milk in the town square overnight. He then hid in the tower of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who came by. Fighting fatigue, the grocer waited for any sign of life below. Just after midnight, he was rewarded by a chilling sight; a man, carrying a black bag stuffed with dully shining metal tools and covered from head to foot in cloth bandages, staggered into view. He paused at the sight of the apples and milk, then whipped his head around, as if looking for the one who dared to patronize him. Seized with fear, the grocer ducked out of sight, staying hidden ‘til sunrise.
The strange man had only taken one of the apples, and didn’t even touch the glass of milk. No houses were broken into, and no one was killed. For decades, the town continued to place out an apple or two every night, even long after a single apple stopped disappearing.
After two weeks of this, the local grocer set out a few apples and a glass of milk in the town square overnight. He then hid in the tower of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who came by. Fighting fatigue, the grocer waited for any sign of life below. Just after midnight, he was rewarded by a chilling sight; a man, carrying a black bag stuffed with dully shining metal tools and covered from head to foot in cloth bandages, staggered into view. He paused at the sight of the apples and milk, then whipped his head around, as if looking for the one who dared to patronize him. Seized with fear, the grocer ducked out of sight, staying hidden ‘til sunrise.
The strange man had only taken one of the apples, and didn’t even touch the glass of milk. No houses were broken into, and no one was killed. For decades, the town continued to place out an apple or two every night, even long after a single apple stopped disappearing.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:03:38 +0000
In winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a German medic had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment suddenly became a bloodbath. The survivors claimed to hear, above the screams and barked commands of their Lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee.
The medic made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never this short on supplies.
The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, most men dropped off to sleep in the still dark hours of the morning - New Year’s Day, 1945.
The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, with no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.
The medic was found, sitting on an ammunition tin, staring off into space. When one man approached him, tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal all skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial.
None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January, 1945.
The medic made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never this short on supplies.
The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, most men dropped off to sleep in the still dark hours of the morning - New Year’s Day, 1945.
The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, with no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.
The medic was found, sitting on an ammunition tin, staring off into space. When one man approached him, tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal all skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial.
None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January, 1945.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:05:31 +0000
It’s early morning. The sun won’t be up for another couple of hours. You’re fast asleep in bed, lost in a dream, when the phone rings. Rather than waking up, you roll over and cover your head with a pillow. Hours pass. The sun rises.
The phone is ringing.
When you wake up, your alarm clock is blaring and the phone is ringing. By the time you will yourself to turn the alarm off, the phone has stopped ringing. You realize that it’s been ringing all morning. You slide out of bed and press the blinking red button on your phone as you stumble into the bathroom. The phone beeps, followed by the friendly, electronic voice.
Hello. You have six hundred and sixty-six new messages. Message one.
The phone beeps again, and you’re not prepared for what comes next. Screaming.
You spin around, thinking that she’s standing right behind you. There’s pure terror in her screams, accompanied by other disturbing noises. You stand there, horrified, for about ten seconds. Screaming gives way to hysterical, garbled crying before dying out with the sounds of spilling meat and tearing flesh.
The phone beeps again. You’re shaking.
Message two…
The phone is ringing.
When you wake up, your alarm clock is blaring and the phone is ringing. By the time you will yourself to turn the alarm off, the phone has stopped ringing. You realize that it’s been ringing all morning. You slide out of bed and press the blinking red button on your phone as you stumble into the bathroom. The phone beeps, followed by the friendly, electronic voice.
Hello. You have six hundred and sixty-six new messages. Message one.
The phone beeps again, and you’re not prepared for what comes next. Screaming.
You spin around, thinking that she’s standing right behind you. There’s pure terror in her screams, accompanied by other disturbing noises. You stand there, horrified, for about ten seconds. Screaming gives way to hysterical, garbled crying before dying out with the sounds of spilling meat and tearing flesh.
The phone beeps again. You’re shaking.
Message two…
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:06:19 +0000
A déjà vu is actually a glitch in reality, and it indicates that something has just been changed. Someone or something has ceased to exist, all memories and records of their existence erased forever.
A déjà vu happens when they get into your brain, when they need to change your memories. Maybe to erase your brother from the world. You know, the brother that you never had.
A déjà vu happens when they get into your brain, when they need to change your memories. Maybe to erase your brother from the world. You know, the brother that you never had.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:07:20 +0000
The next time you’re alone in your room, turn down the lights. Think of something on your body that varies in length, such as hair. It must be clearly viewable from your perspective. Grab a ruler and, looking in the mirror, quickly grab a hair at random; you must confuse it. Hold it in position as best you can and note the length. Look down. Yours will be different.
Don’t look back up.
Don’t turn your back to that mirror ever again.
Don’t look back up.
Don’t turn your back to that mirror ever again.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:08:46 +0000
There is a doorway, one that can be any door, at any time. This door leads nowhere, yet there lies a realm of twisted reality to the opener. This door exists for everyone - some never encounter it in their lives, others unknowingly open it and step through.
The problem is you can’t tell if the door is open to you, until years after you step through it. You’ll see them, and they’ll finally see you.
The problem is you can’t tell if the door is open to you, until years after you step through it. You’ll see them, and they’ll finally see you.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:10:16 +0000
Holder of Absolution
Any time after midnight, visit any abandoned Church in any country. Do not try this is in a Church occupied by a servant of God. Once there, kneel at the altar and repeat these words: "Show me the Holder of Absolution."
The tabernacle will flare a bright-red, but do not look at it. Instead keep your head bowed and stay on your knees. After a short while, a great booming voice will reverberate through the building as it calls out your each and every sin, trespass, misdeed, crime and transgression. For some, this may take a while. Once voice is done, it will say "Stand, but know that the way of the liar is blind." At this point you must pick up the chalice on the altar and walk to the fountain. As you walk be careful NOT to open your eyes. If you do, you will be forever unable to distinguish fact from fiction. Darkness you will perceive as light, day as night. You will become mad from trying and, convinced your life is a lie, you will end it yourself, alone and afraid.
Dip the chalice into the waters of the font and drink from it, making sure you finish the water. You will feel refreshed and free of guilt.
Eyes still tightly shut, take the chalice and walk slowly toward the door and leave. Upon returning to your life you will find your altercations forgiven, your enemies befriended and your sins forgotten. You will also find that any persons wishing to incriminate you find it exceedingly difficult to do so.
If you lose the chalice you will be unable to resist confessing your every mistake and error.
The Chalice is Object 332 of 538. If they come together, you will be held responsible.
Any time after midnight, visit any abandoned Church in any country. Do not try this is in a Church occupied by a servant of God. Once there, kneel at the altar and repeat these words: "Show me the Holder of Absolution."
The tabernacle will flare a bright-red, but do not look at it. Instead keep your head bowed and stay on your knees. After a short while, a great booming voice will reverberate through the building as it calls out your each and every sin, trespass, misdeed, crime and transgression. For some, this may take a while. Once voice is done, it will say "Stand, but know that the way of the liar is blind." At this point you must pick up the chalice on the altar and walk to the fountain. As you walk be careful NOT to open your eyes. If you do, you will be forever unable to distinguish fact from fiction. Darkness you will perceive as light, day as night. You will become mad from trying and, convinced your life is a lie, you will end it yourself, alone and afraid.
Dip the chalice into the waters of the font and drink from it, making sure you finish the water. You will feel refreshed and free of guilt.
Eyes still tightly shut, take the chalice and walk slowly toward the door and leave. Upon returning to your life you will find your altercations forgiven, your enemies befriended and your sins forgotten. You will also find that any persons wishing to incriminate you find it exceedingly difficult to do so.
If you lose the chalice you will be unable to resist confessing your every mistake and error.
The Chalice is Object 332 of 538. If they come together, you will be held responsible.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:11:00 +0000
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house that you can get yourself into. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the person's face, you will then be taken to a cell. It will be in a deep, hidden section of the building.As you walk, all you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echoing through the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.
Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through; I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.
If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words, continue on. Upon reaching the cell, all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question. "What happens when they all come together?"
The person will then stare into your eyes and answer your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing, and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned that if you do, your death will be one of cruelty and unrelenting horror.
Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.
That object is 1 of 2538. They must never come together. Never.'
Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through; I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.
If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words, continue on. Upon reaching the cell, all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question. "What happens when they all come together?"
The person will then stare into your eyes and answer your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing, and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned that if you do, your death will be one of cruelty and unrelenting horror.
Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.
That object is 1 of 2538. They must never come together. Never.'
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:13:44 +0000
WARNING: This is a long one.
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me.
But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be.
The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach - of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore.
In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now?
Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do. Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough...
But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the good part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, orgasms, sunsets, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so. Feeling ok.
I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our a** holes, and then we eat more. It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some strange global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes.
Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always everywhere all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy.
After a few days of this, I stop walking, and I stand still, swaying back and forth and groaning a little. I don't know why I groan. I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad. I think it's just air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When my lungs decompose, it will probably stop. And now, while swaying and groaning, I notice a dead woman standing a few feet away from me, facing the distant mountains. She doesn't sway or groan, her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her, that she doesn't sway or groan. I walk over and stand beside her. I wheeze some kind of greeting, and she responds with a lurch of her shoulder.
I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. She has not been dead very long. Her skin is grey and her eyes slightly sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug white button-up. I suspect she used to be a waitress.
Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag.
I can read her name. She has a name.
Her name is Emily.
I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em..ily." The word rolls off what's left of my tongue like honey. What a good name. I feel warm saying it.
Emily's cloudy eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile, and then maybe I'm a little nervous, because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily just laughs, and it's a choked, raw, lovely sound. She reaches down and helps me to my feet.
Emily and I have fallen in love.
I'm not sure how this happens. I remember what love was like before, and this is different. This is simpler. Before, there were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had long checklists and elaborate tests to be passed. We looked at hairstyles and careers and breast sizes. And sex was there, in everything, confusing everyone, like hunger. It created longing, it created ambition, competition, it drove people to leave their houses and invent automobiles, space craft, and atom bombs when they could instead just sit on the couch until they died. Animal cravings. Subconscious urges. Sex made the world go ‘round.
This is all gone now. Sex, once a force as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have left the equation. My p***s fell off two weeks ago.
So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are different now. Our actions have no ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the dust and occasionally have lumbering, grunted exchanges with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever.
And Emily is not a complicated process. I just see her, and walk over to her, and for no reason, really, I decide I want to be with her for a long time. So now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we have to go into town to eat people, we do it at separate times, because it's unpleasant, and we don't want to share that. But we share everything else, and it's nice.
We decide to walk to the mountains. It takes us three days, but now we are standing on a cliff looking up at a fat white moon. At our backs, the night sky is red from distant cities burning, but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon.
There's no real reason for any of this, but like I said, the world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. Everything is easy now. Yesterday my leg broke off, and I don't even mind.
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me.
But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be.
The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach - of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore.
In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now?
Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do. Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough...
But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the good part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, orgasms, sunsets, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so. Feeling ok.
I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our a** holes, and then we eat more. It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some strange global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes.
Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always everywhere all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy.
After a few days of this, I stop walking, and I stand still, swaying back and forth and groaning a little. I don't know why I groan. I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad. I think it's just air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When my lungs decompose, it will probably stop. And now, while swaying and groaning, I notice a dead woman standing a few feet away from me, facing the distant mountains. She doesn't sway or groan, her head just lolls from side to side. I like that about her, that she doesn't sway or groan. I walk over and stand beside her. I wheeze some kind of greeting, and she responds with a lurch of her shoulder.
I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. She has not been dead very long. Her skin is grey and her eyes slightly sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug white button-up. I suspect she used to be a waitress.
Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag.
I can read her name. She has a name.
Her name is Emily.
I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em..ily." The word rolls off what's left of my tongue like honey. What a good name. I feel warm saying it.
Emily's cloudy eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile, and then maybe I'm a little nervous, because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily just laughs, and it's a choked, raw, lovely sound. She reaches down and helps me to my feet.
Emily and I have fallen in love.
I'm not sure how this happens. I remember what love was like before, and this is different. This is simpler. Before, there were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had long checklists and elaborate tests to be passed. We looked at hairstyles and careers and breast sizes. And sex was there, in everything, confusing everyone, like hunger. It created longing, it created ambition, competition, it drove people to leave their houses and invent automobiles, space craft, and atom bombs when they could instead just sit on the couch until they died. Animal cravings. Subconscious urges. Sex made the world go ‘round.
This is all gone now. Sex, once a force as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have left the equation. My p***s fell off two weeks ago.
So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are different now. Our actions have no ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the dust and occasionally have lumbering, grunted exchanges with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever.
And Emily is not a complicated process. I just see her, and walk over to her, and for no reason, really, I decide I want to be with her for a long time. So now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we have to go into town to eat people, we do it at separate times, because it's unpleasant, and we don't want to share that. But we share everything else, and it's nice.
We decide to walk to the mountains. It takes us three days, but now we are standing on a cliff looking up at a fat white moon. At our backs, the night sky is red from distant cities burning, but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon.
There's no real reason for any of this, but like I said, the world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. Everything is easy now. Yesterday my leg broke off, and I don't even mind.
Lady Lyra
(?)Community Member
Interesting Sophomore
Offline
- Report Post
- Posted: Tue, 05 May 2009 03:15:51 +0000
WARNING: Another long one.
I'd had the old watch for a while now, but it was only recently that it'd been starting to bug me. It was mechanical, no battery, but no windup either - somehow the motion of your arm when you walked around was supposed to keep the internal springs wound. Very clever what they can build, these days. You keep seeing new things all over the place.
During the day, I wore it like you wear a watch. At night I kept it on the table next to my bed. Without it I was worthless - I'd never be on time to anything. I'd gone for at least a year without letting it get out of arm's reach. The idea of forgetting it somewhere was pretty scary.
But lately...lately it seemed to be getting louder. Sometimes it even seemed to be getting slower, didn't it? The ticks sounded farther apart. But it kept perfect time, I never had to adjust it. I kept checking it, shaking it, trying to figure out what had changed. I brought it to a clockwork repair shop, but the guys couldn't find anything wrong with it. They said it didn't sound all that loud.
It's loud, though. Sometimes I'll be doing something, in a meeting at work, writing something, reading a book, and I'll realize I've been sitting there for like five minutes - well, who knows how long, really? - listening to it. Tick. Tick. Tick. It's embarrassing. I'm always looking around, apologizing to everyone else for how loud it is. They always say it's nothing, they can't hear it, but I'm afraid they're just being polite. Last week I realized my girlfriend was waiting for me to answer some question - I had no idea what she'd been talking about. All I could hear was Tick, Tick, Tick.
The last two nights, it woke me up out of a sound sleep. I tried moving it farther away from the bed but somehow it still seemed too loud. You know how that happens, you get up and fix something that's noisy, a leaky faucet or whatever, and just when you think you're going to fall asleep, you hear it again? Your ears keep adjusting. I put it in the other room and closed the door but then just tossed and turned, terrified that I wouldn't wake up on time, and finally went and got it again. It seemed like I could still hear it anyway, almost like an echo - like I've been listening to it for so long, my mind kept making the noise.
Today I went to the store to get a new watch. Something quiet and digital. Obvious answer, right? People kept asking me if I was okay. I guess it's clear I haven't been sleeping well - I'm pretty pale and sweaty, bloodshot eyes. I sat in front of the display case for a long time - I don't know how long. I just couldn't make up my mind. Every time I tried to figure out what features I want or how much money I wanted to spend, I'd realize I'd just been sitting there, staring at nothing, listening to the watch. I swear I can hear it bouncing around inside my head. The clerk was trying to ask me something but I just couldn't concentrate - I could barely hear what he was saying. The watch was so damned loud...I'm sure he was asking me what's wrong with it. God, if only I could sleep right...somehow I found myself back home without a new watch.
I kind of broke down, then, a little. All I'd had to do was buy a new one, but now I was stuck with this ******** watch for another night! Damn it, how'd I screw that up? Sure, I'm tired as hell, but all I had to do was buy a damn watch. This whole pain in the a** would have been over with.
Okay, it doesn't seem like this is a big deal. It shouldn't be, right? It's just a noisy watch. But for some reason I was totally freaked out. Something about the way it kept getting louder, the way it was slowing down. It was definitely slowing down. Like the ticks were getting heavier, like it was pushing a pendulum through syrup or rust. It made me feel sick. No, hell, I was terrified. It must have been the lack of sleep, right? When you're running on the edge of exhaustion, you get scared and jumpy. I can't explain it. I felt like something terrible was about to happen, like someone I knew was going to die, but if I tried to think who, I couldn't remember. There was no reason. It was just a watch. But it was hard to think. I kept losing time, waking up out of that empty trance, hearing Tick Tick Tick.
Just now it happened again. It's ******** dark outside. This wasn't five minutes, more like five hours I just lost. I just come to myself and I'm sitting on my bed, watch in my hands, staring at it. It was like 3 PM when I sat down. There's a bowl of soup I was about to eat, cold and thick now, on the little table over there. I just lost my whole evening listening to Tick, ...Tick...
I freak out, now. Totally lose it. I almost throw up. Somehow the missing time is the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. This ******** thing has to go. It'll be worth missing work tomorrow, if I do. I've got to sleep. I've got to get some peace from this Tick, Tick.
I turn the watch upside down in my hand, cool smooth metal in my palm, and smash the glass against the bedside table, I beat it down again and again until the thing is dead, the arms are bent, the soft metal's ********, the brass gears and springs and bits of glass are all over the place like parade confetti.
I close my eyes. I hear nothing. I take a breath. Silence, total silence. I'm at peace.
Then I feel it, terrible pressure inside my chest, like a heart attack might feel. Heavy, slow. Like a gear grinding, like a heavy weight falling. More like a clunk than a tick.
I tear open my shirt to uncover my heart, trying to press my hands against my skin. Am I that stressed out, I'm having a heart attack? I'm not old enough. My chest feels wrong.
When I look down, I see something pushing my skin out, like a rib, like something that shouldn't be there, like when my stupid cousin ended up with a B-B stuck under the skin on his forehead, only bigger. It hurts terribly, like something's broken. My arms weigh a million pounds, sweat's stinging my eyes, I feel freezing cold. I can't feel my fingers, they're clumsy and numb. For some reason I decide that I have to push this thing back into place, like setting a broken bone. I fumble around for a while, my skin is slick with sweat, my hands are useless. Finally I get enough purchase, I suck wind into aching pinched lungs, I push with all my feeble power. Chonk!
The pain is horrible, worse than anything. The world is red. Then the world is black. I can't feel or see anything. I seem to keep thinking I'm cold, though. I drift for a while, occasionally thinking I'm cold, not really understanding what that means or caring.
After a while...who knows how long? I hear crazy whispers in my ears. There's a little whirring sound, like a motor pulling an elevator far away, like a wheel spinning.
Things happen out of sequence. Or I remember them wrong. I'm sitting up. I can see my room again, but there's no color at all. I'm blind, but I can feel again - my chest, mostly. I feel something sliding around under my skin, someone pushing something into me. I try to scream but I can't make a sound. There're mechanical noises again, clicks, winding noises. I feel a strange pressure building between my ears.
There are two men in the room with me. They're doctors. Somehow I know this. Maybe it's because they're wearing white coats? I feel like I knew before I thought about it.
There's another big click, and more things sliding around inside my head. The world has color again. I still can't move. There's more winding noises.
"Very clever what they can build these days," says a doctor man. He reaches behind my head and I feel something long sliding out of my brain. Very, very long. I should be dead. I try to imagine how far into my head it was, and I gag, only I don't because I can't move. It keeps sliding out. I can't feel where it was inside, only where it moves through the skull.
Finally he pulls his hand back. There's a big brass key in his fingers, covered in blood and a little hair.
"I hear they've got new ones that keep themselves wound up somehow, just by walking around."
"Man, I'd like to see that."
"Okay, hit the reset and let's get out of here."
***
Today I got a watch in the mail from a relative, one of the old kind that has moving parts but no battery. You have to keep winding it up though. I like it. It makes a nice, quiet ticking noise, very quick and regular. For some reason, the sound is really soothing, like everything's right in the world.
I'd had the old watch for a while now, but it was only recently that it'd been starting to bug me. It was mechanical, no battery, but no windup either - somehow the motion of your arm when you walked around was supposed to keep the internal springs wound. Very clever what they can build, these days. You keep seeing new things all over the place.
During the day, I wore it like you wear a watch. At night I kept it on the table next to my bed. Without it I was worthless - I'd never be on time to anything. I'd gone for at least a year without letting it get out of arm's reach. The idea of forgetting it somewhere was pretty scary.
But lately...lately it seemed to be getting louder. Sometimes it even seemed to be getting slower, didn't it? The ticks sounded farther apart. But it kept perfect time, I never had to adjust it. I kept checking it, shaking it, trying to figure out what had changed. I brought it to a clockwork repair shop, but the guys couldn't find anything wrong with it. They said it didn't sound all that loud.
It's loud, though. Sometimes I'll be doing something, in a meeting at work, writing something, reading a book, and I'll realize I've been sitting there for like five minutes - well, who knows how long, really? - listening to it. Tick. Tick. Tick. It's embarrassing. I'm always looking around, apologizing to everyone else for how loud it is. They always say it's nothing, they can't hear it, but I'm afraid they're just being polite. Last week I realized my girlfriend was waiting for me to answer some question - I had no idea what she'd been talking about. All I could hear was Tick, Tick, Tick.
The last two nights, it woke me up out of a sound sleep. I tried moving it farther away from the bed but somehow it still seemed too loud. You know how that happens, you get up and fix something that's noisy, a leaky faucet or whatever, and just when you think you're going to fall asleep, you hear it again? Your ears keep adjusting. I put it in the other room and closed the door but then just tossed and turned, terrified that I wouldn't wake up on time, and finally went and got it again. It seemed like I could still hear it anyway, almost like an echo - like I've been listening to it for so long, my mind kept making the noise.
Today I went to the store to get a new watch. Something quiet and digital. Obvious answer, right? People kept asking me if I was okay. I guess it's clear I haven't been sleeping well - I'm pretty pale and sweaty, bloodshot eyes. I sat in front of the display case for a long time - I don't know how long. I just couldn't make up my mind. Every time I tried to figure out what features I want or how much money I wanted to spend, I'd realize I'd just been sitting there, staring at nothing, listening to the watch. I swear I can hear it bouncing around inside my head. The clerk was trying to ask me something but I just couldn't concentrate - I could barely hear what he was saying. The watch was so damned loud...I'm sure he was asking me what's wrong with it. God, if only I could sleep right...somehow I found myself back home without a new watch.
I kind of broke down, then, a little. All I'd had to do was buy a new one, but now I was stuck with this ******** watch for another night! Damn it, how'd I screw that up? Sure, I'm tired as hell, but all I had to do was buy a damn watch. This whole pain in the a** would have been over with.
Okay, it doesn't seem like this is a big deal. It shouldn't be, right? It's just a noisy watch. But for some reason I was totally freaked out. Something about the way it kept getting louder, the way it was slowing down. It was definitely slowing down. Like the ticks were getting heavier, like it was pushing a pendulum through syrup or rust. It made me feel sick. No, hell, I was terrified. It must have been the lack of sleep, right? When you're running on the edge of exhaustion, you get scared and jumpy. I can't explain it. I felt like something terrible was about to happen, like someone I knew was going to die, but if I tried to think who, I couldn't remember. There was no reason. It was just a watch. But it was hard to think. I kept losing time, waking up out of that empty trance, hearing Tick Tick Tick.
Just now it happened again. It's ******** dark outside. This wasn't five minutes, more like five hours I just lost. I just come to myself and I'm sitting on my bed, watch in my hands, staring at it. It was like 3 PM when I sat down. There's a bowl of soup I was about to eat, cold and thick now, on the little table over there. I just lost my whole evening listening to Tick, ...Tick...
I freak out, now. Totally lose it. I almost throw up. Somehow the missing time is the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. This ******** thing has to go. It'll be worth missing work tomorrow, if I do. I've got to sleep. I've got to get some peace from this Tick, Tick.
I turn the watch upside down in my hand, cool smooth metal in my palm, and smash the glass against the bedside table, I beat it down again and again until the thing is dead, the arms are bent, the soft metal's ********, the brass gears and springs and bits of glass are all over the place like parade confetti.
I close my eyes. I hear nothing. I take a breath. Silence, total silence. I'm at peace.
Then I feel it, terrible pressure inside my chest, like a heart attack might feel. Heavy, slow. Like a gear grinding, like a heavy weight falling. More like a clunk than a tick.
I tear open my shirt to uncover my heart, trying to press my hands against my skin. Am I that stressed out, I'm having a heart attack? I'm not old enough. My chest feels wrong.
When I look down, I see something pushing my skin out, like a rib, like something that shouldn't be there, like when my stupid cousin ended up with a B-B stuck under the skin on his forehead, only bigger. It hurts terribly, like something's broken. My arms weigh a million pounds, sweat's stinging my eyes, I feel freezing cold. I can't feel my fingers, they're clumsy and numb. For some reason I decide that I have to push this thing back into place, like setting a broken bone. I fumble around for a while, my skin is slick with sweat, my hands are useless. Finally I get enough purchase, I suck wind into aching pinched lungs, I push with all my feeble power. Chonk!
The pain is horrible, worse than anything. The world is red. Then the world is black. I can't feel or see anything. I seem to keep thinking I'm cold, though. I drift for a while, occasionally thinking I'm cold, not really understanding what that means or caring.
After a while...who knows how long? I hear crazy whispers in my ears. There's a little whirring sound, like a motor pulling an elevator far away, like a wheel spinning.
Things happen out of sequence. Or I remember them wrong. I'm sitting up. I can see my room again, but there's no color at all. I'm blind, but I can feel again - my chest, mostly. I feel something sliding around under my skin, someone pushing something into me. I try to scream but I can't make a sound. There're mechanical noises again, clicks, winding noises. I feel a strange pressure building between my ears.
There are two men in the room with me. They're doctors. Somehow I know this. Maybe it's because they're wearing white coats? I feel like I knew before I thought about it.
There's another big click, and more things sliding around inside my head. The world has color again. I still can't move. There's more winding noises.
"Very clever what they can build these days," says a doctor man. He reaches behind my head and I feel something long sliding out of my brain. Very, very long. I should be dead. I try to imagine how far into my head it was, and I gag, only I don't because I can't move. It keeps sliding out. I can't feel where it was inside, only where it moves through the skull.
Finally he pulls his hand back. There's a big brass key in his fingers, covered in blood and a little hair.
"I hear they've got new ones that keep themselves wound up somehow, just by walking around."
"Man, I'd like to see that."
"Okay, hit the reset and let's get out of here."
***
Today I got a watch in the mail from a relative, one of the old kind that has moving parts but no battery. You have to keep winding it up though. I like it. It makes a nice, quiet ticking noise, very quick and regular. For some reason, the sound is really soothing, like everything's right in the world.