Transition by Xalien ()
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In 1869 I had my throat cut by a Spanish Lord.
I am in agony with a mouthful of blood. My eyes will not open, yet I sense that I am surrounded by darkness. With these few thoughts, terror dawns. Like hot poison in the blood, it surges towards my brain. It is a wall of madness. I long to scream but there is no breath to draw upon. The paralysis is total, extending to every muscle.
Time is passing, meaninglessly.
Eventually, some of the pain subsides, and is replaced by sensations that are, to say the least, unexpected. It appears that my senses are acute despite my morbid state of health. I hear strange sounds. The sounds are, as improbable as it seems, louder, sharper, and more alive than any I can remember. I feel cold through colder fingers, and I'm aware of movement through my motionless body.
What of the sounds? A sharp squeaking. A rusty wheel, and creaking wood.
Through fear and confusion, I consider their meaning, alert enough to speculate. I remain sightless and my thoughts are in chaos. But, God help me, despite these handicaps, my conclusions are certain and they cause me indescribable revulsion and horror.
I know now that I am in a cart — lolling dead in a wooden handcart — being transported to an unspeakable fate.
I believe that many hours have passed since I awoke. My eyes have opened. Now that I can see, what was blind terror is now a purer and sharper dread. The view from inside my dead skull is intense, clearer than sight from living eyes. I see another soulless corpse quietly pushing my cart. It is cloaked in rough sacking that seems willfully cold-blooded, however fitting it is for the occasion. Then I see a face under the hood. It is a face with bloodless eyes and dead skin, yet it is a pointed beauty. It is a woman.
My first sight of her face lifts my morale for a moment, but the terror returns quickly. She trudges onwards to our destination. She is tireless, even though her task is difficult work; the path uneven and the cart heavy.
The surroundings are a mystery to me. I see darkness and little else. But for an unexplained discoloration in the air, all would be black. Perhaps dead eyes can see in the dark? Perhaps there is no light at all. I am desperate to speak, but the paralysis remains, and I cannot draw a breath. My lungs are lifeless and my throat cut.
I am dead. Dead. Dead. Condemned to Death. I wail to myself as I stare through my eyes. The woman pays me no attention whatsoever. My wails are without sound, or indeed any external indication. Would the woman comfort me if she knew I was awake? Fleetingly, I hope so. I am numb, mindless, perhaps mad. Questions rage. Where am I and why? Who is this woman? It seems that I lose consciousness again, but I cannot say for how long. Thoughts emerge once more from the turmoil. I conclude I am neither mad nor mindless. I am conscious. This is not a dream, but I am dead, obviously dead, and the afterlife that I had taken for granted did not exist, somehow does. It is cold and dark and I am mortally afraid. Time passes. I am on my way to oblivion, alive in a dead corpse.
...more at http://www.bloodwilde.com
Bloodwilde is an experimental work, trying to portray a horror story in the first-person, without descending into deep melodrama or cheesy over-the-top writing. Reaction so far has been generally positive, however the most negative comments (not posted here) claim that it is hopelessly melodramatic and overwritten. Ha!
Artwork Comments (3)
SusiQ () 6:32AM | Thu, 06 April 2006
This is brilliant. I was captured with every word. See me hang up my "Gone to another site" when I follow your link.....