Torment (Sisyphus, G)
Title: Torment
Character: Sisyphus
Word count: 553
Rating: G
100moods prompt: 39. Exhausted (My table)
Summary: At first he thought he had received the cruelest punishment possible
At first he thought, when he could still think, that he had received the cruelest punishment possible: to lose track of time, to be suspended in a murky forever that will never change, that will never bring a breeze to his face to dry his ever-pouring sweat, that will never allow rays of sun to play across his brow, that will never grant him a second to stretch away the tensions piling upon one another in his shoulders and back.
He remembers vaguely that he used to count, in the beginning of this task that has no end; count how many times he went up and how many he scuttled down again, following the quicker descent of the rock of his torment. For a while, he recalls, it was an obsession, this counting - until the numbers became so high that he couldn't find words to describe them anymore and even language forsook him, leaving him, utterly alone now.
He remembers that he used to sing sometimes when going after the rock (during the push upward he couldn't spare the breath). But his voice grew thin as he forgot the words that he had known before. For a while he sang about his rock. Sang about darkness, roughness, blood, stone. But as the rock expanded and became his whole world, the only thing he saw, the only thing he dreamt about as his body continued to work, he lost the words about his rock too. His whole reality was hard, and dark, and utterly beyond naming.
So now he does not speak or sing and remembers, sometimes, that he had a voice but cannot fathom what that was like. The only sounds he makes come from deep within; deep grunts of a pain and a labouring that is constant.
Working his muscles, that almost creak at that point at the end of the slope, at the final point that should be the end but isn't, he pushes the rock up, once more, meaningless. It balances for a moment before, inevitably, rolling away from his hands, pulling him with it, down down down, once more, meaningless.
There is a haze in his head and time keeps on slowing down around him; he hopes that one day maybe it will stop altogether. And, later he realised: that is his final torment - the final stroke of genius from the gods - that despite the fact that his grip on time is weakening more and more and this is a horrible punishment in itself, his hope still lives like a small fanned flame. Every time, every time, he hopes that this time, maybe this time, he has exerted just the right amount of pressure and the rock will teeter, finding its balance, settling on an invisible point and staying there.
Despite the fact that he has no language, and no mouth to use it with - despite the fact that his body is uncoiling itself in a sense, disassociating from what was once a working mind, flowing away like time itself - despite the fact that he will be here, on this hilltop, forever, forever, he still hopes. The greatest torment is that his hope still flares up every single time, like a loyal fire.
The gods are not merciful, and do not think about him.
Character: Sisyphus
Word count: 553
Rating: G
100moods prompt: 39. Exhausted (My table)
Summary: At first he thought he had received the cruelest punishment possible
At first he thought, when he could still think, that he had received the cruelest punishment possible: to lose track of time, to be suspended in a murky forever that will never change, that will never bring a breeze to his face to dry his ever-pouring sweat, that will never allow rays of sun to play across his brow, that will never grant him a second to stretch away the tensions piling upon one another in his shoulders and back.
He remembers vaguely that he used to count, in the beginning of this task that has no end; count how many times he went up and how many he scuttled down again, following the quicker descent of the rock of his torment. For a while, he recalls, it was an obsession, this counting - until the numbers became so high that he couldn't find words to describe them anymore and even language forsook him, leaving him, utterly alone now.
He remembers that he used to sing sometimes when going after the rock (during the push upward he couldn't spare the breath). But his voice grew thin as he forgot the words that he had known before. For a while he sang about his rock. Sang about darkness, roughness, blood, stone. But as the rock expanded and became his whole world, the only thing he saw, the only thing he dreamt about as his body continued to work, he lost the words about his rock too. His whole reality was hard, and dark, and utterly beyond naming.
So now he does not speak or sing and remembers, sometimes, that he had a voice but cannot fathom what that was like. The only sounds he makes come from deep within; deep grunts of a pain and a labouring that is constant.
Working his muscles, that almost creak at that point at the end of the slope, at the final point that should be the end but isn't, he pushes the rock up, once more, meaningless. It balances for a moment before, inevitably, rolling away from his hands, pulling him with it, down down down, once more, meaningless.
There is a haze in his head and time keeps on slowing down around him; he hopes that one day maybe it will stop altogether. And, later he realised: that is his final torment - the final stroke of genius from the gods - that despite the fact that his grip on time is weakening more and more and this is a horrible punishment in itself, his hope still lives like a small fanned flame. Every time, every time, he hopes that this time, maybe this time, he has exerted just the right amount of pressure and the rock will teeter, finding its balance, settling on an invisible point and staying there.
Despite the fact that he has no language, and no mouth to use it with - despite the fact that his body is uncoiling itself in a sense, disassociating from what was once a working mind, flowing away like time itself - despite the fact that he will be here, on this hilltop, forever, forever, he still hopes. The greatest torment is that his hope still flares up every single time, like a loyal fire.
The gods are not merciful, and do not think about him.