Crack
Hey, look what the (slightly odd) mind tank produced... :0 It's a couple of chapters of a story!! ;) A psychedelic one at that!
I don't have a plot of of such just yet but if anyone ever reads this feel free to let me know what you think..
[Part one: ]
Crack. The sound of bones snapping. Roaring through her ears like wind on a dark night.
Squeezing her eyes tightly she concentrates on shutting out the screams of primal terror echoing from in front, behind and around her. She is the eye of the storm in a nightmare world. An entity of war, destruction and carnage, such things as could and should only exist in the deepest reaches of dreams, the things you wake still running from.
If this were a dream, she could open her eyes and all the things remaining would only be the bitter taste of half-remembered, unreal memories. But if she is to open her eyes the silence will engulf her, deafen her for the last time. The screaming she can handle because she is bigger than it, almost like she is controlling it, not it her. But the silence of the unknown she knows will shatter the last of her mind. Because silence is louder than anything else.
Then it hits her, like a wave coming in roles, swirling shifting like a relentless mist as it passes around her. And it isn't the decadent stench of rotting flesh that terrifies her. It is repulsive but she can’t relate to it so she is safe from it, it can’t encroach on her mind. It is those things that lure her, draw her into the mist and the mist to her, it is these that terrify her. The smells of childhood, all with memories attached. The iron tang of fresh blood, she can taste it on her tongue now as well, resonating, attacking, overpowering her senses. The smell of age, damp and musty. The smell of detergents, starched and clean, sharp and crisp. Smells that intrude, press in on her, wipe her mind clean, like slate. White walls, like a hospital, everywhere, surrounding, preventing anything from getting in or out. Voices, past present and future buzzing around her. She is spinning. Rather, her thoughts are spinning, swarming like bees drawing closer, louder, round and round, spiraling upward, inward. Out of control.
She opens her eyes.
[Part 2]
Dust motes float in the air, seemingly hanging in time. The weak sunlight filtering in through the window magnifies their dance. The window space is small and high up but even still manages to cast light on the far side of the room.
Although on appearance the space looks a respectable enough place, on closer inspection the wallpaper is beginning to or has been for sometime, pealing at the joins. The mirror is forming black spots with age and, those who took time to inspect further, would find that carpet is faded and the wooden floor boards, that can be seen around the edge, have also begun to rot. Yes, this is most definitely a house that has not been lived in for some considerable time.
It isn’t just the dust motes that are suspended in time. The whole room feels like time has forgotten it. The back dated furnishings and lavish portrait hanging above the grand fireplace live in another time zone.
Blinking twice she opens her eyes but remains frozen, like a stone statue. Her body, as still as the grandfather clock that is next to the door. She remains un-moving on the floor but slowly explores her surroundings with her eyes. They glide over the extravagantly painted ceiling, study the thick wall hangings before retracing their paths to rest on the portrait above the fireplace.
Twitching her nose she takes in the odd smell of the room. She can’t place it though. It smells like something she remembers but she doesn’t know what. It tastes oddly sulphuric she decides as she explores with her tongue, flashing it around her lips like a snake. But there is something else. Something that cannot be smelt, tasted or seen. But there is definitely something. She can feel it in the buzz of the air. Reverberating around her ears, making them scream. As she realises this it gets louder, taking over, ruling her senses. Finally moving, she reaches up to block her ears but it continues, this time it is muffled, as if underwater. She wants to scream. To yell until the world obeys her command and all laws are reversed. But she knows it will do no good so she keeps silent. Keeps staring ahead with a stony concentration as she rises gently to her feat.
Her movement is delicate contrasting with her forceful gaze. The gaze is out of place on a such a small body. The girl is petite and, although battered and rugged though reality, she has the impression of an angle, she should be beautiful. Such innocence, distorted by the reality of living. It didn’t always used to be like this, Once she could smile. Once. She doesn’t remember. She can’t remember. Her mind is trapped in the present always looking forward with no recollection of the past. Whether because it is impossible to look back or because she refuses, scared of her memories, she cannot think of anything but the present. Her thoughts are lined, controlled and structured, locked away from herself.
She steps forward, pausing at the creak of the floorboards, before crossing the room. She is standing in front of the portrait peering into the corner. She can see something, something hidden. Something the artist perhaps added as an afterthought but didn’t have the conviction to portray it in full. But the detail and careful position make it too deliberate to be simply an afterthought. No, the artist most definitely planned it from the beginning. And now that she has seen this she notices other things. The way the battered compass on the oak table points directly to it. The way that the young woman in the painting’s eyes, although on first glance appear to be looking straight forward, are infact, always trained on the thing in the corner, watching it, not scared but just cautious. It is amazing the things you can tell from a painting.
And there are other things. The garland of flowers she holds in her hand are beginning to brown and curl at the edges, more flowers on the table are also dropping as they reach the end of lives. The hands on the clock are pointed to the exact time that the hands on the grandfather clock, that stands, identical to in the picture, in the corner next to the door. Twenty six minutes past three. And, in the corner, the sand in the hourglass is running out.
She flies around. The curtains should be blowing and there should be a murderer with a knife in front of her. Instead there is nothing, The room is silent and still. A shudder runs down her spine and she quickly re-focuses her mind. She can’t be scared. Because fear stops thought. And she needs to think.. Without thought there is not point in anything.
It is the same silence that always comes. The pressing silence. The silence that nothing is there. And yet so heavy it impounds on her thoughts. Stops her functioning because in the silence hang tiny partials, droplets of fear. Terror.
The door to the next room suddenly swings open with a click. Not fast. Just swings, like a door does. And around her the room is changing. Carpets changing at the blink of an eye. When she turns around the walls have changes. Shelves where windows were, tiles instead of wall hangings. Even the dimensions of the room are different, it is smaller. Not tight or snug small, just smaller. There is still a fireplace, although it is less grand, more practical. And it is in a different place; where the door used to be.
The picture is the last thing to go. And within that it is the hourglass. But then even that its gone and now it is a mirror reflecting the girls eyes. Open and wide looking everywhere at once. They portray almost all human emotions, fear, panic, terror, confusion. Interest, intellect. But they are missing the essential ones; Love, Happiness, fulfilment and content
Ok, that it. What do you think? I have started to continue it but... :/