Disclaimer: Jhonen Vasquez owns all....yeees.....happy Vasquez.
Note: Told from the point of view of a victim....hopefully it's not too confusing-let me know if it is. Please read and review. Oh yeah...this is written at eight AM after a completely sleepless night-sorry if its discombobulated; confusing and has damned bad spelling/grammer. Working title.
Alone with the Deafening Silence
Oh God, he's coming back. I can feel it in my bones, I know that he's returning. Part of me wants his company-any company...a voice to talk through the deafening silence that envelopes me. But with his return comes the pain...pain like I had never imagined before; pain unlike what any human being should ever be put through. He's always plesant enough at first, talking about how he hates humanity, how people screw themselves over yet refuse to believe it...shit like that. I used to listen-sometimes I still do...but usually...usually, I let the words slide over my brain, let his voice fill the emptiness that my prolonged isolation has left. His voice, any voice, is better than the silence.
His civility, however bleak; however wretched, never lasts though. He always stops speaking at some point, and then the pain starts. The silence that once filled my mind is replaced by shrieks; my own shrieks. The pain blocks everything until I can't move; until I can't think. And then it ends, and he leaves...and I'm alone with the silence again-the silence and my own degrading thoughts.
Sometimes he leaves me alone for days. It has to be days, though I can never tell, there is no clock in my little room; no windows...but it has to be days. In those times, I try and remember-remember my life before the horrible pain he inflicts; before the deadly silence. I try to remember why he brought me to where I am now-I can't. He tells me it's because I was mean to him, but I can't remember that. I don't remember what I look like or how to get home...I don't remember my friends or what I was doing only weeks earlier. Sometimes I don't even remember who he is, or the pain that he inflicts. I pick at my brain, trying to find something to hold onto; a small piece of identity. I can sometimes remember fragments of my childhood: my eleventh birthday party and the horse shaped cake my mother made for me; my first soccer game in elementry school; a little drawing I did of my family when my father died...but these memories are blurred, as though I'm looking through the warped stained glass that adorned my parent's bedroom. Sometimes I search my memory for pain...I can never find any. I can remember when I broke my leg-I thought I'd die from pain then. But I survived, and the small; disturbing memory gives me hope that I will survive the pain I feel now, however intisified it may be.
He's coming...footsteps, steady, but slow. I can picture him, walking quietly, with his head lowered and eyes half closed. He'd been quiet the last few times he visited, bringing no words, only pain and one stale biscuit. Something's been bothering him, and in my free moments of sanity, I wonder what. What could be bothering a man that takes such pleasure from the pain of others? What could be bothering someone who hates humanity the way he does? I wish I could understand him. If I understood him, then perhaps I could escape; perhaps I would never have gotten into the position I'm in now. If I understood him, perhaps I'd be the one pulling the switches, rambling to deaf ears...
He's close, so very close. The creak of a door, and he's in the room. My sore and tired body tightens in anticipation of the agony that he brings and he fumbles skillfully around in the dark. "sometimes," words! Speaking! A voice other than my own! I listen, entranced by the concept that he would speak now, that the pain would perhaps come later...after gloreous words. I don't care what he says...the spell of lonliness has been shattered, if just for this moment, and I cling tightly to the fragments, hoping like an idiot that my torture cannot rebuild itself. "Sometimes, I want to surrender to the void," his voice always amazes me, it's calm and soft and dark...sometimes, he'll cackle, which'll set my hair on end and my mind aflame...but not now. Now his words sooth....
"I want to give in to it...to die. But death won't help me. I can't escape this miserable reality, and these people who haunt my waking dreams..." Footsteps as he speaks-he's pacing in the dark. "I don't believe in a God or a devil...they are just figments for a demented society, searching for something in which to put faith. Searching for someone to blame...I am a figment, much like these false deities...I will always be blamed." A sigh, and the footsteps stop. Part of me wants to speak, to say something to him...ease his thoughts. But my mind and mouth are dry, and I'm so very very afraid...so my tongue is still as I listen. Listen to his rambles, listen to his thoughts. Everyone needs a confident, and I need to hear.
A bitter laugh, and the words resume. "No, I don't believe in a devil or God-but I do believe in Hell. Where else could we be; what else could explane this place; me? There is no Heaven...and there is no God nor devil, but there is a hell. Oh, there is a hell. Do you agree?" Spark! A flame! I squint, turned my head away from the sudden light, so dim yet blinding. His face is near mine, wide eyes staring, searching. Is he trying to find a meaning through me, his victim; his forced confidant? "What else could there be?" His voice is higher, louder...I can feel his breath; smell it. Is he truly expecting an answer? Or does he just need to hear himself speak as much as I need to hear him speak? "Tell me, what else is there?!" he shrieks, and I pull away as best I can. Whatever had soothed me before, is gone and the intensity of his voice hurts my ears, so adjusted to the quiet.
The flame is dying, leaving the room cold and black. He's still here though-I can feel him. His breath leaves my face, yet I can still feel him. "I don't know why I ask you," he says, his voice is once again soft, but the comfort does not return. "You're always so quiet...you're not like the others...you so quiet. You don't beg, you don't plead. So quiet." Footsteps. I brace myself, wait for the pain...the searing of all my nerves. I wait, but it doesn't come. "I'll be back," the words echo through the darkness. Footsteps, and the creak of a door. "Don't die." The door closes and I can hear no more of him.
I sigh, but it's not audible, as my head droops against my chest. I want down, I want to curl up in a little ball...but I'm stuck where I am. And I'm alone again...alone with my thoughts that make no sense. Alone with the darkness and the deafening silence.
Note: Told from the point of view of a victim....hopefully it's not too confusing-let me know if it is. Please read and review. Oh yeah...this is written at eight AM after a completely sleepless night-sorry if its discombobulated; confusing and has damned bad spelling/grammer. Working title.
Alone with the Deafening Silence
Oh God, he's coming back. I can feel it in my bones, I know that he's returning. Part of me wants his company-any company...a voice to talk through the deafening silence that envelopes me. But with his return comes the pain...pain like I had never imagined before; pain unlike what any human being should ever be put through. He's always plesant enough at first, talking about how he hates humanity, how people screw themselves over yet refuse to believe it...shit like that. I used to listen-sometimes I still do...but usually...usually, I let the words slide over my brain, let his voice fill the emptiness that my prolonged isolation has left. His voice, any voice, is better than the silence.
His civility, however bleak; however wretched, never lasts though. He always stops speaking at some point, and then the pain starts. The silence that once filled my mind is replaced by shrieks; my own shrieks. The pain blocks everything until I can't move; until I can't think. And then it ends, and he leaves...and I'm alone with the silence again-the silence and my own degrading thoughts.
Sometimes he leaves me alone for days. It has to be days, though I can never tell, there is no clock in my little room; no windows...but it has to be days. In those times, I try and remember-remember my life before the horrible pain he inflicts; before the deadly silence. I try to remember why he brought me to where I am now-I can't. He tells me it's because I was mean to him, but I can't remember that. I don't remember what I look like or how to get home...I don't remember my friends or what I was doing only weeks earlier. Sometimes I don't even remember who he is, or the pain that he inflicts. I pick at my brain, trying to find something to hold onto; a small piece of identity. I can sometimes remember fragments of my childhood: my eleventh birthday party and the horse shaped cake my mother made for me; my first soccer game in elementry school; a little drawing I did of my family when my father died...but these memories are blurred, as though I'm looking through the warped stained glass that adorned my parent's bedroom. Sometimes I search my memory for pain...I can never find any. I can remember when I broke my leg-I thought I'd die from pain then. But I survived, and the small; disturbing memory gives me hope that I will survive the pain I feel now, however intisified it may be.
He's coming...footsteps, steady, but slow. I can picture him, walking quietly, with his head lowered and eyes half closed. He'd been quiet the last few times he visited, bringing no words, only pain and one stale biscuit. Something's been bothering him, and in my free moments of sanity, I wonder what. What could be bothering a man that takes such pleasure from the pain of others? What could be bothering someone who hates humanity the way he does? I wish I could understand him. If I understood him, then perhaps I could escape; perhaps I would never have gotten into the position I'm in now. If I understood him, perhaps I'd be the one pulling the switches, rambling to deaf ears...
He's close, so very close. The creak of a door, and he's in the room. My sore and tired body tightens in anticipation of the agony that he brings and he fumbles skillfully around in the dark. "sometimes," words! Speaking! A voice other than my own! I listen, entranced by the concept that he would speak now, that the pain would perhaps come later...after gloreous words. I don't care what he says...the spell of lonliness has been shattered, if just for this moment, and I cling tightly to the fragments, hoping like an idiot that my torture cannot rebuild itself. "Sometimes, I want to surrender to the void," his voice always amazes me, it's calm and soft and dark...sometimes, he'll cackle, which'll set my hair on end and my mind aflame...but not now. Now his words sooth....
"I want to give in to it...to die. But death won't help me. I can't escape this miserable reality, and these people who haunt my waking dreams..." Footsteps as he speaks-he's pacing in the dark. "I don't believe in a God or a devil...they are just figments for a demented society, searching for something in which to put faith. Searching for someone to blame...I am a figment, much like these false deities...I will always be blamed." A sigh, and the footsteps stop. Part of me wants to speak, to say something to him...ease his thoughts. But my mind and mouth are dry, and I'm so very very afraid...so my tongue is still as I listen. Listen to his rambles, listen to his thoughts. Everyone needs a confident, and I need to hear.
A bitter laugh, and the words resume. "No, I don't believe in a devil or God-but I do believe in Hell. Where else could we be; what else could explane this place; me? There is no Heaven...and there is no God nor devil, but there is a hell. Oh, there is a hell. Do you agree?" Spark! A flame! I squint, turned my head away from the sudden light, so dim yet blinding. His face is near mine, wide eyes staring, searching. Is he trying to find a meaning through me, his victim; his forced confidant? "What else could there be?" His voice is higher, louder...I can feel his breath; smell it. Is he truly expecting an answer? Or does he just need to hear himself speak as much as I need to hear him speak? "Tell me, what else is there?!" he shrieks, and I pull away as best I can. Whatever had soothed me before, is gone and the intensity of his voice hurts my ears, so adjusted to the quiet.
The flame is dying, leaving the room cold and black. He's still here though-I can feel him. His breath leaves my face, yet I can still feel him. "I don't know why I ask you," he says, his voice is once again soft, but the comfort does not return. "You're always so quiet...you're not like the others...you so quiet. You don't beg, you don't plead. So quiet." Footsteps. I brace myself, wait for the pain...the searing of all my nerves. I wait, but it doesn't come. "I'll be back," the words echo through the darkness. Footsteps, and the creak of a door. "Don't die." The door closes and I can hear no more of him.
I sigh, but it's not audible, as my head droops against my chest. I want down, I want to curl up in a little ball...but I'm stuck where I am. And I'm alone again...alone with my thoughts that make no sense. Alone with the darkness and the deafening silence.