Post by Kentucky on Apr 12, 2019 5:11:28 GMT
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The Madman
The madman had dug his own pit.
There he was; a fever of screams and babbling, striking fruitlessly against the roots that stood in his way. He had been here for years, traveling peacefully, trying not to anger The Pocket… but he was tired. Tired of the blisters on his feet. Tired of his parched throat. Tired of forgetting his family. They were but blips on the horizon now, the face of his mom, his daughter, and his wife trapped in perpetual limbo. They were almost gone now… ashes in the wind.
The madman does not remember his name. He once had a friend who called him “Pears” because he was holding a can of the aforementioned food. The madman pushed him into a field of poppies and watched their vines stretch over his arms, dragging him into the earth. That was sixty nights ago and the madman missed him dearly, but he did not know why. He supposed he missed being free, missed his companion, missed the world outside. Five days ago he found a shovel and started digging in the hopes he’d break a water line or at least find something. It was a stupid plan, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like anything mattered anymore anyways.
Of course it had collapsed and trapped him down there, some tunnel barely wide enough to fit his scrunched body. He had felt his ankle snap, now but an elongated lump of flesh he had to drag with him. The shovel had disappeared and there was no light. He didn’t need light. He hadn’t needed light for the past however many years and he didn’t need light now. He tried to climb out but the hole proved too steep and his shovel was nowhere to be found… amidst the darkness, he presumed. It was hiding from him. Things had always had a habit of hiding from him. Behind trees, in gardens, from cars, behind doors, under beds and tablecloths.
He was never one to give up when he was angry. Anger drove him. Anger made him. The madman used to have pills for that sort of thing, but they had taken that from him too. First his mother’s face, then his wife’s, then his daughter’s, and then they took his medication. He supposed that he had thought one too many times about overdosing and then one day the FORK-TONGUED DEVIL was stealing his pills and dumping them into the field of poppies and then he was gone. Just… like… that. His body, his memories, his face. Ashes in the wind.
The madman was enraged. After a day had passed and he finally gave up hope on escaping the cavern, he forced himself through. He drug his knuckles along the walls until they bled and they bled the dirt too. He was covered in sweat and bile, vomiting at the smell. He would dig for an hour at a time and then stop. He’d try and sleep but would wake up in a puddle of his own puke and blood. The cavern went on forever, never growing larger, but there was only one way out and he knew it. Even if there was no way out… what did it even matter.
He was skinny beyond his years. He first realized it in truth when the gagging turned to blood and the blood turned into dry heaving. W h a t’s… h app e n ing? To m e . . .
The madman refused to cry. Just keep digging. His rib-cage breathed out of his chest, rubbing against rock in the dark. He went like this for three days. Total darkness, he had no vision in those days, no senses but the gritting of teeth and the scratching of nails on dirt. He clenched his mouth shut until one of his teeth bent and blood poured from his gums. He did not care. Pain was of no concern. There was one way out of here.
On the fourth day he entered an opening. His fingers were broken. His arms were useless. He had nearly bled out. The madman was nothing but a sobbing mess, guttural cries etching from his wide mouth and echoing down the opening. But there was an opening. His eyes burned intensely for five minutes and then they came through. There he saw the roots; braided into one another as a quilted barrier, intricate fluorescent lights that illuminated no more of the cavern than a foot past what they protected. Past that was nothing but the dark; the madman knew where he had to go.
He drug himself over to the roots and lashed out at them but it was of no use. His arms were worthless. He finally fell asleep in the kind light and when he woke up, his fingers were still broken but his arms were livened. He drug himself to one of the cave walls and after much strain, he leaned against it while standing.
There he was; a fever of screams and babbling, striking fruitlessly against the roots that stood in his way.
He tried pulling at first but found he couldn’t get a good grip on the near elastic roots with broken fingers. He tried slamming his hands against them next; that made the pain in his fingers numb so he kept going until he couldn’t feel them anymore. Next, he tried scratching but that didn’t work as he didn’t have control of said nails. The madman howled out in agony, pitch rising and lowering at every interval. He screamed until his throat gave out and he felt something in his throat give out. He sat there… he was so thirsty and he was so hungry… the madman turned to the roots.
It was only natural. He bit down upon them, gnawing upon the red, veined tubes. He didn’t expect them to burst like they did, nor did he expect the thick drink inside. He accepted the root’s gift, a starved fool with little else on the mind other than the one way out.
He sat down, tired. His ankle was still broken. Of course it was. The anger had passed him… but then it flared up again as the roots began to quiver.
Loathsome fear dragged the madman shivering against the wall while the roots constricted and contorted against one another. Silhouettes in the weeds were dragged from cavern ceilings and into the floors, some of them human, some of them but amalgamations of different shapes (they used to be) but none of them welcoming. He watched and he cried.
Something touched his shoulder and he cried more, before it swam to the back of his neck and he felt a tiny prick, before something funneled into the back of his skin. He couldn’t move; he was paralyzed the second it entered his spine. The roots swam up the madman’s neck and fused with his brain, his mind.
Mom? Mommy… I miss you… I missed you mommy. Oh God, Fran, I… I’m so sorry. I missed you so much. Where’s Dahlia? Is she… I didn’t mean to hurt her. I swear, I didn’t, I just… I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.
The roots pulled him into the mass and his brain was assimilated with the rest. The madman’s mother, Fran, and Dahlia disappeared just as quickly as they had come. The mother died eventually, never forgetting her son. Fran and Dahlia recovered but the wounds were still fresh. None of them ever knew what became of the madman…
There’s only one way out or there’s none… or there’s none, or there’s none…
The Madman
The madman had dug his own pit.
There he was; a fever of screams and babbling, striking fruitlessly against the roots that stood in his way. He had been here for years, traveling peacefully, trying not to anger The Pocket… but he was tired. Tired of the blisters on his feet. Tired of his parched throat. Tired of forgetting his family. They were but blips on the horizon now, the face of his mom, his daughter, and his wife trapped in perpetual limbo. They were almost gone now… ashes in the wind.
The madman does not remember his name. He once had a friend who called him “Pears” because he was holding a can of the aforementioned food. The madman pushed him into a field of poppies and watched their vines stretch over his arms, dragging him into the earth. That was sixty nights ago and the madman missed him dearly, but he did not know why. He supposed he missed being free, missed his companion, missed the world outside. Five days ago he found a shovel and started digging in the hopes he’d break a water line or at least find something. It was a stupid plan, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like anything mattered anymore anyways.
Of course it had collapsed and trapped him down there, some tunnel barely wide enough to fit his scrunched body. He had felt his ankle snap, now but an elongated lump of flesh he had to drag with him. The shovel had disappeared and there was no light. He didn’t need light. He hadn’t needed light for the past however many years and he didn’t need light now. He tried to climb out but the hole proved too steep and his shovel was nowhere to be found… amidst the darkness, he presumed. It was hiding from him. Things had always had a habit of hiding from him. Behind trees, in gardens, from cars, behind doors, under beds and tablecloths.
He was never one to give up when he was angry. Anger drove him. Anger made him. The madman used to have pills for that sort of thing, but they had taken that from him too. First his mother’s face, then his wife’s, then his daughter’s, and then they took his medication. He supposed that he had thought one too many times about overdosing and then one day the FORK-TONGUED DEVIL was stealing his pills and dumping them into the field of poppies and then he was gone. Just… like… that. His body, his memories, his face. Ashes in the wind.
The madman was enraged. After a day had passed and he finally gave up hope on escaping the cavern, he forced himself through. He drug his knuckles along the walls until they bled and they bled the dirt too. He was covered in sweat and bile, vomiting at the smell. He would dig for an hour at a time and then stop. He’d try and sleep but would wake up in a puddle of his own puke and blood. The cavern went on forever, never growing larger, but there was only one way out and he knew it. Even if there was no way out… what did it even matter.
He was skinny beyond his years. He first realized it in truth when the gagging turned to blood and the blood turned into dry heaving. W h a t’s… h app e n ing? To m e . . .
The madman refused to cry. Just keep digging. His rib-cage breathed out of his chest, rubbing against rock in the dark. He went like this for three days. Total darkness, he had no vision in those days, no senses but the gritting of teeth and the scratching of nails on dirt. He clenched his mouth shut until one of his teeth bent and blood poured from his gums. He did not care. Pain was of no concern. There was one way out of here.
On the fourth day he entered an opening. His fingers were broken. His arms were useless. He had nearly bled out. The madman was nothing but a sobbing mess, guttural cries etching from his wide mouth and echoing down the opening. But there was an opening. His eyes burned intensely for five minutes and then they came through. There he saw the roots; braided into one another as a quilted barrier, intricate fluorescent lights that illuminated no more of the cavern than a foot past what they protected. Past that was nothing but the dark; the madman knew where he had to go.
He drug himself over to the roots and lashed out at them but it was of no use. His arms were worthless. He finally fell asleep in the kind light and when he woke up, his fingers were still broken but his arms were livened. He drug himself to one of the cave walls and after much strain, he leaned against it while standing.
There he was; a fever of screams and babbling, striking fruitlessly against the roots that stood in his way.
He tried pulling at first but found he couldn’t get a good grip on the near elastic roots with broken fingers. He tried slamming his hands against them next; that made the pain in his fingers numb so he kept going until he couldn’t feel them anymore. Next, he tried scratching but that didn’t work as he didn’t have control of said nails. The madman howled out in agony, pitch rising and lowering at every interval. He screamed until his throat gave out and he felt something in his throat give out. He sat there… he was so thirsty and he was so hungry… the madman turned to the roots.
It was only natural. He bit down upon them, gnawing upon the red, veined tubes. He didn’t expect them to burst like they did, nor did he expect the thick drink inside. He accepted the root’s gift, a starved fool with little else on the mind other than the one way out.
He sat down, tired. His ankle was still broken. Of course it was. The anger had passed him… but then it flared up again as the roots began to quiver.
Loathsome fear dragged the madman shivering against the wall while the roots constricted and contorted against one another. Silhouettes in the weeds were dragged from cavern ceilings and into the floors, some of them human, some of them but amalgamations of different shapes (they used to be) but none of them welcoming. He watched and he cried.
Something touched his shoulder and he cried more, before it swam to the back of his neck and he felt a tiny prick, before something funneled into the back of his skin. He couldn’t move; he was paralyzed the second it entered his spine. The roots swam up the madman’s neck and fused with his brain, his mind.
Mom? Mommy… I miss you… I missed you mommy. Oh God, Fran, I… I’m so sorry. I missed you so much. Where’s Dahlia? Is she… I didn’t mean to hurt her. I swear, I didn’t, I just… I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.
The roots pulled him into the mass and his brain was assimilated with the rest. The madman’s mother, Fran, and Dahlia disappeared just as quickly as they had come. The mother died eventually, never forgetting her son. Fran and Dahlia recovered but the wounds were still fresh. None of them ever knew what became of the madman…
There’s only one way out or there’s none… or there’s none, or there’s none…