Everyone wishes they could change the past.

Saturday, 17 September 2011

all comprehension...

Why? Mu.

I have seen and watched and observed things which no human, in a nice and kind and good world would never have to see. If there is a god out there as religions claim to be, I have seen it in all of it's glory; the pinnacle of beauty and the zenith of ugliness. The wildly inhuman and yet so monstrously human thing that has existed; something both primal and advanced. The alpha; the omega. The beginning; the end. The face of God; the existence of a deity, realised and made total in one moment.

That, that, that can't be helped. The urge to write; to expand; to never stop and to spread the word, I am in it's thrall. If I start, I cannot stop. But I must speak of this to someone - a real human being, not some copy; not some duplicate; not some former human who went into God's command instead of sticking to the cause.

I'm doing it again and again and again; I don't think that about her, and yet the idea comes into my mind and spreads and propagates; it commands me to type those hateful things that I do not think. It tries to bring me into the belief, so I must resist it.

I shall speak of what has infected me; the sinful despair that has overtaken me. Perhaps I am doing all of this to cope, and it's not what I think it is; maybe I'm typing so I don't start crying. Little matter.

On previous occasions, elucidation about the matter of the temperature in the room was given by a certain individual, also known as me. At certain times, normally when I was typing posts (but it happened when I wasn't, too), the temperature of the apartment would come crashing down, and I'd grumble and get on with it. So far, so good.

It happened earlier this night; I was in the living room, drinking some orange juice; the temperature crashed, and I wrapped myself in a blanket and buried myself in the couch. But then I used my eyes; the orange juice in the glass began to freeze. Even for the English autumn, this is unseasonable; what could be so cold as to freeze orange juice? And why was it happening? I, my teeth chattering, unwrapped myself and looked around; I creeped into my bedroom, and found nothing. I left it, and kept the door unlocked, just in case. I checked every room: each time, the same. Check it, find naught, leave and lock. Until I found the last room. Vanitas'.

I rested a hand upon the door handle, my breath crystallising in front of me; I shuddered with apprehension, and began to twist the door knob. It didn't stop; it was unlocked on both her side and mine. The knob twisted more and more; until it turned no more, and I put my weight against the door, easing it open. And then I fell into the door; or, rather, something came out of it.

Tendrils of the darkest black ever seen by mankind shot from the doorframe, racing to the ceiling; I felt a firm pressure around my neck, and no weight on my feet; and then I felt it all come down upon my back, as something threw me bac (clenching my neck all the while), dragging me across the floor as one would a ragdoll. I had closed my eyes in shock; I opened them, and awoke to find myself staring into a world of darkness. Shifting shadows littered my vision, pushing against one another, shoving one each other back and around.

I was pinned to the floor; I could feel that at least one of my bones had broke, from the pain I could feel; I had no doubt that being thrown across the apartment would have taken me through at least one table. Bruises were forming on my back, if nothing else. But the dark tendril still held my neck; I could just see it. But I wasn't looking at that. I was looking into the sky above me, where It stood.

If there is a god in the universe, this is the face it would have; a face with no identity, or with a hundred thousand identities. In the form of man, and yet not man; perhaps an imitation, or perhaps man is the imitation of it. Not a hair upon it; fallows where eyes may have been, but were there was now only skin. Not a mouth, not a nose, no ears. The face which is not a face; the face of God.

And it was looking at this face that I felt like a child once more; innocent once more; alone once more. How I wanted to touch that face with my hands; to run my child's fingers across it; to be closer to it then I was. But it was in looking at it that I realised that even in the trance of childhood, I have been tempered by the winds of age. Distrust of the Authority; but, above all, the ability to look and to know. This was not a face of a friend; this was a face of a killer. This was not the face of a father; this was the face of my fate. It was nobody's face; it was a face nobody should have.

And this fitted itself into my head in about five seconds. I could feel my life ebbing away; looking into the pale, faceless-face of my death; the inky darkness crushing my breath from me and the ceaseless pain that permeated what remained of my existence. How I would have liked to have stopped; how I would have liked to closed my eyes; how I would have liked just to give in.

And then it faded; the darkness went away. Maybe it ran; maybe I blinked. But it stopped, all the same; it left as soon as it had arrived. Maybe it went back into the bedroom; maybe it went through the window, to other worlds. The Slender Man had come, and he had gone.

And all that was left was Vanitas, in the doorway, staring at me. And I stared back. I stood, not daring to take my eyes from the non-human; the faux-human. The proxy. I went into the room where my bed lied, and closed the door; I turned the key in the lock. Not a word was said between us, and all that has happened is pleading from her, to let her in.

That's it. That was... it. I do not know how I recalled the Event as well as I did; perhaps more evidence in favour of the Compulsion?

... why am I fixating on this? It doesn't matter any more. Does anything?
-Achromatic Morality-

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