Precious Things I: Last Breath
He sits alone in a room, cold and damp. Bathed in artificial light cast by an ugly lamp next to his large leather arm chair. His heart stands still when ripping through his ears comes a blunt, loud knock on wood. Once… Twice… Then silence scares him. He turns to look at the door but refuses to leave his chair.
And again it came, Louder: Once… Twice… But now the stillness calms him. Now a tap… tap… on the window to the right of him. A crash from the window on the left. His head whips from right to left in just enough time to see the shards of glass bouncing upon the carpet. He still refuses to leave his arm chair. He feels a presence enter the room, his calmness exits. Tap… tap… from the window on the right. A whistle from the wind through the window on the left. A fire crackles in the fireplace at his feet. It has not been tended to for hours, yet it continues to burn. Sitting so close to it the souls on his shoes have begun to melt.
His thoughts escape through the wires attached to his head.
A machine behind him constantly pumping and grinding. Stealing his thoughts, memories, secrets, and sharing them with whomever it pleases. “Is it connected to the outside world? Are they connected to the outside world?” He thinks, and it goes right up though the wires into the electrical nothingness.
These Machines, They take care of him, tend to his needs, protect him from harm, they keep track of his blood pressure, heart rate, anxiety, blood sugar. They keep a listening ear to his every thought and word. They keep a watchful eye on his every movement. He might even go as far as to say these machines… love him. They move around the room gracefully, as only these machines can, and he hardly even notices them. Silently floating this way and that.
He can feel something un-mechanical swirling over him, gathering on the ceiling. “The dead are here in the waking world.” He mutters under his breath. The machines record it. His heart beats faster. The machines record it. His breath gets shallow. The machines record it. His hands grip the arms of his worn leather chair, his toes curl, teeth clench, eyes water. The machines record it. “They are here with me, in the quiet.”
Still he sits, no longer alone in this cold, damp room. The lamp next to his chair shuts itself off. It is controlled by the machines. They control the fire, the light, and the air. “Do you control what’s beyond these walls? Through these windows?” He asks of them aloud. The machines record it, but do not reply. “Shhhhhh” he replies to himself. The machines record it. Bathed only now by the light of the fire, the room settles and shifts, and calmness washes over him again. His eyelids grow heavy, heart rate drops. He falls into sleep. The machines record it.
Minutes pass. The machines record it.
Hours pass. The machines record it.
Days pass. The machines record it.
Months pass. The machines record it.
Years pass. The machines record it.
Later:
Awakened by the presence of something standing in front of him he opens his eyes quickly and sees no one, nothing but the still blazing fire. Something behind him now. He dare not turn. It speaks: “Trevor”. (It knows his name?) “I want to show you something”. It says in a deep dark voice sending chills down Trevor’s spine.
“I dare not go with you.” Trevor says trepidly. “I dare not even leave this room.” He says trying to see behind him without actually turning his head. His eyes rolled back so far the iris’ are nearly missing. Eyes gone white, hands gesturing wildly.
“Ah yes. Trapped here by these machines which control you.” Replies the visitor. “But to see this thing, you need not leave this room. You don’t even have to stand up out of your chair.” The visitor put its hand on the top of Trevor’s head, and sinks the points of its fingers deep into his skull. Trevor’s world goes black. His heart flips, his blood evaporates. And through the visitor’s hand, Trevor sees without eyes. Visions of the final day, the day we all shall pass before our makers and be judged and cast into darkness. The giant man with the face of shadows looks down on Trevor and with a long boned, sharpened finger puts the power of anger inside of him, straight through the heart. The machines cannot record this. Trevor keeps his eyes shut tight. The visitor; putting these things in his head. Cities engulfed in fire, rivers taking over towns, death in every shape, size, color, and form was sweeping over everything with an unbiased hand. Then black again. Trevor’s mind was calm and quiet.
“Trevor?” says a calm feminine voice.
“Yes?” he replies
“Open your eyes.”
Trevor’s eyes slowly open. Stretched out before him was a vast audience of faceless beings, all with heads tilted, listening. He stands upon a stage, and they all look eager to hear him speak, or stumble, or die.
“Just do something!” cries one from the back. The rest nod in agreement.
He feels the millions of eyes of the assembly, their distress, anger, sadness, and anxiety. Every last person [thing] in the audience staring with no eyes right into his black pupils. He could feel himself say something, but could not hear what it was. The laughter fills the air as thick as rain. The fingers point. The feet stomp. The ground buckles and cracks. The world falls.
Tap… tap… Trevor felt from the inside of his head. A whistle from the wind blowing through the holes where his blue eyes once were. Then singing. He could hear a song that seemed to come to him from beyond the reach of time and space. It lifts him off the ground. He can no longer feel the machines pumping away, recording him. The crowd’s insane laughter fills the sky thick with black villanous clouds. Replacing the blue with an unrelenting madness. Enormous creatures lumbering through the insanity, grabbing the stars and hurling them to the ground. Smashing the audience between their massive hairy toes. Loving every second of it. The song turns twisted and puposeless. All the rebel angels glaring down on him from heaven’s locked doors with rotted gnarled faces. They had returned, and conquered. It was all theirs now, it was all theirs. They all know his name, and extend a hand of gratitude towards him. They applaud with cold dreary faux enthusiasm. Dusty dry hands slamming together. Pitched laughter as though filtered through nitrous. Long drawling guffaws.
Trevor closes his eyes tight, hands over his ears, and shakes his head violently. “Make it stop! Make them Stop! Please, I want to go home now…”
“But Trevor, such a place is only in your head. Where we want to be. Where we are right now.”
“STOP!”
Calmness washes over him once more. It was quiet on the other side of his eyelids. He slowly opens them and removes his hands from his ears. He sits alone in this cold, damp room. Bathed in artificial light from the lamp next to his oversized arm chair, a fire burning at his feet. The machines recording him once more.
Then came a knocking: Once… Twice… upon the wooden door. He turns to look but does not get out of his chair. He looks down at his hands. They are now wrinkled and frail looking. Trevor rests his head against the back of his chair, takes in a deep breath, and exhales for the very last time. The Machines record this, Trevor’s last interaction with the living world. They mourn his passing and prepare for the next.
…To be continued
"These precious things...
Let them bleed, let them wash away
These precious things...
Let them break their hold over me"
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