prompt: anonymous requested banicarlos, #3
list of prompts
written 2015
this is only a few words shy of a neat 500 words and fresh off the pan, unedited. totally unedited. i can’t sleep. send help
*certain inaccuracies may follow. ive basically lost track of this series two years ago c’: anon i am sorry this took literal months
It’s dark. The man has forgotten something.
It was neither the darkness of extinguished candles, nor was it a dim room of drawn curtains. He might have been floating. He might have been lying on solid ground. Asleep, awake- there is no difference.
The man might be trying to forget something.
He dreams. Perhaps he might be seeing another possibility; one where a sadistic mechanism does not steadily rotates its gears, leading its many hands to unwanted fates.
There might have been a grand palace. Perhaps a humble cottage. He finds that he wouldn't have minded either, for there was always a person. He thinks he might have liked this person. A cozy sort of warmth slowly grows as the person begins to take incomplete shape. Warm colours, hearty laughter, the person radiated a sense of home.
The man wasn't quite sure what home is.
His hands were good at something. He was good at something, or so he thinks. The warmth grew as he thought of burning logs, something sizzling, and an appetizing aroma. Those were things to eat, he remembers. Eating is good. It gave strength for another day of work, and felt good on his…tongue? Yes, tongue. It lies inside a mouth and is a muscle that tastes. Could tongues be eaten?
The man might be desperately forcing himself to remember.
He might have been happy where-ever he was, with that person and his food. Did that person like to eat? He likes to think that the person did.
He lies there for an eternal instant, trapped between the dreaming and reality. The sleeper, in that nothingness, has almost everything in his grasp.
A forceful tug snaps him from his reverie- his images, sensations, everything changed. Like a knife, he remembers. They are all sharper and the image he sees cuts into his very being.
Shrill cries threw off his focus. A small bundle, an infant, was next to- could it be? - That person. They were just as he had imagined, had remembered. Warm colours, warm skin, radiant smile. There was another thing. It was crying, too, but unlike the baby, its cries were ugly, guttural. An iron fragrance floods the air as the person bit down and repeated the action steadily, constantly. Parts of that person were disappearing, and yet the ugly screaming grew louder…
That person was disappearing, and yet they were being added to. With every bite of themselves they took, the other presence grew dimmer. The more they tore from themselves, the more they gained.
What does the Ouroboros gain from consuming itself?
It continued until the other presence was reduced to nothing. He watched their much reduced vessel inch its way forwards in a pathetic attempt to reach the small bundle.
A curious glint of red lay among the carnage- the walking breath of the person gradually receded inside a small crystalline structure. He couldn't reach it.
“Please… Don't leave…”
