Eye in Eye with the Divine -
( Muriel in the depths of wing 1)
Muriel walked through the maze of stairs down into the library, stairs twisting over hallways, wrapping around shelves, and down into the heart of hell. He tapped his foot with his walking, keeping a simple rhythm in his ear, tap, tap, tap , tap. He stopped at the foot of a statue. It stood probably 12 feet high, its head raised up, hands spread wide like a hug. At its base sat a small plaque, engraved with a simple phrase, âBurned are the souls of humanity, like ash they suffocate angels.â
Muriel wrote the phrasing down onto his notebook, turning his head to the door behind him, âWhat a rich place of religious work. I can't say I've seen something quite like it before.â Muriel clicked the notebook closed, lightly kicking a small copper bead by his foot as he continued on his way through.
âIt's truly like walking through a place from a painting,â He strolled through a hall, â Strange, abstract, but aspects intricately human.â
He made a slightly bitter laugh, â Iâll live my last days in a hell with every book known to man, what's writing one more for those who come after me?â
Muriel paused for a moment, âI should really care, but you've got to understand how difficult that can be in a place like this.â
âOli, I'm sorry. I made you a promise, one I can now never make true. I hope you get this message, but I hope you never read it from my hand. I would never wish you to be where I am now. I could never write exactly what I wanted to tell you. The Arwick east side library, furthest shelf north, in the corner, last book, page 32. Just read it for me, would you?â
âYoull live, the war will end one day. I hope in the ashes of the recovering world you can follow it. Donât let your past keep you stuck.â Muriel sat against the shelves, looking down at the words in the notebook.
âPlease, forgive me. I cannot help you, and you cannot help me. Donât hurt yourself trying to save me, I'm as condemned to death as any soldier. Do not join me in death, you have so much more to live for. Not for me, not for an army, but fight for yourself.â
Muriel flipped the page, âGiven anyone else finds this book, you're likely condemned the same as I. Good Fucking Luck.â He slammed the page shut and stood back up.
He grabbed a book off the shelf, throwing it into a small statue in the hall, âFuck your divine ass so much, Die, Die, Die in The Pits of The Hell You Made!â
The book fell to the ground with a light echo. Muriel stared at it for a while, âYou won't hear me. What a waste of time.â Muriel slowly picked up the book and placed it back on the shelf.
He walked on, silent and slow. He closed his eyes, trying his best to pull what was left of himself back together, âI can't let my last moments be broken and stupidly angry.â
âGod, I hate how this place destroys people.â
He takes a moment to stare down at his hands. His head lifts up to the hall in front of him, âI have a quota for a reason. I have to keep pushing forward."
Muriel walked onward, green copper beads rolling down the stairs with him, into the darker and darker halls of this unending place.
He stared into the darkness in front of him, âGood luck? What a fucking joke.â
Deeper and deeper it went, statues began to line the walls like suits of armor, light starving the eyes. Aged copper beads began to line the sides in piles, the footpath cleared between them. It smelled like rotting wood and dried blood. Even the dark couldn't hide the decay, Muriel ran his hand against the shelves. Books missing, shelves tilted or broken, areas damp or rotting with moss. When rooms opened up into larger spaces all he could do was reach into the nothing and hope. Railings, surrounding what he could only assume to be a bell. Below the bell some large open space opened up, the sound of his footsteps seeming to go into nothingness, something expansive and hollow. He dared not try to go down, whatever hell lay below this one he had no desire to experience. He heard for brief moments the rustle of beads, but in the silence he could excuse it as mere hallucination.
Muriel sighed, âWhat cruel torture I made for myself. I either collapse into pieces or last a bit longer forcing my way through this hell. A pitiful grasp at structure.â
âHow easy it is to say I'd rather die here, how hard it is to follow such a thing,â He mused.
The halls bent in strange ways, curves into sharp angles, and halls running through each other from different directions. It was a strange hollow, like being in an empty home, when not even you are really there. Down the hall his eyes seemed to catch, unrecognizable, yet seemingly it stood from the darkness enough for the eyes to notice. It seemed a figure, of odd proportions, hanging much higher into the shelves than himself. He began to feel ill, the smell of blood and rot becoming overwhelming. Even as nausea took hold, his eyes couldn't leave the shadow before him. The tall warped figure seemed to only stand still, perhaps not noticing his presence. He was keeling over, his vision spinning. Muriel clutched at his chest, heaving as he kneeled on the ground. He choked, then coughed up blood and copper beads. He wanted to die, it felt sick. Throat clogged with metal and blood, mind uneasy and dizzy. In a moment he knew that thing had seen him. Its eyes, six at least, glowed into his soul like a lighthouse. In that very same instant it seemed to rush at him. It seemed to grab him, something deeper than skin, like the small prongs of a spider's leg. It was a hard yank, almost like being suddenly pulled to a stop from a train. It didn't help his sickness, only pulling him to his feet to collapse again onto the floor. The thing was gone, and he was god knows where; it didn't matter anyway, it all looked the same. His condition slowly lessened, first the blood and beads stopped, then the coughing, and slowly the dizziness and nausea. Murial was left in a small pool of blood and beads.
âDammit,â he muttered, curled up on the carpet floor, arms clutching his chest.