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Judgment

An encounter.

By alissa Published 2 years ago 4 min read
1

He died the day he was born.

Or—rather, the day he wanted to be reborn. In the cusp of time where people start swaying on their seat, eyes glazed over in muted light and fumbling hands, when there’s disregard to how many tequila shots they’ve thrown back and mouths are filled with the sour tang of vomit, he decided that enough was enough. With whiskey thick on his teeth and a viscous accent only drunk men have, he decided that alcohol doesn’t mix well with his blood. That erasing his memory every night was fun at first, but now his early adult life was only present in frames of waking up on the bathroom floor with a hand curled around a beer bottle. He paid all six months’ worth of a tab and stumbled out the door. Ice crunched beneath his boots and the streetlamps flickered seared honey, a crisp February night. A moonless night, cold and biting like a fresh glass of—no. He is definitely not thinking about entering the bar again. A heavy sigh. He waited by the stoplight, red hand haunting in the mist. There were few cars driving at this hour; two yellow eyes sliding against the icy road like a prowling coyote. He tested the word crisp in his mouth, the way the tongue rolled the word forward with hot air behind his teeth. He leaned heavily against the pole, face flushed and warm despite the weather. And because there were few cars and the stoplight made him wait for more than seven minutes, he decided to cross the street. It was a crisp February night. There was no sound except for crunching ice and skidding wheels, yellow eyes locked on its dinner, metal teeth gnawing at his bones.

When he opened his eyes, there was darkness. There was no taste, no sound, no temperature. It’s familiar to those who pass out too much, except he couldn’t even breathe. Like drowning in oxygen. Like being dead. He didn’t remember who he was. There was a sharp ringing bouncing in his skull, if he still had bones, if he still was alive. Gravity shifted. There were footsteps, clear and curt and unkind. And yet his throat seemed to be filled with sawdust and tissues, voice unable to call for help in this purgatory. He was supposed to stop drinking and passing out and throwing up every four hours today. Supposed to become good again.

The footsteps stopped. Still, nothing materialized.

“Tell me, are you deserving of a peaceful rest?” The voice was neither male nor female, no intonation or emotion behind precise articulation. This must be a dream, his subconscious picking up on his own judgment. He scrabbled for an answer.

“Of course! I’ve committed no crime throughout my entire life,” This is fact, he thinks, there is no reason for this dream to be anything other than pleasant.

“Can you still taste your mortal wounds? Who are you?” The voice persisted. This was strange for a dream. The way the voice curled around something ancient was unsettling, like something of reverence. A ghost voice. It creeped him out.

“If you want me to be in a cult, don’t count me in,” he said. The remnants of the night slowly crept into his mind, seeping cold and fresh and crisp. “If you’re some sort of god, then I don’t care. I’m changing my life around and I don’t need this to distract me. I’m going to be good again.”

“When have you ever been good?”

“I just told you that I’m going to, can you let me go now?” He was getting agitated. He had exams at ten o’clock tomorrow and he wanted to go home to study, no matter how inebriated he was or even if it was two a.m. He was going to try.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” There was still darkness, still numbness but his chest burned. He wanted to fight out of this bizarre dream. There was no use talking to his own subconscious.

“I know what you are. You drink yourself dead every night to erase the sins you’ve committed. You are neither pure nor evil, and yet tell me, are you deserving of a peaceful rest?”

“Yes! Yes, I do! I’ve never murdered or stolen before! You just said that I’m not evil. Of course, I’m not! Save this for some other guy,” He can hear sirens in the distance. “Where am I?”

“There is no other guy,” A pause. “You’re nowhere. You won’t wake up,”

“What are you talking about? Look, I can already hear my alarm clock ringing. This was a horrible talk,” The sirens grew louder.

“Will you atone for your sins?”

“I have no sins! I’m just a college kid trying to barely get by! I don’t even believe in any dreams or omens or gods,” Edgar Allen Poe would’ve been proud of his dream. The way his fate swung like a pendulum over his neck, lightly grazing his skin each time. His chest was laden with something akin to guilt and anxiety. Something harried. He was late for something, but he didn’t know what.

No voice responded. The darkness was cold and dead, his eyes closed (were they even open to begin with?) and he fell into the gravity, clear and curt and unkind.

He never awoke to an alarm clock.

Mystery
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About the Creator

alissa

young writer of south florida.

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