Content warning
This story may contain sensitive material or discuss topics that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised. The views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Vocal.
Thumping,
Thumping,
Thumping in his veins
The beat of death and the failing rhythm of life.
Reaching, grabbing, missing with his hands.
.
It's banging on the wall.
Jittering in his chest and seizing his heart,
Forcing its cocaine beat into a different pattern.
The petals on the wall have begun to melt
And blood is dripping down his cheeks.
.
Out of time.
He stumbles and staggers and slams into the warm bodies
Undulating like a sea of fucking insects on the floor.
Walking, running, crawling.
Lying on his back and watching the world shutter by in waves.
.
It's a trip through the violent bass of the song,
A journey through the narrow hole carved between
Life and death
With no promise of escaping to the other side with a heartbeat.
He gasps, a fish swimming backward.
.
Sublime terror shreds through him,
Tears apart the sinews holding together his reality.
The song bumps into him, pushes him to the ledge,
And he can't keep hold of the guard rails,
Can't keep his feet from slipping, sliding into the canyon.
.
Where did the magic go?
When did the effervescent gold bubbling in his blood
Turn into something sinister
With teeth and claws and blades,
Eager to cut and wound and kill?
.
Hands reaching.
Hands grabbing.
Standing, moving, stumbling toward the exit sign,
A little red man running.
Eternally far away.
.
Sweet sweat and diabetic piss clings to the shadowed walls
Of a foul bathroom coated in nightmares.
Green eyes flash, jump left and right, skitter like a roach
Across the poorly illuminated tile walls,
Searching, searching, searching for an out.
.
For the tie.
It's there, he's sure, the connection between here and there,
Life and death.
Now and then.
Before and after.
.
He can't find it.
Not alive, not high, not sober.
It's pulsing through the tiles, pressing against palms.
He can hear it, the beat pounding against his eardrums,
Buzzing in his chest like a fat brood of cicadas.
.
Fists bang against the chipped tile.
It's there, it's there, it's fucking right there
But his nails can't pierce the veil and his teeth can't sink
Into the apple hard enough to bite through the poison
And find the antidote in its core.
.
He's stuck, a bug under a shoe, metal under the skin,
Stuck to the metronome vibrating the organ in his chest,
Ringing in his ears with mocking cruelty
As someone somewhere moans and succumbs
To the river winding between here and there.
.
The world shifts.
Jerks one way and then the other,
Grabs his collar and yanks until bile floods his throat.
Teeth, his teeth, pierce a dry lip and he tastes blood,
Sweet, salty iron.
.
It comes back like a prophecy,
Rocks through him as black devours his iris,
As a hollow scream catches in his throat.
He's flying, falling, shooting through the sky
Like a burning meteor.
.
Spinning like a chain swing ride at a carnival,
Red lights, bright lights, blue lights,
Screaming.
The nauseating stench of powdered elephant ears
Whipping by, looping by, a chain around the neck.
.
A noose.
A thumping, beating noose.
Hands, rhythmically squeezing.
The sink is filthy and there's black paint on the walls,
Words on the walls.
.
Warnings on the mirror.
Warnings painted across his eyes,
Devil horns curling from matted, messy black hair.
The porcelain has teeth, biting into his palms
And he's lost the plot.
.
Still the music, the hope, the sickness
Thumps, thumps, thumps against his temples
With pleading hands and desperate whispers
Because this can never be over,
Not when it's only just begun.
About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments (4)
Unbelievably well done; your beat, your raw talent is powerful.
“Standing, moving, stumbling toward the exit sign, A little red man running. Eternally far away” was a particular that really caught my eye, created such a sense of suspension. Once again you’ve shown such skill in surreal narrative voice
Dark and so perfectly detailed! Phenomenal work here!
If you haven't entered this piece in Vocal's 3 AM Challenge, you should. Definitely brings alive the dream/nightmare quality through its surreal vibe.