Dark Visions | 2015

Sounds of children shouting gleefully, more chasing after them. Butterflies, birds, blossoms – the whole painting, essentially. Braids whip around in a game of tag, benches occupied by casually chatting parents. A squeak, from the swing. And another, and another. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Sun slowly rises – up, up, up, blazing overhead: sweat glazes the slides and seesaws. Exodus, influx, exodus, influx, a new delivery of families each hour. Sun sinks slowly – down, down, down: children on the grass, rather than the playthings. Balls lie strewn everywhere. Exodus, exodus, as moon begins to smile. Exodus, and now night. But the squeak of the swing continues – squeak, squeak, squeak. The last of the children, gone – inertia drives the swing? Night produces ominous sounds, overlaid by the swing – it gets closer and closer. There’s nothing juvenile or mischievous: no-one rides the swing, but it SQUEAKS AND SQUEAKS AS THE LOW, RESOUNDING THUDS GET CLOSER – maybe there is a boy, lost in time, on the swing. Run, boy, run – run from the thuds – the creatures under the bed, they’ve come alive – they’ve caught scent, THEY LUST. ESCAPE THE THUDS, ESCAPE THEM! But the swing keeps rocking, unaware and childish, naïve: a symphony of squeaks and thuds and monstrous voices that the boy seems unaware of, swinging higher and higher and higher as SQUEAK THUD SNARL SNARL THUD SQUEAK SQUEAK – the swing goes higher and higher and higher and higher and higher and there’s a scream – Zip. Pant, pant. Quick look behind, zip again. Pant. Always in motion, always hiding, always running away from the horrors behind. The ground rises up with the beat of the heart, with the breath of the lung, each touch of it feels like an evil hand grasping, suffocating, constricting – no time: the danger approaches: time to speed away through the grass. When the danger is invisible, senses are all-important. When there is paranoia, the senses are unreliable, useless. The danger wins. The danger always wins. It dominates life with a stronger hand than any law of physics – it hides behind every pillar, under every slab of concrete that makes up the sidewalks, in every pipe that delivers water or steam, behind every flesh-colored mask worn by loved ones, their smiles covering up for the evil within, waiting for the slightest drop in guard – when they lurch and lose their masks: the lips sagging, teeth glistening, the skin on the face undulating and stretching as the veins pop, the eyeballs bulging and pulsing and hideous wing-tentacles unfurling from below the jaw – WHAT WAS THAT? Run RUN oh god run zip away zip away zip away. Heart thudding, right in the head – hearing rendered useless, just like everything else, eyesight clouded by the incessant pumping of arteries. Run up a nearby tree and scope the area? But the danger sees – it follows: it always knows, why wouldn’t it? Here it comes, blazing towards the tree, covering the distance almost instantly: it’s trapped its prey. Nowhere to go but up, and up it goes, leaving nothing but a vacuum of air behind it as evidence. Shooting skywards – up, up, up, UP, turning around, gazing down at the veins of city – a loud screech penetrates the air as this – monster? – rises heavenward. The clouds loom closer and closer – no longer are they the white, friendly, Santa-like clouds of the morning at the playground: they now cower in sight of the danger approaching them at breakneck-speed, screeching into the sky – every atom is a slave to this sound, reverberating in fear – every creature, every human, every child – all at once, dominated by this demonic, overpowering SCREEEEECH – each second lasts an eternity, in every moment every human lives an entire long, miserable, tortured life, dies, gets reborn - they close their ears and eyes – but that only makes it worse, fools! – you let the screech, the demon, into MINDS. It owns everything now – all of the sky, all of the land, all of the oceans – all of existence itself: every quanta vibrating as if in worship to the very thing that enslaves them, unable to stop, unable to move, completely helpless and immobile. Turn around, and the veins of the city bulge, bulge – but with refuse and sewage and thick, black, tar rather than people and cars – it floods the city, the homes, the rivers: everything turns black – no amount of sun would make a difference. No one notices, of course – all trapped within their own bubbles by the screech that rules over every sinew of their consciousness, that roots them in their places, as if tendrils are tying them down, as if the skeletal hands of the dead reach out from the ground and hold them down in an unclenching, rigor-mortis grasp of death. THE SCREECH grows louder, DEEPER, and curtains fall over the whole city as an entire wave of blackness floods the entire sky: and again, the curtain falls – but this does not signify the end: it forebears the horrors that will be unleashed behind it, and again and again the curtain falls, and each time the darkness grows darker, the city dies and rots, the sky falls apart, leaving behind abysses of nothingness – but the SCREECH doesn’t die – it feeds on this, only gets stronger and stronger, everything gets blacker and blacker and blacker, and it all dissolves to nothing as the screech slowly echoes to a halt – all of existence was defined by it, and now dies with it. A hollow echo of finality resonates for a while, quells down – all is silence. Dreadful, unwitnessed sile- but now there’s another deafening sound, and it’s of the colors screaming, tendrils and wisps of it painting half-constructed objects, splashing bursts of colors on the canvas of nothing. Most of it white, as the patterns and objects come together – tiles. A tub – a bathroom? A silver showerhead forms, floating in mid-air, pouring warm water down. Calm, happy, free – deceptively so. An unease prevents the ease. Down – near feet, a drain. Sucking away water. But slowly – alarm bells go off in the amygdala – the water turns beige: it isn’t water anymore – IT’S SSSSSSKIN. Look down – the drain, sucking not only water, but the skin, pulling it away, shredding it away from body in thick sheets: try to pull – but it’s stuck. It’s determined – the sucking gets stronger and stronger: the noise fills the air, the deep, hungry noise that comes from the drain that produces screams and tears and the fear of a gruesome death. The only part of existence the colors have allowed is this tub – nowhere to go. Pull, pull, pull – all to no avail. Everything suddenly turns red – arteries and veins, being madly unwound from the body, flying everywhere, before falling the floor, being sucked by the drain: the blood re-colors the tiles red, the tub is covered by a bed of capillaries and heaps of blood vessels, waiting to be greedily sucked up by the drain, the whirlpool of horror ravenously dragging it all in, then working at the muscles, the tendons, ripping them, EATING them, leaving NOTHING behind. Bare skeleton falls to the floor of the tub and completely merges in with the whiteness of the bathroom around it. But the blood, the skin, the muscles – they recombine in the drain. Down the spirals and bends and turns, falling into each other like tubes of clay, re-forming the original figure. Going down a massive sewer which has no visible end in any direction – however, there are others – millions of people, distorted, Cronenbergian figures, all screaming discordantly, hands raised up as if for help – most of the hands barely even poking out from the black sludge everyone is swept by. Feet, under the sludge, touch and graze lifeless bodies and chunks of flesh as they move past – most the hands have probably drowned, like an iceberg. Touching the dead creates shivers, goosebumps, the horror of becoming one with the bodies below, the horror of others accidentally touching body and cringing. Suddenly, a squeeze, entering a pipe, which gets narrower and narrower, and finally spit out at the end. A terrible blast of heat blows into freshly-reconstructed face, and looking up reveals - THE DEVIL HIMSELF. TOWERING OVER, SNARLING, FLAMES ERUPTING OUT OF EVERY CREVICE LIKE A JUGGLER DANCING WITH FLAMETHROWERS. A TAIL LASHES OUT FROM BEHIND, A SNAKE HEAD HISSING AT ITS END. The devil’s face is impossible to look at – it’s an infinitely deep well of Pandora’s box, no hope. Fire and bats and vultures erupt from within it, screeches and thuds and squeaks emanate from every surface. The devil reaches out its arms – not in greeting. It grabs by throat, squeezing hard. The flame rushes through nostrils, entering lungs – burning them, making the suffocation that much harder – it’s the worst torture: stifled while gazing upon every horror ever created swirling around, each diving down to greet in face before flying away, only to come back again at its turn: an eternity of strangulation and fears: some seen, some never seen: most completely bizarre and defying to the human mind – fears with the power to rework a person’s entire brain within an instant, fears that melt insides without ever touching – the flames grow stronger and stronger and larger a͞nd oh ́g̡o̸d the horror ț͉̟̲̦̗̙͟h͕͇͖̙e̶̘̤̘͍̣̦̗ ̴̹̲̯̼͎p̘̝͓̳͎̹ai͖̮̘̩͔͈ǹ̼̼̘̩̩ t̵he͘ s͟uf́f̧e͟ring let it end please let it end the monster the devil the screeches want no more of it please w͜ant̡ ͜ńo ̸m̸or͘è ͘o̸f i͞t nothing! Nothing at all! Blameless! Just trapped in this m̡i̛s͝f̛or̸t̵u͘ne and now there’s no end no end no escape just an infinite series of horrors that will forever haunt and unfair and trapped and insane INSANE INSANE I̴̝̥̬̼̙͙̖͇͇̰̩͆ͩͬͦ̋̑̋̂̌ͯ̄͋̚͝N̸̛̞̹̬̭̻̰̝͖̖͕̱̠̦̗͖ͧ̃ͤ̍͊̆̅̽ͧ̐̎ͨ̍́̚͝Ş̶̠̲̠͍̩̣̦̱̪̼̬͓̳̳̖̒ͣͫ̆ͥ̽̅̍ͩ̍̌͌Ä̱̣͔͇̳̺̦̲̗͇̦̗͇͖͛̆̓ͤ̎̉̉̆̌͊̽͘͡Ṉ̶̢͍͚͈̱͈̫̣̺̺̻ͤ̾̑̀̈́̾̽̀͠Ȩ̴̰̺͇̗͉͚̼̮̰̈́ͫ̉̃ͤ̓́͊̏̚ L̟̦̺̠̗̗͍E͉͈̠̤̭̳T̜̙̘̦ ̱͎̙̼͜I̭͞T̺ ̢̻̖̪̮E̲̯̦͉͈̼N̶͓͙̯D̰̞ LET THERE B̲̘̮̭̫E̬̥̟͈̠̭ N͙̘̝̖̗ͅO͓̜͉͖̬͓͈͝ ͉̳͉̞̻̻͈M͕O̱̖̯̣͉̤RE NO MORE NOMORE NOREMORENOMORENOMORE LET IT BE LET BE LET GO L̶̥E̶̙͈̮̖A̸̬̞̯͚V̧͈̭̗̰̥̦͙E̫̹̩̲̣̹͞ͅ ҉̢̤͢ͅÍ͎̻̮̞̦̩̼̯̯T̜̬͖̬͍̕ ̸̷̼͜A̶̶̶̟͍̘L̛͎̲̲̱̼ͅL̸̤̣͖͞ ̞̗B͉̮̪̱̞͚͞E̹͕͘͢ LEAVE IT B̵͚͎͖̗̫͈̗̱͉̹̺̠̪̀É̢̲̭͓͇̻͈͚̞̲̲͢͡É̶̪̯̙̣̞̭͜Ȩ̪͎͍̻̯̕͜͞Ę̢͔̳̙̩̜̹͇̩͙̥̲̠̪͝͝ͅE̶̴͇͕͖̥̯͈̲̲̯͘̕͢É̢̧̝̭̠̦̺͎̻̦̱̖̥̹̠͔͎͇̞̭͝ͅȨ̝̟̝͉͈͖͕̯̯͠ͅͅE͏̧͎͈̖͔̣̀E̸̶̢͟҉̥͕̙̜̬̭͍̖̣Ę̫͔̻̺̞͖̀͟ͅ LEAVE IT SAVE SAVE HELP L̮̞͇̙͍̬͕̪̙̋͂́̔ͩ̾͒̇̀́̕E̸̗̞̗͎̖̣̪̻̜ͥT͆͒͐͛̏̆̈́͏̨̗͎̜̺̜̪̟͠ͅ ͤ̌̿͋͒̌̒͒͏̛̘͕̤G̷̢̪̦̯ͪ̇Ō̡̝̫̟͔̬͓̭ͯ̇̑̇̇ͪ ͚̦̖̀̌̕͟G͓̫̥̬̞͙̩̣̈̌̚͘͢͡I̊ͮ̊̄ͣ҉̰͈͙V͈̹̼̹̟̣̘͔͚̄͂͗̈Ȩ̜͔̦̮̘͚̞̾̉̎̈́̂̑̄͠ͅ ̋̿̌ͭ̄ͯ͏̻͍̫̭͜A̶̡̠͎̫ͯͦͭͯͦ̌̃I̸̺͉͖̹ͣ̿̏̎ͬ̐̊̉Ŗ͕͇̯͌͜͢ JUST A LITTLE JUST A SECOND OR JUST LET IT END PLEASE END P̷̢͓̯̠͙̮͇̙͖̀͒̽͑ͫͥ̀́͝L̶ͩ̾̿̔̓ͧͩ̋̀ͤͩ̈̉҉̢̪͍̦̝͚͖̯̻̩̤͚̲͢͠E̶̴̾̾ͣ͋̐̍̌͑̊̓̀̂̎̽́ͫ҉̸̺̯̤̳̯͘A̶͋̃ͨ̐͟͏̤̗̭̩͕̹̯͖̜͕͓͡S͛̒ͤ͆ͧ͊ͯ̈́͒̐̏ͨͧ̈́̋͑͏̛̫͇͙̻̹̱̦̩͔͠Ẽ̴̦̣̺̥̹̫̯͖̹̼̗̲̒ͬ̓̓̑ͫ̋ͪ̓ͫ͌ͮ̂̀̑̑͜ ̗͓̹͈̯̈̈́ͨ̓͝͞E̡̺̭̗̦͓̬͇̦̟̹̖̹̝͈͑̉̇̓ͫͩ̆̋̅ͨ͑̚͝ͅṊ̨̡̡̝͓̳̬̺̻͈̖͉̩̟̗̀̽͛͆͢͝D̸͎̰̠͈̫̬͇̪̯͕͉͑ͦ̅ͦ̈́ͯ̈ͭ͗̾̀̕͡ L͓͍͍̖͚̬̖̬̝͚̻ͨ̌̀̈͗͑̍̒͆̾̀̀͜͝ͅȨ̴̬̼̱̹̅ͭ̊̐̀͒ͬ̒̽ͬͨ̓̕Tͧ̑͂̎͗͑͒ͫ̽͋̆ͬ́̚̚҉̸̴̨̲̦̪̭̙̫͍̺̗̻̙̠̟̩̗͚̭͇̬ ̡̡͔̗̗͕̞̬̱̍̐͌͒̃̐̓̈ͪ̉̊̎T̨̰͚̱̬̱͉̲͖͉̮̳͒ͧ̓̉̄́͂ͫ̊̾͌ͥͥ̃̃̀̀͞ͅH̶̵̦̳̥̖̘̼̞͓̤̣͈̟̬̩͉̻͚̳ͭ̊̓ͧ̇̿̑̊̑̌̾̊̐̊I͌̔̈́ͧͬ̾̀ͦ̐̐̃͋̏ͥͯͦ̿͏̨̪̫̯̤̭̦̭͚͓̳͔͔̲̹͚̙͈͍́̕Ş̷͙̳̪̦̟̲̰̯̭̹͙̩̜̭̯͚̋ͯ̂̐̽̋̂̑̎̕͞͠ ̡̛̮̲͓͉̟̠̖̮̬̫̙̜̞͖͚͆͐͑ͬ͘͝ͅͅB͇̫̟͓͔̘̜̜͔ͩ́̂̈͑͛͑̽̀͟E̴̥̩̘͎̙̜̹͖̗͚̼̬͚̝̭̘̟ͥͤ̍ͥ͗͂ͧ͑̍͊̀̚͘͜ ̀̈ͧ̈́͑ͦ̑̂͞҉̷̱̠͎͙̠̗͉̙͔̙̯̮̺̻̜ͅT̤̦̹͍̩̫̙̯͓͈̳̩̺̑ͪ̃̕̕͘͝ͅH͚̥̖̥̣̜̼͇̩͎͇̞͕̭̳̮̍ͪͭ̓̈̕͝Eͤͣͧͫ̅҉̵̡̻͉̭͍͡͞ ̧̧̠̦̦͎̟͖̟̬͚̆ͧ͌̾ͬͯ͗ͣ͒̚ͅĘ̗̹͖̥̂̂͐ͧ̓̋͂͋̅̃̓́ͣ̿ͭ̏̚͞͠N̵̴̯͙͎͇̮͙̻̱̳̜̤̪̙̎̿̄͋͡͝Ḑ̴̙̤̜͍̠̫͎̫̪̭͉͒͌ Ń̡̰̝̠̪̜̻̱̘͉̻͚̠̻̙̞͇̎̉̅̋̅̓͢ͅǪ̡̢̥̦̭͙̻̭̳̤̗̠̤̞͉͇̥̽̿́́ͧ̄̄́͌͒̏͜ͅ NO N̘̯͓̟̫̄̍ͨ̍̆ͭͤ͊̒̀͡O͇͙͇̰̰̺̣͛͊̉͌̒͋͟͟͝ ̗̱̺̥͎͙̊ͭ̊́̚̕Ñ̨͕ͤ̂Ò͕̦͎ͭ̿ͧ͊ͨ̾ͅ ̛͎̦͎̺̝̦͂̊̚N̴̘̝̫̣͕̏̓͜͟Ö̗̖͙̜̞̺͈͇̝́͑ͧ͘ ̖̯ͪͨͭͭͨͦ͋͡N͓̱̳̳̭̟͒ͭ̅̿O̖͓̫ͥͬ́̀̂ ̧̧̤͔̋̎̌́N̥̯̖̹̣ͤͨͫ͛͞Ō̵͎͉̬̞̫̮̐́ NO MORE L̢̡͈͖̠̜͖͙̱͎͚̜̭̜̘͍̟̙͈ͥ̀ͯͨ̋͆͒ͩ̀̚͡͡I̸͓͕̞̹̊̎ͧ̏̌͑̒ͮͥ͋̀͆̋̄̌F̶̨͓̹͉̬͇̪͉̬̪̩̗̃́̅ͮ͆̏͢͝E̡̻͇̤̳̻̖̺̜̱̙͐̂ͭ͂́͟͝ END IT.