Hey everyone, I just wanted to post some of my writing up for everyone to see. This was for a contest one of my English teachers gave out, where we had to write a short story that made sense in a single page typed. And have it able to be read. It had to make sense, and give a meaning.
A Conscience of Truths
The white blinding pain was all I could remember at first, when I had awoken. The floor felt wet against my whole body, but warm as well; a calming feeling like a spring rainfall.
I could not open my eyes, for trying to do so would give me the feeling of vomiting—which I never could stand doing. Around me, the only noise that arose was a constant and steady dripping, which hit with a metallic ‘tang’ with each beat.
The air was damp, I did not realize at first, but now I know because it clung to my hair and back, a feeling almost corporal to my body, but it mattered not. The warm, wet floor was all the more inviting with this pressure about me.
Was I indoors? I could not tell. There was no wind; its howling that always gave me headaches was not driving through my ears. The dampness clung like a viscous fog, and the wet floor—or was it ground? No, it was a floor. I was indoors.
Running my hand along the floor, I could feel the hard concrete, almost like rock. It was too warm to be rock, though.
Where am I, though? I’m too afraid of the dark to enter any basement. My mind would not stop buzzing with ideas and theories as to where I was, and how I had gotten here.
Did I hear a noise? I forced my mind to stop thinking so fast and to once again concentrate on the noises, and smells—oh the smells! Like rotting animals!—and the feelings.
The noise permeated the air once again, it was a soft chuckle. Was someone watching me? Why would they not come and help me? Was it not obvious I could not move myself without pain? I tried to call out, but I could hear no noise coming from my lips.
My lips! They were cracked, and the pain of opening my mouth coursed through my body and into my brain, along with another feeling, a taste.
Was it blood? Why would I taste blood? Was it my cracked lips? No. Thinking hard, I could remember tasting this before opening my mouth. Why, though? Why could I taste blood? Why could I not move? Who was laughing at me? Why couldn’t they help me?
I wanted to call out. To scream at them to help me, to get me out of the dampness, the warmth I now knew to be blood—my blood! I could feel my tears creasing my eyes. Finally, I thought! A reprieve to the timed dropping that echoed through this place I was in. I prayed, pleaded, for the tears to drop, but they would not release. I could not stop cursing myself. How I wished to be freed of this mental and physical anguish, this torture.
Screaming within myself to open my eyes; to see what was going on. My other senses could not aid me enough in this life-threatening time.
The laughter was growing. The dripping was growing. The pain was growing, more and more; Laughter, pain, dripping, laughter, dripping, pain, dripping, laughter. I just wanted to scream! But I could not.
I wanted more than anything to stand up and move for the exit; to leave to where it was safe, to run, but exactly where?
As if striking gold, the memory became focused, clear within the disarrayed collage of blurred pictures and burning senses.
I had lost my job, being late the third time that week. It wasn’t my fault this time. But why wasn’t it my fault?
When I concentrated on that, I could only hear more noises.
Crying, a screeching of metal on metal, the smell and taste of blood.
I could not even explain why I would bother go to work with such noises and tastes!
The answer hit me; but I loved my job. No matter the problem, sitting down and working on one of my many projects could keep me from thinking about anything.
But what could I have wanted to forget? I could not think clearly with all the noises—that laughter! It would not stop. Mocking me for even trying to consider how I came about this mess.
Struggling with all my might, I managed to turn my body over, onto my back. I shifted my face to the other side; and, as though to reject that laughter, I opened my eyes.
The colours! They quickly flooded through my eyes and into my heart, giving me a new will to keep fighting this pain.
Until my eyes focused before me; through the cracks and missing shards of a mirror, my crippled form—caused by the many wounds of utensils I knew not ever existed. Behind me, I could see the dripping pipe, but that was not my focus. I saw, in the final death-throws filled with mocking laughter, my wife, holding a bundle of bloodied utensils in a baby’s blanket.
I could not believe my wife tried to murder me and her! She loved too much to do this. I could not believe she could have done this. Sadly, I was partially correct.
Staring at myself in the mirror, with a perfectly content look abroad my mutilated face, I saw the newest wound, made before I had passed out; a knife wound that missed the vital organs in my chest.
But the blood loss was too much for any human. My conscience denied me the logic of my peace, yet I held to it like I would my child.
Hours later, the police found a saddened couple, broken by their losses. A wife whose heart she held close to her naked form as if to keep it from catching a cold; and a blanket filled with bloodied items. And a man, huddled in his own blood by the mirror, cradling a knife, crusted red.