My curse is one that, although uncertain in length and nature, feels eternal. My curse is one that has taken me away from my own race, kind, house, companions, citizens, kingdom, and duty. My curse is one that has again and again defied the very laws of nature and this world, blurring more and more the boundaries between this realm and the spiritual, between living beings and rotting corpses lying on the ground, between sentient thinking creatures and beasts hunting prey in instinct. My curse is one that melts my body, making me not dependant on my organs to live, making me not dependant on food and water to be sustained, making me dependant not on my muscles to move, making me dependant not on my brain to subsist. My curse is one that dries your blood but allows you to still exist, and makes your touch as cold as metal, yet still promises that you are living.
My curse is one that separates you from anything you ever were. The being you once meant no longer truly remains, but instead is kept in the leftovers of your previous self. My curse is one that takes away your humanity, and as much as you strive to hold onto it, pulling, dragging, your resistance is only used against you, increasing your suffering as you try to combat your fate. My curse is one that pressures your mind, corrupting it, slowly, filling it with darkness, ebony, agony, misery, until there is nothing more than void itself inside it. My curse is one that drives you insane, trapping you until you simply cannot take it anymore, devoiding you of your sleep and memories so that you can’t feel as yourself, devoiding you of every freedom to think and act by your own so that you can’t feel as if you have any authority in the world you belong in. My curse is one that destroys your soul, crushing it with time and solitude, taking your spirit away from you; your identity from yourself.
My curse is one that took me from my land in a sudden, emptying my recalls, telling me not a single word other than I had been here for a thousand years, and that I was no longer anything that could be considered human, or living; that I had lived here for long, but either asleep or in a state from which I can’t remember a single event. My curse was one that imprisoned me in a structure centuries old, filled with bricks that should have fallen long ago and yet they don’t, speckled with blood stains that should have decayed and disappeared in days of old, yet they remain and remind that I don’t know what had occurred. My curse is one that never stops purposefully teasing me with the memories, flashes, of a life that I now yearn for, but that could never be further away from me.
My curse continues as one that keeps me in captivity with the living dead in the hundreds; beings that were barren of their ability to ration, and which have taken off their own flesh in mental anguish, beings that unlike me succumbed to every influence this place had over them, even after every attempt of ancient of theirs to withstand and abide. My curse mantles me with a torment originating in the maleficent nature of this place; a dark entity, a malevolent force that takes me back and tortures me every minute of my stay. My curse is one that wraps me with the agonizing screeches and screams of the demented creatures with bodies barely human; creatures that no longer understand what is going on, that just want to leave, that with decaying bodies constantly feel intense pain, and that silently threaten me with the truth that one day I will become one more of them, forever filling me with immense fear. Their yells penetrate to the deepest parts of my damned soul, demolishing me from the inside.
My curse is one from which there is no escape; not physical, not spiritual, no freedom of mind, no freedom of the body. Not a light of day and not a breeze of summer. My curse is one that denies me food and drink, and air to breathe, but makes me pain through this lack without ever ceasing my hunger or easing my thirst, and still I don’t faint or leave this husk. My curse is one that turned my body into a pile of useless flesh; one that looks and feels like a cadaver, but functions as if it were animate. My curse is one from which I can’t rest.
My curse is so, that I am given enough liberty to write my own thoughts, and recalls, on paper; on aged parchments and with ink that appear to have been prepared just for me, but doesn’t permit me to yet explore every room and chamber this place consciously hides, or to try and measure the time passed. My curse is so that I am also cornered inside my own thoughts, having been kept here aware for decades and decades, still enduring, but wondering in dread what I could have ever done to deserve such an abominable destiny, and for God to not rescue me.
My curse had been one that once made me break down into the blackness in the absolute, making me lose complete control of my senses and actions, making me remain unconscious as in slumber, but still moving and acting unaware for centuries more, making me only wake up again after the murder of my first visitor. My curse menaces that this might, again, happen, and that I could again become possessed for centuries at a time, or even forever.
My curse has set me to drop down this cliff, abyss, so steep that you can not attempt and climb up, whose sides you can try to grip for as long as you can, but knowing that eventually you will release, and then continue to fall.
My curse is so, that the very echoes of the Underworld reach my spirit in chorus, yet they are less unnerving that the actual voices coming from inside this much worse place, and the unholy creatures that in it preside.
I was placed in an embassy under the counsel of hell; the tomb of the things never alive nor dead. I throw a scream always asking God, in fear, whether I will ever be freed, or my exit ever made clear, if this was an act of chance or punishment, if I should continue my hopes, or succumb to the voices of this solitary dungeon with no judgement. My curse implies that I am now an immortal being, and with infinite time on my hands, I have nothing more to expect than for me to, one day, become nothing more than a monster: Fate from which I have no chance of fleeing. I encounter myself in a real-life tragedy, of which the spectators might be demons in big joy laughing over my pain and agony. I don’t know for how long I have been resisting, or if I should continue to.
When my story appears to be ending, I always realize how it is just starting.
A century here, and this thousand-word prose is completed.
Good night. //
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Can't wait for chapter 35!
