duckdown77

[duckdown77]

decided to start caving to my carnal desure to write recently. heres a short story, i hope you enjoy :>

I gaze out into the distance, from the precipice that took me so long to reach. I can certainly feel the climb in my legs. I near gave out from the incessant burning a few minutes ago, but at least I’m finally here. An odd feeling shrouds this plateau, a thick fog hiding a meek ambush predator. Eyes plant themselves on my back. I know, truly, that I am alone here, but that awful feeling cant be shaken. I waltz along the cliff’s edge. The danger of falling hasn’t ever scared me. Even though I know I should be terrified, I don’t even bother to look down. It means little to me to fall now, even knowing what lies down there. Even from this cliff edge, I can feel the influence of what lies beyond.

For just a second, what lies below steals my attention. I see exactly what I know is down there. Misery incarnate. A black, vacous mob of the grieving, piled so high that I can feel the heat of the great grieving mass’ existence from even this great a distance. The sobs, screams, and wails of the suffering cry out to me. The noise slams against my skull in a way akin to a hammer and nail. It stretches on and on, beyond the potent powers of my perception. Very few have gazed upon suffering like this, and even fewer would come out of it exactly the same.

Yet, I feel the same thing I always feel when I reach this precipice. Cold, icy indifference. I know that what I’m witnessing is horrific. I know that I should feel emotions strong enough to carve the Earth in two. But it almost feels as if I can’t, as if human expression is lost upon me. It’s far from piteous, especially given the nature of the situation, but I can’t help but wonder why. Why it is that I can’t force myself to cry out and wail, as those in the valley do? Why can’t I force myself to feel anything towards this pit of suffering?

To say I feel nothing is a stretch, in truth. Although the emotion I do feel is one I deeply regret. Rage, and hatred, directed towards myself. I have tried before to force myself to feel something, to feel anything. One time I even slashed open the palm of my hand in a vain attempt to force out something, anything. Nothing ever comes. I’m left empty, and that emptiness is replaced with frustration and malice. To feel nothing is surely to be inhuman, so what am I? Am I merely ice, hardened against the blazing heat of this valley of agony? Is there anything human about me? I don’t feel as if I’ve undergone any hardship that would remove me from my humanity. But the feeling never stays. Grief is untethered from me, almost like an entirely separate entity that haunts me in every stolen glance and pause of this cliffside waltz.

My heart pounds. That hatred must be building again. I need to steal myself away from this place, wander somewhere new. I turn around, and though nothing obscures my view, I see a blinding fog. Quietly, I walk back into the fog. Perhaps next time, when I feel I have grown, I can return. The fog envelops me in its embrace. Cold indifference trails behind.