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ii-peak-confessions · 2 months ago

Text

blurred, beneath her, bile

white-knuckled grip on the plastic-porcelain seat

it wasn't so much a flash of realization as it was more a swell

a swell of

"oh."

"i haven't thought about this in a long time."

a steady stream of memory, brain playing, piece by piece

and she could not stop once she began to remember

this will break her all over again.

she forgot for a reason.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-couldn't see out of his other eye. Not that it mattered. The sharp, seething, agony from his head and arm chased away any coherent thought. He could not breathe, nor wail, nor cry as his attacker snaps their head up before shoving them into the dumpster behind him, slamming the lid down, jingling click echoing in the damp space before he-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-woke up aching all over.

He rubs his eyes, tries to stretch before yelping, paws colliding with metal. His eyes snap open then, brain beginning to process his surroundings. Confusion makes itself known for a split second before he begins to panic.

Gods, it's dark.

A pang of rot hits his nose, strong and overwhelming, yet damp and bubbling. It jams itself in his brain, making him gag. Where the fuck is he?

He tries to get up, noticing his clothes are damp. Damp with what, he's not exactly certain. And he doesn't want to know.

His head hits wet metal, and he startles again - foot trying to steady him, planting itself on something that clinks and clanks. It's a garbage bag, he realizes.

Is he in a dumpster?

His breathing grows desperate, ragged. He tries to push on the ceiling, but it doesn't budge.

He pushes again. There's a faint rattling.

He crouches down before slamming his back into the ceiling, as hard as he can. The impact echoes in the dumpster. Something rattles again.

Is it a lock? Is he locked in?

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay. Maybe he could- he could yell for help!

He hollers, voice raw and scratchy. His throat hurts. He hears nothing but the echoing of his own voice.

He cries for help. Pleads. Bangs on the walls of the dumpster.

He hears nothing.

His eye throbs. His arm aches.

He cries out until his voice becomes nothing but a whisper.

His eye throbs. His arm aches. His throat hurts.

He hears nothing.

He collapses, burying his face in his paws. He weeps, wails, shakes and trembles. His tail curls itself against his body tightly, like a pitiful attempt at a hug.

He does not fight when sleep finally takes him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

...where is he, again? Oh. Oh.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, loathing the sheen of grime that sticks itself to his face. It sends chills down his spine. The filthiness makes him remember a voice, a face, faintly – as a memory begins to surface.

It's his mother.

"Mama! Mama, look what I got! It's a fock! Oops- frog! Lookit!"

I hold out my prize for digging outside in the mud - a little brown-green frog clenched tightly in my chubby fists. It squirms, trying to wriggle free. It tickles!

My mother turns to look at me, gasping when she sees how dirty I am. Oh, my mama. I want to be just like her when I grow up! Mama’s dress sways with infinite grace as something glints in her eyes. What is it? Surprise? Did she like my frog?

The frog leaps out of my fist, splattering its muddy self onto her dress before rolling off and fleeing. I try to catch it, but it's too fast. I'll just have to chase it back! I try to run after it, before-

A slender paw grips my wrist tight. I freeze, turn towards my mother. She's shaking. A sticky feeling of dread begins to sink in my gut.

“Jeremiah! Jeremiah, you are filthy!” she hisses, glaring at my body. I shrink under her stare, all earlier joy immediately snuffed.

“I- I’m sorry, Mama,” I mumble. “I’ll be- I won’t play in the mud next time.”

“There will not be a next time. Look at you! What will She think?” she snaps, before glancing fearfully at the sky. “You know She will not be pleased.”

The goddess of cleanliness. My eyes travel to the sky with Mama’s before I quickly avert my gaze, staring at the ground with shame. I can’t see the stars because it’s morning, but I can feel them all glaring at me. Especially Hers. “S- sorry, Mama. I forgot.”

“You should be apologizing to Her. I expect you to make a prayer to Her before bed along with your nightly prayers. You are not to be forgetting any of the gods, understood? I don’t want them to be angry at you,” she adds, her voice softening. “I only want to see the gods happy so they can make you happy.”

I nod quickly, still afraid. What will happen to me now? I’ve angered Her. She’s going to punish me. Why did I get so dirty? What is wrong with me?

I wipe my dirty feet on the grass before rushing to the bathroom, as fast as I can.

Hours pass. At least, he thinks it’s been hours. He’s not sure.

His backpack had been thrown in with him – but some things must have fallen out, because he only has his water bottle and camera. And he’d drank all the water already. And pissed out the water, too.

So here he sat, clicking through the photos of various things he’s taken pictures of. Some photos he doesn’t remember taking – rebirthing tends to make you forget.

Click. A photo of a vast, beautiful landscape. He doesn’t remember where it is.

Click. A photo of someone he doesn’t recognize.

Click. A photo of a city at night, window lights like stars. Stars.

Click. A photo of something. It’s blurry.

Click. A photo of something. Everything’s blurry.

Click. A photo of something. He’s crying.

Click.

Click. A tear falls onto the little screen.

He wipes his eyes, regretting the action when something gets on his eye and irritates it. He hates this. He hates this. Why is he stuck in here? What did he do to deserve this? Did he…

Did he deserve this?

He immediately shuts down the thought, refusing to think about that any further before he turns off his camera. The battery is half empty.

‘It’s half full, really,’ he thinks to himself, trying to cheer himself up. It doesn’t work.

…

Back aching, he tries to stretch. His leg hits one wall and his paw hits the other. It’s really quite small in here. He wishes there was just a little more room.

Claustrophobia has never been a fear of his, but he really doesn’t appreciate how the darkness makes the walls feel like they’re closing in. Tighter. And tighter. And tighter. And-

A throbbing, sticky feeling of panic claws its way up his chest, and he bangs on the walls of the dumpster as he tries to wail for help again. Surely this time, someone will hear and come to help. Right? Right?

Nobody hears him. He doubts there’s even anyone around to hear him anymore.

He pounds on the dumpster walls one more time before giving up, claws slowly dragging down the metal. He’s exhausted. No tears fall this time.

He simply stares at the wall, claws twitching. They’re long. He needs to cut them at some point.

Without even realizing it, he scrapes his claws on the metal, jolting him out of his daze as he hears a sickening SCREECH. One faint line is scratched into the filthy surface.

One line. Ha. He supposes he can start doing his best to keep track of the days passing, if he’s going to do this.

He scratches another shaky line into the metal, wincing at the horrible squealing. He believes two days have passed already – he’s not entirely sure. Being in complete darkness does not help.

Well, not complete darkness. His eyes have adjusted enough to be able to see the inside of the dumpster, if only barely.

He thinks he sees something move. He feels something move. Are there bugs in here with him, too? Great. Wonderful.

He’s tired of this. He’s tired of everything. Tired and thirsty and hungry and scared.

“G’night, bugs,” he mumbles into the darkness, not caring if he sounded crazy. Maybe he could make friends with the bugs in the morning to keep him from going insane.

Ha. He’s already losing it.

He pulls his water bottle under his head, trying his best to get comfortable before he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He wakes up thirsty.

His throat is dry and sore. Something crawls on his face.

He yelps and swats it off, wiping his face the best he can. He hates it in here.

His stomach growls, loud and angry. His eye throbs. His arm aches. His throat hurts. He hates it in here. Hate. Hate.

In a fleeting fit of anger, he scrapes another line into the metal, this time deeper than the last. SCREEEECH!

He kicks the wall, screams at the ceiling, pounds on the metal a few more times before slumping down to the bumpy ground and huffing, rage melting into hopelessness. Why is he stuck here like this? Why?

His fears from yesterday emerge again, rearing their ugly heads and chanting in his ears. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it.

Understanding dawns on him as he finally figures out why.

Is this payback from the gods for leaving his mother’s home? It- it has to be. Why did he think that was ever a good idea? He never should have left his mother for so long. He never should have ignored the gods. He never should have left the gods. He believed them all to be false and fake when they have been real and alive this entire time. He never should have become a non-believer.

But it’s too late to beg for forgiveness now, wasn’t it? He’s here now. Stuck in- oh, he realizes it now. He’s stuck in hell. The gods killed him, and this is his eternal damnation. Cursed to rebirth over and over and over again until he becomes nothing but spare bits of energy nobody can ever recognize as a person.

The gods are laughing at him. He can hear it. He can feel their breath on his skin. He can feel their breath peeling away at his skin like sickly acidic gas. They’re letting the bugs in. There are bugs under his skin. He can feel them crawling inside of him, wriggling and writhing and squirming-

He clenches his teeth, and slashes his claws deep down his throbbing arm in a fit of desperation. Pain explodes in his body, overwhelming everything. He can’t think. He can’t breathe. The gods are laughing at him.

The gods take him before the dehydration does.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Mama? Can I try on a dress?”

“Why, Jeremiah? You aren’t a girl. Only girls can wear dresses.”

“Really? Oh. But… but what if I was a girl? Then could I put on a dress?”

“Jeremiah, don’t be silly. You can’t be a girl. You were born as a boy and that’s how it’s going to stay. You can’t just change that.”

“So… I can’t have a dress?”

“No, Jeremiah. You can’t. But there’s lost of very handsome boy clothes you can have, instead. Maybe you’ll like those ones?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Blearily, he opens his eyes, dizzy. His eye throbs. His arm aches. His throat hurts. His tail trembles.

He’s not sure if he truly opened his eyes – everything is pitch-black. Where is he? Why is everything so dark?

As he attempts to sit up, fuzzy memories begin to find their way back to him. Memories of screaming. Crying. Pounding at the walls.

So, he rebirthed? He’s not permanently dead? Ah. True death would have been a blessing. The gods, he groggily remembers, will not let him die here.

If this is how the rest of his life will be, he might as well entertain himself. He scrawls two lines on opposite sides of the dumpster – one line for a day passed (he thinks), and another for a new section. Times rebirthed.

He feels numb. He wishes he is dead.

Dead. Death is cheap in this world, he thinks to himself unfeelingly. Anyone can come back from a rebirth, and with a few good friends and a couple of resurfacing memories, they’re good as new. Like they never died.

Murder is easily excusable. Especially towards electrons. How many particles rebirth by the hands of angry owners? And they always come back too, ready to take another beating.

“What a world we live in,” he mumbles numbly.

Nobody cares about death. But it’s fine! They come back! But he finally knows what it feels like to die permanently. Stuck in a rotting body. Cold. Dirty.

Dirty. So incredibly dirty.

Something prickles under his skin. He ignores it.

The prickling grows more urgent. His claws twitch. They’re long. He needs to cut them at some point.

The prickling grows desperate, unable to be ignored. He doesn’t want to claw himself. It will only make his situation worse. His claws twitch.

He needs to get rid of his claws.

No- no, he doesn’t! He can control it. It’s fine. It’s fine.

But he can hear the gods whispering to him again. This was their will. Maybe if he showed enough devotion, they’d let him out. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

He raises a claw to his mouth, bites down, and yanks. A sharp pain shoots up his paw. He doesn’t care. This is for his safety. If he gets rid of his claws, he can’t hurt himself! He will finally be okay. Everyone will love him. The gods will love him.

He pulls harder, feeling something rip between his teeth. His paw throbs horribly.

He gives one last sharp yank, before a chunk of his claw comes free. He spits it out, admiring his handiwork. His finger bleeds, blood pooling where a majority of the claw once was.

The pain feels… horrible. Revolting. Refreshing. It clears his head. It doesn’t feel good. It almost feels good. But he’s not here to hurt himself.

He moves on to another claw, repeating the process again.

Pull, pull, yank. Blood trails down his arm.

Pull, pull, yank. His paw shakes violently. For a moment, he thinks he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

Pull, pull, yank. One more claw to go and then he can stop. But only for a moment.

Pull, pull, rrrip. Some skin peels off along with his claw.

His eye throbs. His arm aches. His throat hurts. His tail trembles.

His surroundings begin to blur as his eyes line with tears. Why? He doesn’t feel sad. He feels fine. He feels great. He won’t be able to hurt himself now. Well- once he rids himself of the claws on his other paw. Then he’d be fine. Free. Worthy. Holy.

It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s alright.

Nobody had to worry about him in here anyway. Nobody knew he existed. Nobody except himself and the gods.

Nobody to cry over him. Nobody to wonder where he went.

Nobody.

But it’s not so bad, right?

It’s not so bad, being in a dark, cramped, filthy dumpster. He repeats this to himself a hundred or so times, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his throbbing, clawless paw.

He has lots of time to think. Lots of time to relax. Lost of time to ignore the fact that his paw is absolutely going to get infected. But it’s fine! He can simply rebirth, and everything will go back to normal.

Yeah.

…

He’s tired. Exhausted. His clawless paw tingles. Fizzles. He can barely feel it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Mamaaa… my paws feel weird.”

“That’s because you keep biting your nails. It’s not a good habit – you should find a way to stop.”

“But I caaan’t. I keep doing it. It’s hard.”

“I’m sure one of the gods would want you to stop. Can you do it for him or her?”

“Okaaay…”

“Don’t use that whining voice, Jeremiah. I’s disrespectful.”

“I- S- sorry, Mama.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

…

…eh?

What was he thinking about, again?

…

…it doesn’t matter. It’s getting harder to think. About anything.

He doesn’t even remember what day it is. Was it his eleventh day here? His twentieth? His hundredth? He can’t rely on his tally marks anymore. He slashed them in a fit of rage, at some point. He can’t remember.

But he doesn’t really need to. What’s the point? The memories get bored of waiting for him to find them and reveal themselves anyways. They float to him like butterflies. Butterflies. Flies. There’s a corner in the dumpster full of flies. They flock to that corner. Why? Surely there is nothing there now. Surely the flies have eaten everything.

Eat. He hasn’t eaten anything. His stomach growls. He ignores it. Ignores everything. He’s so numb. Too numb, maybe? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He only understands the passing of time and boredom. Lots of boredom. The boredom might kill him before he does.

…

…he’s bored.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Scraaatch. Scraaatch. SCREEECH! He scrapes his claws on the dumpster walls. They’re jagged and bumpy now, littered with silver gashes.

He’s had lots of time to think. Lots of time to reflect. Remember. Rebirth. Repeat.

He’s at rock bottom. Anything he does, even now, will mean he would only be going up. He has absolutely nothing to lose.

So he did a few experiments, naturally. Answered a few of his fleeting questions. They were enlightening. Entertaining. He doesn’t regret them a single bit. He doesn’t feel anymore.

Once, he wondered what cannibals found so appealing about particle meat. So, naturally, he bit off his finger.

There wasn’t a lot of meat.

Too much bone.

Wasn’t the best first impression.

But the meat was still fruity and interesting.

He wouldn’t have minded doing it again.

He had been satisfied. And he was still satisfied, now. It was an experience.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-don’t say that, Jeremiah. You know that the gods can hear every single thing you say, right? They can hear all your thoughts, too. So, try not to think bad things. I only want what’s best for you. The gods do, too.”

“O- okay, M-Mama.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

…another time, he wanted to know what it was like to get murdered. He wasn’t afraid. Death was cheap. He’d just come back.

He remembers grabbing at his throat, trying to stop the blood from gushing everywhere. He remembers feeling for the very first time in a while. He remembers feeling panic.

It broke through his brain fog. It felt horrible. Revolting. Refreshing. It cleared his head. It didn’t feel good. It almost felt good.

And then he woke up and stopped feeling again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He’d drawn bloody little pictures on his skin. Drew on the walls. He still wishes he had a blacklight so he could see his work. He remembers a drawing he was very proud of. Or as proud as he could feel. He doesn’t remember what it was.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He’d sung hymns to the gods. Cackled maniacally at the bugs crawling on his legs. Slept every day away until dreams and reality blurred together in one big hypnotic mess. Again and again and again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Days would pass.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Or was it weeks?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He doesn’t care.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He doesn’t need to.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

…

…hears footsteps approaching his dumpster.

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Maybe they’ll walk past and that’ll be that.

But he hears the clanking of metal. Hears someone shake the lock and huff in frustration. Hears the rustling of what he thinks is a bag. Hears the screeching of blade on metal, as the lock falls and clatters to the ground.

It echoes in his ears. Is he free? Truly?

…

…no. No, he’s not. He will never be able to live a normal life after this.

He will be a shambling mess. He is a shambling mess. A husk.

But…

If he forgets everything, if he rebirths now, he can live.

He can finally live.

So as sunlight hits his eyes and burns his vision, he lets himself crumble

into nothing

into energy

into someone who can finally live.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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