The Curse of Immortality

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is bare and white. The ticking of the clock echoes, every inching second punctual and certain, piercing through your mental haze in a pleasant, calming thrum.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

You are lost in a passing of moments that accumulate into nothing, save for a pleasant numbness that ripples through your body.

Tick. Tock.

Suddenly: silence.

It is begun. The fool shall suffer…

The whispers begin, unintelligible at first. In a frantic gesture, you swing yourself upright.

“Uh-gh.”

The pain shocks you, jolting through your body as though your internal organs are being pierced by an intently focused set of swordsmen, dedicated to every portion of your body. The aching begins. It is slow, a slight murmur in the background, but that will not last. You must move. First, your right foot.

How dare she. After everything, she’s still trying.

The whispers are materializing, the spectators’ scorn apparent. Her voice is beginning to resonate behind the otherwise uniform murmurs. Your right foot now hangs off the edge of the bed. The cool air brings a temporary reprieve before your body seizes. The ache has become a quiet pounding, coursing through your body to the beat of an indeterminate drum.

Your left leg now. You brace, imbuing every segment of your body with as much strength as you can muster; you swing your left foot over the edge of the bed and launch yourself upwards. You catch yourself against a small white nightstand, sending pill bottles clattering over the edge. The harsh sounds do nothing to stifle the now incessant tones of their voices, hers loudest among them:

Just sit there and take it. Listen to our words, wallow in the pain that you so rightfully deserve. You miserable wretch.

You long for the comfort of the steady ticking of the aged grandfather clock. She gave you that clock. You had hated it then. Now, it is the only aspect of her that has remained true.

“Fuck..! I shouldn’t have. I should’ve known better, god dammit.” You mutter under your breath, anything a welcome distraction from the pain.

They don’t tell you what living forever really means. That your body can’t keep up with the ever-persevering beat of your mind. The fates laughed when you tried to die. They laughed as you pleaded with them to end you, your limbs attached by filaments shining through what could have passed for parchment paper. You begged for a way to compensate for your sins, and their laughter rang never-ending in response. You were a web of decay, and they were going to make sure you stayed that way.

“Bastard!”

You ease away from the support of the nightstand, each limb howling as fires rage within, searing every inch of your body. Gleeful and deafening, their voices consume you.

If she were here, she would have taken your hand with a gentle smile, and walked with you, singing her lullabies. But she is gone now. And you. Are still. Here.

Are you enjoying this, wretch? Good. You deserve every sensation coursing through you.

Your sob is strangled in your throat as you close your eyes, imagining her soft touch and gentle demeanor, beyond they that speak with her voice now.

Taking a deep breath, you lift your right foot. Stifled tears press through your weakly lidded eyes as you lower it to the floor. Left foot. The tears are full force and sobs erupt from you as pain radiates through your body. Their jeering wraps you in a level of torment you never dreamed possible.

You breathe. Inhale. Right foot. Exhale. Left foot.

They goad you, shouting your failures into the cold, dead air, forcing you to recall every regretful piece of your being.

You’re here to repent, aren’t you? Let’s walk you through the stories your wretched existence wove into a tapestry of failure.

With a guttural roar, you launch yourself towards the clock and collapse against it, finding temporary harbor in its intricate etchings before yanking the paneled, wooden door open with such power as you had not realized you still had. You grab the heaviest of the three weights, pulling it down to the appropriate height by instinct. Her voice becomes the fiery rage of a god, enveloping in its intensity.

YOU CAN NEVER WIN. SUFFER AS YOU HAVE MADE US SUFFER.

With gasping, sobbing breaths, you pull the second chain. Then the last one. The clock starts again with a comforting whir, and the voices recede, whispering in derision. You collapse against the clock, joyfully weeping as their whispers echo one last time:

See you tomorrow.