Culpability

I woke up naked and sweating on a cold, cement floor. Fear rushes over me before I even get the chance to breathe the stench of rot and death. I sit up, my hair peeling off the ground like bark from a tree as if it had been stuck there for weeks. Inadequacy is drawn on my face in dark circles, which make my eyes look almost as hollow as I feel. I try to remember how I ended up here, but the nightmare I am in is consuming me whole. The skin on my hands is wrinkled with liver spots; dirt and blood caked under my fingernails like I stand a fighting chance. The massive weight on my shoulders is hyperreal and is the only thing reminding me of my pathetic existence.

I am alone.

The bare ceiling is all that meets me as I look up; the room softly but eerily illuminated with a light that does not have a beginning nor an end. The walls reverberate in and out, and my head pounds with the nagging of thoughts. Suddenly, a wet cloth is shoved down my throat from thin air. Paralyzed by confusion, I do not resist. I think more than I speak, and feel more than I express, and maybe this is why.

My hands are tied with hot metal, and I scream in agony. I cry and plead, but there’s nothing to stop it. Who would I even beg for mercy? I can’t remember the last time I saw another person. Am I still human? The body I’m in has been ground to the bone, as though it has suffered through years of hardship. What is the purpose of this pain?

The shadows of this nightmare curl around me like long fingers of the Devil himself. Ruptured open by a swift gesture, my torso purges the contents of my miserable carcass. I realize it is my blood. My body is mutilated and I’m still in the way. I am punched and slapped, and I spit teeth and flesh on the floor. Fuck you, I like it. Am I too cynical? The silence is deafening.

I’m shaking as my fingernails are harshly torn off my skin. My wrists are split open, and I can see the highways of veins that have always deceived me. I could vomit if my organs were still inside me. I accepted my punishment through my own innocence. Tears fall down my face like thick lava. The promise of freedom seems distant but more desirable than ever. I want to scream, but I have already made such a fuss.

“I think I’m ready to go now,” I say to myself, laughingly. The insanity of leaving this room in my condition is amusing, to say the least. Yet, the absurdity of dying in this room is harrowing. I close my eyes and concentrate on the nothingness my body has been left with. A noose is tied around my neck. With my eyes still shut, I feel the rope on my neck with my bloody fingers and sob uncontrollably. I pause. I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

My feet are planted solidly on the cement ground now stained with my blood. I look up to the empty ceiling one last time. I notice the rope isn’t attached to anything at all. It is merely dangling like a tortured necklace. Embarrassment swallows me as I feel a fresh burst of air on my naked skin. Shocked, I turn around to see where it’s coming from. There is an open door.

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