Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Monday, August 30, 2010

The Silence of White

I can hear the echoes of silent voices. Swirling, swimming… Silence.
I try to understand what they are saying.
“Where… am I?”
Who is it? Is it me? Whatever It is, I don’t like it. I don’t like it. Who is I? There’s something here, something is happening to me, or happened. I have trouble distinguishing my senses; it’s all a blur, a White blur. I can (hear)
(feel?) a White blur. Am I dead? Oh, how cliché.
My name is Peter, I remember that much, but where am I?
I yelp as I feel something, indistinguishable at first, but I identify this feeling as… burning. I flinch, but am bound. I feel my torturer inject me with something. I can feel it coursing though my veins, burning. It withdraws what It impaled me with, feeling it’s course edges churn and grind against my bones and arteries. I am then reminded of my bounds as I go to pull away again but feel it’s cold, rusty exterior constricting me as if it clenches harder the more I resist.
‘My name is Peter Langford.’
This wave of memories comes rushing over me, overwhelming me.
‘My name is Peter Langford, I was born on July 16th 1987 in North Dakota, USA. I am currently studying Law at College and plan to be a Lawyer.’
(I think)
This wave of information seems familiar, but somewhat distant. I wonder why. I disregard this thought soon after. This sense of blurred alienation returns to me. Am I really Peter Langford?
‘Of course I am! It’s that stuff It injected me with! I can feel it! Get it out!’
The voice was right, I can feel it spreading, burning. Its White flames swirling, swimming through my veins.
‘It was Them! The Voices!’
I yelp out, this time feeling more and more… Real.
I begin to open my eyes, feeling my muscles straining as I jar them open. Faceless people wondering around aimlessly. I can feel their empty gazes crushing down upon me. I hear droning silent accusations in this alien language. The smell of bleach burns my nostrils with its blazing, colorless emptiness. I can even taste it, scolding down my throat. My senses are overwhelmed, blinded by this sense of silent emptiness. Who is this ‘Peter’? Is that who I really am? Of course it is. Why wouldn’t I be!?
The chart above my head says otherwise.
I get the strength to turn my head, glancing down to see a number of horrific tubes. Draining me of who I really am. There are no constraints around my arms, but merely a clear tag, labeling me. I continue to turn my head towards the chart I had a glimpse at, to have a better look at what it said about me, and who I was. I reached up and ripped it down forcefully, so forcefully that I knocked my head on the way down, sending tremors and shockwaves through my already aching head. ‘Perphenazine’, ‘Chlorpromazine’ and ‘Fluoxetine’ are some of the jargon used to describe this person’s illness or whatever.
‘Subject has been given 5mg of Perphenazine, and dosage is to be repeatedly given to subject every 6 hours. Precaution, subject is known to react negatively to his medication, sedatives are advisable.’
            “What is this crap!?” I hear myself say, as I watch the chart fly out of my grip and across the room, “What’s going on!?” I begin to hear the thudding and trampling of It. Faceless silhouettes approach me. I can’t see their mouths moving, but I can hear them, this alien language becoming comprehendible.
“Calm down Mr. Jones. What seems to be the problem?” These words flow from nowhere, linked to each other and to nothing.
“Jones!? My name is Peter Langford! Who are you!?” My gaze scatters over the room, realizing there are other victims here, more like me. I seek solace in the eyes of my neighbor, but receive nothing but… embarrassment. The drone of voices becomes overwhelming now, blocking out all other noise. I raise my hands to block out this excruciating drone of nothing. I fall back onto my bed unwittingly, as if thrown down, and then it hits me. The burning. I feel my bounds grasp my arms again, pinning them down as I feel It inject me with something again. And once again, I feel its flames course my veins. I feel my heart pounding, trying to reject Its fire inside me, pumping it back out of my system, but failing. Soon I feel nothing, just the pounding of my dying heart, giving in.
            It is now that I realize my identity, or lack thereof. This body, as frail and weak as it may be, is ‘Mr. Jones’. My mind is vacant, a sponge absorbing anything it touches. I am no one, well… I was no one.

Death of a Whale

Sorry we are, too, when a child dies;
But at the immolation of a race who cries?