Stepping on the Stones

(October 2004)

Stepping on the Stones

          My feet are sore; they have been for many arduous years. I have trudged for far too long a time, too long to recollect what has happened. Only the dim impression of what has passed, only the feelings of soreness remain. I have long ago looked past behind me, only able to clip onto vague scratches of the scars that cling to me. Memories of yore flash back, memories I do not believe I ever had, some of murder, some of other ghastly and strange things such as suicide, all of which emanate incessantly.

          I am afraid this may be due to more than fractural amnesia. Amidst all my reeling thoughts, I have a disturbed feeling that they are all real in some twisted reality. While I say they are of a definite stature, I disbelieve them as none of my own, vices that were forced into my head by some unknown entity. Every second, every infinitesimal moment of my life seems to brew hideous occurrences of these bygone evils. Some come as new visions to coerce my tormented mind, while others repeat from previous images, often of an unbearably stronger nature than before. For the moment, they appear as genuine and understandable, but as the dreams drift, they become less and less so to the extent that I can rarely distinguish them from the rest. All the while, I have obsessed in an endless endeavor to sift through the cloud of memories that have been bestowed unwillingly upon me in attempt to expose truths of my own existence. However, I often cannot tell which are native to my mind and which are of the monstrosities that laden me.

          The oldest memory I own—the oldest one that can be accounted for being true and the strongest one I withhold—is the one of waking alone in this sheltering temple. I have returned because crawling torment is now a part of my hidden life, for I have always received a strange sense of connection that links me with this site. Even now, I sense great affinity placed toward here. Its stone walls welcome me, alluding and empathizing with my forever-delirious state.

          The memories I have, the ones that never really existed, I believe are only a part of some sinister plan that lies before me in a hidden veil of ruin. Yes, I sense a nocturnal plan upon me. I am convinced that a source I dare not acknowledge is trying to consume me; that much I have derived.

          But I have decided. I will not become a part of this plan that is in store for me. No. I will cleanse myself; I will rid myself of these memories and prevent them from recurring in the afterlife. I bet and can surely guarantee this was not expected by it, the sole satisfaction I have had in an immeasurably long time. I will lease my spirit to take upon another life, one of death that is blithely blissful and fails to receive these vilely annexed dreams. I choose this place because I wish to die where—I can accountably say—I was born. Although I do not truly know where I was physically born, I can assert my cognizance was birthed here. However, when it came to being, it brought with it the horrid illusionary visions that make me haunted, all of which I dearly wish to forbear.

          It is difficult to see, for the room is dark and thick with the gaseous fumes of incense. So thick is the fog that I feel the mists flow around my body. So thick is the fog that my breathing has become shallow. I am not bothered though, for a light stands and shines not far off through the haze, a beacon to my future.

          Spines of decorative images plaster the stone walls, wispy with ancient age. I have often studied these to gain eventful insights, but they never have come, just the awful recursions of the pernicious impressions within my mind. Situated in the center of the sanctum is a murky pool of water with an embellished ridge rounding its edges. I have discarded my clothes within the depths of the basin, my ornaments along with them. The only thing upon me is a thin and fragile necklace with narrow bones and rangy teeth hanging from the coarse rope that hangs about my neck. Held in my left hand is a gigantic tooth, horn-like in its framework. As for my right hand, I do not know what happened to it, lost with the daunting and torturous memories. To me, it just has always been—a torn and lacerated stump severed below the elbow.

          From what I can recall in my life, people considered me of ignoble ilk, always remonstrating against me because I did not belong. I was thought to be an epitome of corruption, a degenerate person because of who I am, one with a queer mind. If only they had held the memories that I hold . . . to force them to contain the essence of my pernicious memories.

          Due to my physical condition, work was hard to obtain. And whenever I had found work, it was only a matter of time before I was cast away. Those who had hired me soon found out I was a freak, one that randomly burst out in mental pain or mumbled rattling gibberish unconsciously. For the vast majority of what I remember, I lived in poverty, shuffling from village to village in search of sustenance, shooed whenever appearing on a foreign porch. Yes, life was hard, but it matters not anymore, for what is life when it is over?

          I see the tooth I hold in my hand as a remedy, one to resolve the complexions of my life. The bone gleams brightly in the darkness, but I do not know if this is accounted for by the candlelight or by my madness. It matters not. Madness and sanity alike conclude equivalently at life’s end.

          I shift the bone in my hand, letting it roll awkwardly in my palm, begging me with its sharp ways. It need not have begged, for I already have decided to oblige with full determination. I look up at the shadows the ceiling adorns brightly with a hideous, open smile on my face. Along with my eyes, I bring up the amending tooth, poising it dastardly. Without forewarning, I plunge the pointed tusk into my scarred chest, driving it inches into my heart. Pain merges with my smile, but it is repealed with grim satisfaction before I pass out and die.

          The room is dark. I sit up, straining to see, instinctively using my good arm for leverage. Why I am in a dark chamber, I cannot tell, cannot remember. I rack my mind to remember, but I can only receive a powerful feeling of this place—a temple, I am sure. I try to revive more about it, but I stop in pain as evil and disturbing inklings of indefinite experiences clutch to my mind, ones I am not sure to trust are mine. Attempting to restrain the alien episodes that have begun to web over my already unstable mental balance, I leave the place that I deem as my home—where my first, definite memory began.