The Man That Was Not a Man

A Story by Dwayne Newbold

A twisted view of the "afterlife."

I wish I could say i remember, but memories carry emotions breathing inside of them. Otherwise, we could never tell if they were just wisely fabricated. But these visions have to be real, otherwise I have no recollection of how I ended up boxing myself in this setting I reside in.

Lights change, I move forward.

I decided I had grown too tired. I was physically sick of biting the towel, and swallowing life's "lessons" straight to the pit of my stomach. I chose to bite the barrel of my magnum for a change of pace. I thought it would take me longer to develop the backbone I never had, and push the hammer back where it belonged. But the weight of stress pushing on my shoulders weighed me down to my fingertips; I slammed that trigger back into it's rightful place.

And I would love to stop there, and say that that deafening boom was the last thing I had heard.

The lights change again, and I step forward.

From then on I no longer felt, nor saw. No smell, no taste. I only heard the constant drip of blood from my bed corner to the floor. It's pace was fast and steady, and steadily slowed as well. Until it seemed days later that it finally had stopped. I was met with silence, but somehow knew I hadn't slipped away. Every once in a while, I would hear my telephone ring in the adjacent room, only to be silenced by time, outmatching the caller's patience.

The lights change a bit sooner than I anticipated, but I step into it none the less.

Once the phone went off and on for what seemed to be minutes at a time, I knew someone would come. Somebody would find me. Someone would care.

I would guess that about an hour past until somebody opened my bedroom door. No cries, no screams. The only scream I got was the one from inside of me, that fully resonated like tympany through my shattered brain, before my memory, like me, ceased to exist.

The lights don't change. It's then that I realize they aren't lights. Lights have a beacon, a visible source to see the vibrance and vision originate, but there is none. No spot to begin, it only rains down on the platform I stand on top of.

The next platform ahead of me becomes illuminated, and I progress onto it. But this platform, I realize, is not a platform. A platform has a base from which it's supported on top of. These platforms that appear and disapear arrive from nowhere, they're *just there*. There is nothing on the bottom they're attatched to. At least none I can see on the platform I've had my sights on since I first awoke here.

On a platform now about ten yards out from me stands a man. Not moving. Paying no attention to my existence. At one point I attempted to call out and have him turn to me. It was then that I realized I had no voice, which spurred my curiousity to gaze down and discover that I had no legs, no arms, no hands, no body. I was simply here, only my conciousness.

The next platform was lit, and I stepped forward with my foot that wasn't a foot.
Two more platform changes between the man and I. Two more changes and my platform will exist beside his. Why am I here? Do we all experience this? I'm positive that this cannot be the afterlife, for I feel in my heart that death lies before me. Whatever this word is, where ever this world is...it's a mistake. I shouldn't be here. If I could jump into the dark that shrouds these two platforms I would, if it weren't for the thought that killing myself once led my here, so what would twice curse me to?

The lights change. I crawl forward.

I'm crawling. My hands and knees don't exist but I'm using them all the same and I know it. I'm so scared. I can't get up, but I can't face him on my knees with my face to the floor. I can't feel my heart but I know it's pounding. I have no voice but I know I'm crying. I have no tears but I know they're falling. Why can't he turn to me so I can read his intentions out from his eyes?

The lights change.

I can't. I tried to jump but I can't. I have no body because I'm meant to be controlled.

I step forward.

My vision by now is reeling. It's unbelievable how close he is. It is physically impossible for me to turn away. Can't I turn around and stare into the darkness before he does?

No, I can't. Because his feet are already shuffling.

The man turns, and soon, he faces me.

A scream fully resonates like tympany through my non-existant brain before I realize that this man, was not a man. For men...

Men have a face.

And realizing this is the last thing I do.