Into the Recess

A Story by B. Stearns

Phycological horror excerpt from a story idea I had.

I remember it. Somewhere deep, it carved a long line into my bones, and ripped through me like a divot.

I did it, and I was there, but the memory came to me like I was in third person. Trapped somewhere, and muscles moving on their own. I could feel them down to the cellular level, stretching and tearing. Slowly rebuilding and being ripped apart ever so gently. It felt like torchure as the tendons rubbed and pulled across the surface. I was simultaneously inside and outside of myself.

I remember the hatred pouring outside of my eyes to you. Deep and thick, I could cough it up out of my lunges. I felt your hands on the back of my neck, even though it wasn’t there.

I looked to the baby in front of me with horror.

It was cold outside, but I was drenched with sweat. I hoped somewhere, for wherever you were, that you would feel the cold against your back. I wished you would feel the same bone-deep shutter of uncomfort I felt.

To the godforsaken hands of yours.

I could see them vividly.

Old and wrinkled. Short and dry. Crawling with blue and purple veins, and your skin the color of an unearthly red with a cold tone to it. Your fingers are crooked and crack with every movement of your hand, your hands have never moved with grace. I have always hated them.

You say to carry dignity for the dead bodies, but you hold no dignity. You do not have dignity for the soldier who guards the grave everyday since thirty years ago. They do it out of respect and hold the same mourning I do for them, for the poor soul encased in stone that spends everyday in his past. He never got what he deserved.

There are distinct lines of where that soldier had stepped for years. The concrete is smooth there and is dark. You never pay attention to where you step. You leave dirt wherever you go.

You carry your pride with dignity. You tie it to God’s shoes and drag your ego high up in the sky.

I am your dirty secret.

You’ve hollowed me out and I carry your bag of bones. I am smothered with the blood of others.

Here in the depths, I carry you.

There is no god here. Not when I hold your deepest guilts and become the manifestation of your own consequences.

For as much as you could stand and climb, for as high as you will ever get or be, I will always be there to pull you back down into the recess.