The hand written autobiography, of a dead man. In about 500 words.

I wrote this a while back when I was not thinking to good, as will be obvious.

 

SETTING:           Darkness,,  Somewhere in this universe.

 

 

            I look once again, into the mirror.  The reflection I see, is of a living human being, who long ago  died.

            There is no life left in this body.

            There is no thought left in this mind.

            There is no will left in this soul.

            There is only death.  A continued living death.  A life without living.  Having died without being dead.

            The death of a loving, caring and sharing person.  Brought on by those same faults.  For if at no time had he let his life be lived in them, his living death would not have occurred.

            There was a time, when the thought of a rebirth, a rebirth back to the living life was considered.  But now too that has died.  For there was one thing that that old life had taught him.  People are cold, cruel, self-centered, backstabbing hypocrites.  The cause of death among the living.  For without people around, this man would never have died.  Died a living death.

            So now he writes, in a dark room.   A candle, his only source of guidance of pen to paper.  In this setting, he fully understands the loneliness and emptiness of his death.  All, well admitted, brought on my himself.  Cause if you cannot love, you cannot be loved.  You cannot be befriended, if you refuse to be a friend.  And so he writes.

            But why even write?  The real thoughts, the real pain, the real desires, cannot, will not, be transposed on paper.  For even the author has lost touch with his own reality.

            He has lived in death.  In self-isolation for so long it has become real.  There is no family.  No friends.  Not even a buddy or pal, with whom he could entrust his secrets.  How could they be expected to understand the hell he has been thru.  The tortuous upbringing.  The turn on society.  The dream, slowly becoming more of a reality, to end this life.  To end this living death.  To finally go where he has dreamed for over thirty years to go.  The home of the dead dead.

            As he writes, he thinks of his childhood.  The hell he was put thru.  The pain.  Both physically and emotionally.  And his body wants to cry.  To scream.  But it can’t.  It won’t.  He won’t let it.  For instead, he would rather relive the pain.  In his mind.  And in reality.

            By self-inflicted physical pain, he will digress to that time. 

            Pain.  Oh glorious pain.  Pain is all he understands now.  For it has been the one and only constant in his life.

            Pain.  Pain and blood  are what he now needs.  But he won’t feel the pain.  He has become numb to pain.  He will though see his blood.  For thru the crimson flow, he will digress to his childhood.  Where all the pain started.

            One day, one day soon, he will digress back and stay there.  That place where he was to young to understand why.  And to scared to say stop.

            One day, enough blood will flow, and his dream will become a reality.

            He will join the world of the DEAD DEAD.