Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge? Are you open to sharing your dark side? Then read on.
Do you have a dark side?
Share your dark side?
dark | side | thursday | thirtysix
He was the man in black.
There was no going back. He had to fight back.
Back to what? Back in black? Or should he swear allegiance to the cowardly white. He had no damned idea. He floated in a none place, somewhere between here and there, not quite anywhere. Full of fear. Flags fluttering, symbols, colours, meaningless. All of it.
And yet, he was damned if he was going to give in, not now. Not after all he had been through, not after all the endless circles he seemed to have circumnavigated, ceaselessly . In search of, in search of, what exactly? In search of her. The woman that had haunted him since that time long ago, that warm evening, that hole. In the ground. The fake plastic flowers. Taking photographs. How much of what he could recall was real?
His mind curled into a virtual ball inside the walls of his polished skull, pulling deeper inside, tighter and tighter. Quivering deep inside him. Afraid of what, he could no longer remember.
And then? Then it had all become confused. His dreams, his nightmares had converged, conflated, collapsed. He could no longer tell reality from fantasy, night from day. Life from death.
There had been flames, fierce burning flames, and old flames. Plates. Plates with bloodstained handprints, stairways and airways. Constricted airways. Hands held tight. Taunting, teasing, not wanted. Statues and towers. Flowers and towers. The tower of death. He had climbed. He had lost. His way. He couldn’t stay. Not welcome. His time had come, and passed away.
His mind clenched into a fist. A startled sphincter, repelling entry. The world, a tight hard ball, deep inside his empty skull.
Nursery rhymes. Adult crimes.
Janet and John. Humpty Dumpty. Snakes and Ladders. Beauty and the Beast. Jack and the Beanstalk. The Magic Roundabout. Winnie the Pooh. Gingerbread cottages. Wolves, with dripping fangs. Red haired beauties. Barbie, Ken and Action Man. Plastic threesome. Not so winsome.
White faces, and long white incisors. Howling at the moon. Stories, gory stories. Wrapped in candy, and spread with poison. Happy endings. Stories never ending. Frauds and fallacies. Favours and Quavers. Chuppa chups. Will o’ the wisps.
Out there. Sounds. Muffled, far away sounds. Booming and slurring.
Ahead of him, the light. Sirens calling. Sensuous and embracing. Come hither. Don’t dither. The light is right. Don’t fear, we have beer. And good cheer. Forget the pain. Don’t strain. Relax. Let go.
Pictures, words, fragments filled his mind, a showreel from hell, spinning, out of control.
Sound intensifying. A strident shrieking. A bell blaring. And voices, could those be voices? Really, in the land of the nonny nonny no. No.
Wrapped up tight, inside. He floated. The light pulled.
The voices entreating.
Rhythmic pulsing. Pushing and straining.
Tightening. Darkening. Sounds, becoming frightening.
The light approaching. Pushed to the light. Intense white light. No longer squeezed and confined.
And those words. Again. Squeezed into the light.
‘Don’t let him’
Lungs opening. He cried.
thirtysix | fiftytwo