《Chapters of Pain [Anthology]》


 Tar

    Sometimes I get bored of sitting in this big house all alone with nothing to do but keeping myself alive, with only one form of entertainment, gazing at myself in the walls and roof, as they all made of mirrors. So I leave the security of my home and venture into the woods surrounding it.


    The trees without leaves closely circling the house, or fencing it to be more exact, were of a light grey color: dull milky silver and they had small white or black dots sprinkled randomly on them. The further you go in, the darker the trees get, and the more black dots there is until there are only black trees, reminiscent of burned ones.


    A thick layer of ash covered the ground, like disgusting heavy snow from an especially cold winter night, and it also gets darker in color the further away you get from the house until it becomes essentially black snow that sucks out even the light from the sunless white sky above.


    I learned from someone I don¡¯t know that well, or even remember in fact, that the black part is the worst part, and it¡¯s basically the equivalent of hell in this world that only consists of one house made of mirrors in the center of an endless stretching forest of grey, and an unreachable faraway horizon of pitch black.


    Unreachable is too strong of a word, you can actually enter the darkness, but you can never reach it by walking. You see, I was told that the darkness is an ancient unstable part of this world, but it should¡¯ve never been, so the distant black trees is nothing but a mirage created by this world to give the formless a clear, awe-inspiring form that could not be touched, as a warning and message: ¡±Don¡¯t touch the darkness.¡±


    But, that doesn¡¯t strictly mean that it doesn¡¯t interact or affect this world.


    When the trees¡¯ color reach the perfect yet subjectively unappealing balance between pitch black and pure white (and that¡¯s the only place you can actually walk to, as the woods start stretching from this point onward), they start to randomly and infrequently appear: seemingly bottomless pits of tar that¡¯s as unstable as its source, as it¡¯s sometimes boiling hot and sometimes freezing, the physical manifestation of coldness and heat in a liquid bubbling form, fighting for supremacy. They are the only way the darkness interacts with this world.


    As I was idly walking around the woods with no care in the world for the god knows which time, I came to an immediate halt to these simple, basic yet surprisingly hard to answer questions.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Why am I here? How did I even end up here?


    I stayed there frozen for a good moment before gazing up at the milky white sky. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and I turned around to head back to the house, I felt something deep inside me urging me to return to its safety: something primal and instinctive.


    As I took the first step in its direction I felt nothing below me as if the ground disappeared, I couldn¡¯t believe it, it actually did.


    The only thing I felt or thought of less than a second later was pain: I felt like I was being burned to death, then a moment later I felt like I was freezing to death, and the cycle continues. What immediately followed was an imprisoning sense of heaviness; I couldn¡¯t move freely, or even by that much, it was like being submerged in incomparably heavier water


    Black. No matter where my eyes raced in a futile attempt to find an escape; they looked up, they looked down, they looked in every possible direction, I even turned around, but they saw nothing but pitch darkness. I knew then that I was in its Tar.


    It¡¯s burning. It¡¯s freezing.


    I want to swim up to freedom but when I look up I see only darkness, is there even an ¡°up¡±? And if there is, did I reach it? Or is there still a distance to it? How long is it? How long will it take for me to reach it? And what will happen to me when I do? Will I be free again?


    I want to escape the bottom but when I look down I see only darkness, is there even a bottom? And if there is, did I reach it? Or is there still a distance to it? How long is it? How long will it take for me to reach it? And what will happen to me when I do? Will I die?


    ¡­ And how much is freedom different from death?


    Questions like these were their own unique and vile form of torture, they didn¡¯t inflict more pain, they took it away, and they¡¯ll continue to do so until the well of emotions run dry, and nothing but hollowness and numbness shall remain¡­ And they hurt more than the Tar itself.


    Maybe that¡¯s the tar¡¯s true form? I don¡¯t know.


    If I tried to swim it hurts, If I stayed still it hurts, all I could do is flail my hands in pain, and occasionally outstretch one upwards in hope for someone to grab it and pull me up, from what I¡¯m now certain of, the hell of this world, but it¡¯s my world: there is no one here but me.


    As time marched without the remotest semblance of care for me, or anything really, I couldn¡¯t distinguish between the pain of burning or the pain of freezing anymore, they merged into one singular pain; the pain of being alive, the pain of breathing in the tar.


    I wasn¡¯t dead, and I wasn¡¯t feeling alive; I was somewhere vague in between, and that what hurt the most.


    I screamed and screamed, I¡¯m not ashamed of admitting it, but did I make a sound? Because it¡¯s sure as hell it didn¡¯t reach my ears, maybe it was because they were covered in tar, or maybe because my lungs were submerged in it.


    I wasn¡¯t good enough to escape that place.


    And now you are wondering where am I, well I¡¯m still there eternally drowning in pain, but something is different now, I don¡¯t feel it anymore: the well ran dry, and my body tired of processing the pain.


    But me being lost on what to do is still true, I just stopped caring.

 Breaking Sounds

    Two distinct voices gradually grew louder and louder with the passing of every second in a desperate attempt to overwhelm and silence the other. As a result of their clashing a ceaseless stream of noises swept and echoed throughout the home they built over years of affection and care, for hours to no end, but sadly you cannot sense such sentiments in the insults and accusations bouncing around between them.


    If someone witnessed this scene-a scene where the main actor, the pent-up negative emotions accumulated throughout years of cohabitating, finally broke free, only to explode in its owners¡¯ faces-with utmost certainty, the serene image of a young girl deeply asleep on a comfortable bed, while gently embracing a gifted soft toy, will come to no mind, but humans are adaptive creatures, and so was their five years old daughter comfortably sleeping upstairs as if it was normal, like the ruckus downstairs was occurring in a different dimension.


    Her room¡¯s door was closed by her parents in a futile attempt to shield her from their new ugly reality, and as it was her bedtime, the lights were naturally switched off so the room was completely dark, which a relatively long time ago was unusual, as they always used to leave the door slightly open so the merciful hallway¡¯ light could creep in, ever so slightly illuminating the room. But she never even complained once, because somehow she instinctively knew that what was happening outside the comfort of her room was something more terrifying than simply the lack of lighting in her quarters; it was the end.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    At first, she couldn¡¯t sleep at all and at her wits¡¯ end she copied a child actor in a horror movie she once sneakily watched, she tightly closed her ears with her frail and small hands and sung her favorite cartoons¡¯ openings, until she tired herself out and fell asleep. But now she only needs to strongly hug her beloved teddy bear, Mr. Brown Fur, a birthday gift from the days of yore, the days of warmth.


    To distract herself and to remain mentally healthy, she created a land of dreams where only positive things could happen and exist, and in the middle of such land existed a beautiful castle with white walls as clear as milk, surrounded by luscious green gardens in them grew a collection of flowers and roses as vast as the night¡¯s sky, and within it she and her parents lived happily as royalty. In her dreams she¡¯ll always be in a dining hall sitting in the middle of a long rectangular table made of smooth shiny light brown wood, facing all sorts of delicious sweets and mouth-watering pastry, at each end sat the Queen and the king respectively, her parents.


    In the beginning, the wooden table was no longer than two meters and a half tall, you could even call it a normal length, but beneath the Princess¡¯ chair existed a small crack in the ivory white marble floor, and she was instinctively terrified of it.


    With the passing of each day, the distance between each end of the table grew longer and longer, and the crack on the floor grew larger and larger, and soon enough it¡¯ll consume her, leaving her mind scarred forever.

 "Different"

    Walking to school along the hated path with an empty head, no thoughts surface as all that provokes curiosity or interest is but too painfully familiar by now. The same buildings, the same people, the same road, the same cars, the same grass, the same dirt, and even the same fucking trash lying around. All that passes through my head is the mediocrity and normality of this day; a day like any other.


    After a few steps, I¡¯ll willingly, if such a word is applicable here, pass through an iron gate to my own momentary, yet consistent imprisonment, with people I¡¯m completely different from.


    I sluggishly look around, spending a few brief seconds to take in the faces of my ¡°peers¡± walking by me, they are all far too similar; the same indifferent expression, thin lifeless smile, and mannequin-like movements; it¡¯s as if someone made multiple copies of the same useless robotic doll with limited movements, but only I¡¯m different.


    I make my way to class passing by more dolls in the process, looking down at the ground in an attempt to shield my eyes from their hideousness, and stand with a familiar group of them near the classroom waiting for an older model to lead the herd in, and then teach them something disgustingly common. Repeat the process and you¡¯ll get your generic school day.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    I sit at the back of the classroom to enjoy the view of mannequins copying people like me, people with free will and free thinking, a stroke of sunlight leaks from the window overlooking the outside to annoy me and only me, but at the very least it seems the world recognizes the special ones.


    ¡®¡­ What¡¯s the answer to question seven?¡¯


    ¡°The teacher¡± asks the class a question, the few dolls with good memory raise their hands in a uniformed manner to hijack a pitiful excuse for limelight, but ¡°The teacher¡± selects me to answer.


    ¡°¡­¡±


    I open my mouth but no answer comes out. I really don¡¯t know why I should trouble myself with something the masses ought to know.


    ¡°I really don¡¯t know, sorry sir.¡±


    I choose to humbly explain myself, and the mannequins open and close their mouth to let these disgusting noises out, but ¡°The teacher¡± model seems to have some awareness of what¡¯s above him, and silences the class before facing the blackboard and resuming his duty.


    I really don¡¯t know why I, someone so utterly different, should deal with these common ¡°people¡±.

 Haunted House

    Pain. One word aptly encapsulating the array of merciless and unrelenting monsters torturing her on a nightly basis, and the myriad of unwanted emotions they awake and summon from the sealed basement of her subconscious: the foundation of the place they are haunting each and every night.


    At night her mind becomes a haunted house.


    She dreams of pain only to wake up to it, and live in it. Comfort is a necessity in the passive and unconscious ritual of calling a set of walls a home, elevating it into something that transcends matter and time, something sacred. Without comfort those walls are nothing more than a shelter from outside elements and factors beyond our control; simply, a place for resting and sleeping.


    But, what if it fails to meet even those simple requirements? What do you call a place where there is no rest to be had, no comfort to be enjoyed and each and every turn and corner is, ironically enough, the resting place for ghosts-a piece of the past stuck in the present and hindering its march?The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    She lives in no home, but a haunted house.


    Waking up only for that bittersweet momentary leave, and yearning for an eternal one. It¡¯s a simple daily cycle, a simple soul-eating one indeed.


    Fortunately, she gave up on hurrying her worldly one. I guess¡­ I hope.


    I hopelessly watch from the side, trying my best to be a shoulder she can lean on. It brings me a great joy knowing she trusts me enough to share her pain with me, yet it pains me knowing she¡¯s in pain, and I can¡¯t be of much, if any, help.


    However, it¡¯s truly heartwarming and heart-wrenching caring for someone expecting nothing but their carefree stupid smile. It¡¯s a special feeling that reminds me of why humans are seen as special, albeit admittedly by them.


    All of that further cement in my heart and mind the fact that I dog her: it¡¯s something far simpler than romantic love; I love her as a human being.


    To romantically love someone often means idealizing them and overlooking their shortcomings, if not completely (the mad part about being madly in love) then to an extent. I don¡¯t see her as perfect or flawless by any stretch of the imagination, but neither am I.


    I can¡¯t seek love or acceptance as, by nature, a flawed human being, without accepting that everyone is. This might not have anything to do with the current topic, but I just thought it sounded cool.

 Quickie: Keep walking, blind man.

    I take baseless pride in walking better than most of my peers, the skill to walk from and to certain points in the most efficient manner, the ability to choose the most interesting and entertaining paths.


    I thought I was special, my legs were special, but what¡¯s special about doing something anyone can copy?Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Absolutely nothing.


    My pride is directed into the simple act of walking because there isn¡¯t anything else to direct it to. Pride might be a deadly sin, but a man with no pride is no living man.


    Should I stop walking then?


    No. It¡¯s something anyone can do and can¡¯t live without doing; I¡¯ll just be the blind man with the most beautiful eyes.

 Left Alone With Others

    The soft green grass is being crushed below my impossible weight without much resistance. The cloudy blue sky above nonchalantly looks down at us all; too far, too big, and too impossible for us to grasp. Clouds restlessly move and change, shaped by the whims of the blowing wind; a beauty of stable change.


    I lay there in a park I often frequent with a group of loneliness repellents and time fillers, but alas they seem to have lost their usefulness; they fill time with nothing but uncomfortably warm air, like an empty can of deodorant, it''s not a bad atmosphere by any measure, yet it''s one I developed an aversion to, similar to an allergy: They repel no loneliness but invite more of it.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Sometimes my mind automatically wanders away from their nth casual and insignificant conversation, conversations I''ve witnessed far too much of that they lost any semblance of novelty and intrigue. I start to think of the past, not with nostalgia or lamentation, but as a curious and earnest historian trying to find the answer to the reoccurring mystery: how did I end up here?


    I always manage to understand the series of events that led me here, but not the reasoning governing my actions and behavior. It''s as if I can only see the wreckage of my train of thought, and it''s bad, to say the least; I can only look at my past self as a moronic stranger I''m related to by fate. The events that led me here are random, whimsical even, and I''m sure things will not remain like this forever; change is the only stable part of life, and it''s not beautiful.

 To My Noose.

    My love for you, so passionate, it shouldn''t be.


    I dream of your embrace, ever so tight, a gateway to eternity.


    I muster up the courage, I take a step forward.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I fell, yet there you are catching me like it''s supposed to be: A start.


    Each moment lasts forever; I can''t see the end.


    Doubt takes over, but only for a brief moment.


    Pain takes a turn, and many forms, regret the most prevalent.


    I saw a different end, it''s still to come; death.


    To it, I dislike this lonesome path.


    In fantasy, your touch felt less coarse.

 Home WHICH / ONE?

    I close my eyes, signaling a driftage through time and space. In darkness the only thing I can see is a small white house in the untouched countryside, it proudly stood out in the middle of the endless green.


    Its wooden picket fence with a fresh coat of white paint, its muddy small glass windows, the number on the door, the scratches on the door handle; I can see each and every detail, no matter how small and minute.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.It''s my haven, my reality, and my work.


    I open my eyes and pick up my rifle: it''s time to wake up to a nightmare.

 Good Boy.

    Danny was a young boy who didn''t see much of the world outside his school and neighborhood, but he truly and earnestly believed that it must be a wonderful place if so many people chose to stay alive and that his father must''ve been an exception.


    Danny loved to wake up early, before anyone he knew. He enjoyed going outside, looking for and observing the still sleeping and shivering homeless people near his area. He would smile innocently and think to himself that grown-ups need to be more nice, like him, and that he was lucky to be born to his family and not to some junky mommy and daddy. But, that must be the world doing him good. There''s still good in the world after all, he thought with a deep grin on his face.


    At school, Danny loved to surround himself with kids less fortunate than him: kids who constantly get bullied and picked on, kids who are poor, and the like. At lunch, he gathers them around in a table, jokes with them, keeps the baddies away, and even pays for the meals sometimes.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.He was better than them, so he should help. That''s the right thing to do, he thought.


    When he comes home he locks himself in his room and watches gruesome and gory videos of innocent people getting murdered and tortured in the most creative ways. He did so in order to reconfirm his belief that there''s still a lot of evil in the world, and not enough good people, like him.


    While the screams of an innocent child getting the meat of his hand removed with a nail clipper echoes in the room, he innocently smiles in pure self-satisfaction at the fact that he''ll never do anything of the sort because he''s good, a really good boy.

 Hands Drawing A Rainbow In The Air.

    When I try to remember the place all I can see is a montage of my hands moving in a constricted fashion, following lines and rules, uninspiringly cloning what''s in front of me into barred pieces of paper without thought.


    My mind, on the other hand, wasn''t limited by anything, it freely moved in a seemingly endless world with infinite potential and variation, in a way symbolizing the childish feeling of invincibility: I could be whatever I want.


    As I grew older and wasted more time in the institute, that wonderful place got smaller and smaller, until it became nothing but a barren small island in a dull sea, with no waves; completely without action.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.Looking at it felt discomforting, and made me feel hollow like my soul and body are being wrung out of their energy.


    I don''t remember how it happened exactly. One day I woke up to find myself standing in the sea: the island was gone. I wasn''t drowning or anything; my head was above the water and my feet were firmly planted in something.


    The water wasn''t cold or hot, it was somewhere uncomfortable in the middle.


    I don''t know when this place will get better, but for now, I''ll just stand here, getting ever so slowly cooked.


    Surprisingly, it doesn''t hurt... but the boredom and monotony do, they are slowly and painfully chipping away at my soul.