Memento Mori

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Static.

The Lonely Human’s eyes were glazed over, unblinking in the nether blackness; or maybe they were squeezed shut, forever closed to the Void outside; or perhaps his eyes were simply not there. How could he know, if he saw nothing in all three cases?

Static.

His lips were parched and thin – or deathly smooth and puffy. Maybe his mind was trying to comprehend their absence. His mouth was a gaping hole into the bottomless pit of his body, a recursive mimicry of the greater Void he lay in. Deeper and deeper he went. Maybe his mouth was so wide it consumed his entire body, and he simply did not exist. His tongue, if it were indeed there, flopped about in vain as it tried to escape its slimy prison - or perhaps it was bone dry, the Azure long gone. How long ago was Barlibur Loon? Had he happened at all?

Static.

The Human wanted to touch his face; alas, he had not the strength nor the senses. His fingertips were frozen and buzzy, his arms locked in place; or perhaps they were loose and out of control, flapping about numb with careless grace; and maybe his limbs had ceased to exist as well. He could not move things that were immovable, could not force things into motion when they had yet to appear.

Static.

The Human thought he could feel the cold in his feet, and have some sign that he was alive. But no – now he had no grasp of the temperature in his body. Deep in his mind, he searched tirelessly for inklings of happiness, of anger or of sorrow. Plunging further into the recesses of his brain, he sought for fragmented shards of memories. Yes – he could feel them. He prodded those squishy nooks and crannies for any grains of remembrance. But all of a sudden they vanished, and he was prodding at nothing. Then he found he could not prod at all.

He could not feel anything at all.

Static.

The Lonely Human had no eyes, no mouth, no face, no touch, no mind. He had nothing. He was nothing. He was not Human any longer, nor was he Lonely. His entire being – his mind, his self, his material – was no more. And he felt neither mournful nor joyful, for he was no more.

Static.

.

Static.

.

Static.

.

Static.

.

Static.

But.

Static.

If he was no more, then he could not think. If he could not think, he could not hear anything.

Static.

Then what, pray tell, was that godawful static?

It buzzed and it burned. It reached his ears and clutched them by the lobes. It wormed its way in and spread through his head. It was around him and through him.

Grunting, the Lonely Human reached out – he knew not what with. He felt it: his arm, the left one, he was sure. With a resounding crack, his elbow bent inward. His palm hit a soft, smooth surface. he gently inched his fingers, now quite thawed, across it.

It was skin. It was his face. Eagerly his fingers danced across his face, like tendrils on a creature of the Void. Before long his right hand had joined its partner, and together they mapped the rest of his cranium. How stupid he must look – and the embarassment gave him a giddy joy. A smile rose, his lips stretched taut. It was painful, and it was glorious.

A dull flicker echoed in his eyes. Aha - he had found his eyes; they were squeezed shut after all, and now he could open them. At first he saw darkness and the faint outlines of his spidery hands. But as his orbs stretched and yawned, he thought he caught a glimmer of light. A light. A tiny star far ahead in the Void.

He was entranced. He stared at it, watching it grow larger, moving closer to him.

The Static fades.

Or maybe he was moving closer to it.

This is a revised version of a story from 24 June 2022, exactly one year after Unus Annus.