Reproducing the Agony

As I awoke, the cavernous region I found myself in was warm, moist, and sticky. It smelled of stale blood and wasted hope. The walls were fleshy and pink. They seemed to be contracting and expanding around me.

I stood up and nearly fell right back down as I realized the floor was shifting in fitful convulsions. Traction was hard to come by. My feet sank deeper into the wet flesh with each step. Not even spikes would help in such muck.

There was no laughter in this weird world, only a numb silence which seemed to echo for eternities in every direction.

Where was I? How did I get here? More importantly, how does one leave? There were no exit signs. Hardly anything could be seen at all. Just the faint coloration of the pink flesh surrounding me on every side. Just that awful stench of blood.

While slowly, carefully edging around the room, I was knocked over by a sudden cascading flood of water that came down one of the hallways. My mouth filled up and I gagged, vomiting the fluid as I desperately tried to keep my head above the pool that was quickly forming.

Then, just as rapidly as it had arrived, the water dispersed, flowing out another unseen opening. I wondered about this invisible release point.

I tried to follow the water, hoping to escape; but it was no use, the stuff seemed to be trickling through some sort of drainage system.

I caught my breath by taking large gulps of air. Which was very unpleasant, what with the horrible smell of fresh blood all around.

If I seem to be fixating on the blood, well, there is a good reason. There was a lot of the stuff. Thick. Messy. Congested.

Eventually, after what seemed like days, I fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamt…

The snake towered before me, darting out its red tongue, smelling my dirty, filthy soul. I had been bad. Awful, even. Time to meet my judge.

The flaming head of the King Cobra rocked rhythmically back and forth, a subtle, intricate maneuver that put me into a trance-like state.

My eyes glazed over and my mouth dried up. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I was at the mercy of the snake. My trial was staged.

“I am The Christopher,” I heard the snake scream at me, though the words sounded fuzzy and seemed to be coming from far away. “This is my garden which you have defiled.”

I tried to apologize for what I’d done, but no words came out. The snake laughed when it saw me struggling.

“Silence,” it yelled.

So I stayed quiet.

It was not the most pleasant time of my life.

I knew I had done something terribly wrong. I felt waves of guilt, shame, and remorse. I knew I needed The Christopher’s forgiveness. But I couldn’t remember, specifically, what it was I’d done.

“I said shut up!” Christopher the snake burst out. “No more thinking!”

The Christopher spit out fiery venom from its flaming mouth, burning my skin and releasing me from a momentary lapse of great confusion.

I was free of the hypnotized state. Fat lot of good it did me. Now I was lying in wet grass, convulsing from the toxic poison flowing through my veins.

The snake snaked its way toward me. The heat from its Fahrenheit face scorched my eyes.

“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” The Christopher cried. Then a group of smaller serpents appeared from behind an apple tree, joining in the chant.

Bleeding, burning, screaming in agony, I laid on the ground and waited for the death that must soon wash over me.

The Christopher, along with the twelve other snakes, continued cursing my name and laughing at my wretched condition. Until, at last, after eons of suffering, the sick sound dispersed into tiny fragments of nothingness. The pain collapsed in upon itself. My eyes shut.

I dreamt…

The wild dogs barked and the rabid wolves howled, filling the night air with a cold heartless sound.

Darkness enveloped me from every side. Disgust engulfed my poor soul and spit on my rotten, sinful spirit.

The wrathful animals were drawing nearer, closing in on my location. I could not flee. My legs were numb. My mind was in a fog. My lungs were restricted to the point that I could barely breathe. Still, the noise grew louder. With each passing moment the horrible cries became far worse, until the beasts were upon me.

Their teeth were neon and glowed bright white against the ungodly darkness. Crimson blood was smeared all over their snouts, undoubtedly the remains of their last guilty victim.

I tried to cry out, to plea for my life, miserable though it was. But no words came forth. The creatures drew in, laughing as their mouths opened wide, snarling all the while.

I felt the first bite on my left hand and I tried to pry the dagger-like teeth off. Bones were crushed. Pain was inflicted. God had forsaken me. The Devil, too.

I was being torn limb from limb. From out my ripped stomach, fluids and guilt-laden guts spilt upon the ground.

The mocking laughter of my tormentors intensified. A burning hot glow in the back of my mind began to pulsate until it exploded in a terrible nuclear reaction. Brain parts flew outward and all thought was disrupted.

I dreamt…

She stood above me, raised up high on a pedestal. I was situated, rather uncomfortably, far below, spread-eagled on a sundial. My palms and feet were nailed down at the corners, blood spewing from the open wounds.

She was an angel. I was a wretch. She was the most radiant, beautiful sight imaginable. I was a disgusting nothing, an imposter, a fake, a fault, a lying fraud.

Her green eyes shone. My black orbs spilled blinding disease.

Her gown was pure virginal white, defining purity, elegance and grace. My clothes were old, tattered, torn, and twisted many times over in a thousand dirty places.

I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I opened my mouth but had no tongue.

I needed to be there for her. I needed to be her knight. I needed to save her soul. She needed me not at all.

She raised the flaming sword high above her auburn hair, threw her head back and laughed in a maddened tone, then thrust the sword downward in a death stroke. The hot steel met my chest and penetrated straight through my broken heart. The black poisoned blood spilt from my midsection. Consciousness flashed in and out, in and out, in and…

I dreamt…

They rose me up in their arms, singing my praises.

They carried me off toward the temple atop the mountain.

I was fed the finest sweet meats and exotic fruits. I drank of the purest wine until an intoxicated feeling swept over me and sent my mind into a chaotic swirl.

Then they changed. They pulled me down and cursed my name.

They dragged me back to the bottom and shoved me under the water.

I struggled to free myself from their grip. I tried to emerge from the river. But in my drunken, overindulgent state I proved to be no match. The oxygen drained from my lungs. I swallowed. I passed out.

I dreamt…

Into the black. Red searing pain. Destruction. Coming undone.

The ants swarmed upon my shrunken, shaking, shivering, withered body. Tiny fangs dug into my sore scabbed skin.

Onslaught and agony. Reproduction of the pain by reproducing the awful experience. Disgust. The hell of life. The cause of death. Suicidal bombing of sanity.

The army of ants licked my wounds and pissed down my throat. Red ones, black ones, golden ones, silver ones. A multi-colored horde of the underworld denizens. Up through their dirt tunnels and cities they came, attacking me in my guilty state.

I quivered. I cracked. I tried to get away. But allergic reactions were quick to cause a mass disintegration of hope. Freedom was a death curse. Heaven was not even an afterthought.

Saliva dripped down my chin. Sanity evaporated. Solace died. Children cried in the distance. Babies screamed and went into seizures.

The ants continued to swarm from the four points of hell, the seven layers of heaven, and the six corners of earth. The sky turned a violent shade of red with streaks of suffocating blue spread around, clouding up and gasping for oxygen. The swamps began to bubble, emitting putrid smells of decay and waste.

The ants dug in and went for the deathblow. Life was a far-off oblivion in the distance. No savior. No hero. No Godhead around. Just rivers of blood. Miles of sick thoughts. A line of peasants. A wall of slaves. A gutter full of aristocratic values. A mob majority. A populace of the medicated middleclass.

The ants sucked at my puss, devouring what was left of my fragile body. The congregation of Christopher’s snakes, laughing, came upon the scene. The glowing angel with her flaming sword swooped in from above. The howls and barks began once more. The water in my lungs boiled and thickened.

I did not dream…

I shook as I awakened in shock. I twitched in my tortured state of uncertainty.

Back in the fleshy, bloody, cavernous enclosure. Then expelled.

Screaming, crying, I felt the cord disengage from my stomach as it was cut.

I was released.

Reborn.

Resurrected.

Alive once more.

Forgiven.

Granted new life.

From out the bloody womb I was spit. For nine months I had dreamt of pain, death, agony, and disgusting, wretched, horrible shame.

But now I was renewed. Reincarnated. Another chance in the cycle of existence.

After death my soul had journeyed into a virginal womb and back into the Electric Collective of Life again.

Fresh. A child. Innocent.

The fragmented dream images from past lives began to fade from my consciousness.

Soon, I had forgotten everything from before. In my new body, with my old soul, I was ignorant of it all once more.

Thus did the cycle spin.

THE END

Bio: Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past eight and a half years. More about Outlar's work can be found at 17Numa.com...

E-mail: Scott Thomas Outlar

Website: Scott Thomas Outlar's Website

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