Void.
That was it. A bleak and overwhelming void blocking out everything. No lights. Not even a brighter shade. Everything was just pitch black. He was out cold, passed out from the excessive abuse, from the unloving and uncaring treatment of his mind and body. It wasn't the first time by any means, but it was going to be the last. He had outdone himself this time, and perhaps purposefully so. Perhaps subconsciously. He had been abusing recklessly for many months now, more than he had cared to keep count of, as if he had an underlying desire to leave this world behind for good, and this time he seemed to get his wish granted. He had taken everything he could get his hands on. Alcohol, drugs, pills, you name it. He had been out for days, collapsed on the old, dirty mattress in the humble, crummy apartment that he would have deemed a fitting mausoleum.
The place hadn't been cleaned in a very long time and was littered with junk. Old pizza trays, empty and half-empty bottles, porn magazines carelessly spread all over the floor, piles of dirty clothes, remains from cigarettes and joints, insects... the place was a hellhole. His hellhole. It would be a joke to say that the place needed a womans touch, because no woman would care to do it, and it defied logic that he had ever had female company in this room. It had been a long time ago as well. Most of them had been prostitutes. The cheap kind. The ones that hadn't been were even less appealing. Unattractive and no self-respect. A couple of psychos as well. He hadn't cared for any of them really. It was more like he had used them to try to get past someone else, someone that mattered, but afterwards he had just felt worse, and been drinking and abusing heavily to forget all of them and all of it. He hadn't had much success so far but this time he was sure to erase a sizeable amount of his memory, if not his entire life.
"I'm sorry, Dwayne. I can't do it anymore", the voice spoke, taunting him. That voice. The one voice that would never silenced or forgotten, no matter how hard he tried. Even now, hanging in this limbo between life and death, the voice mocked him. The one voice he cared for above all others. Her voice. He cared so much for her but it was over. "Goodbye", the voice stung, before the door had been closed and left him to his own company, to live like a damned, and he had damned himself further since then. Rampaged his apartment and everything in it and punched his right fist right into the wall in utter frustration, only to cause an injury it wouldn't fully recover from again, making him even more despairing and reckless. It was a lesser and somewhat insignificant injury but the hand never felt quite the same afterwards, and neither did he.
He had been an MMA fighter once. Fitness-junkie too. He had been working out all week, several times a day even, and he had gotten quite impressive results. He had been fond of lifting weights and passionate about the fighting, doing it for years. Gotten quite good at it. Gotten quite big too. After the injury, however, he had had to take a long pause. The hand got better but never fully recovered. It felt odd at times, like something in it was slighty crunching, and the vein sometimes popped back and forth. It remained its functionality but mentally it crippled him. He felt handicapped, and after a couple of attempts at getting back at it, he quit the MMA and the weightlifting altogether. He began drinking and doing drugs, and one day while he was totally beside himself and trying to stagger home, he walked out in front of a moving car and was hurled across the road, rolling around in a rapid pace. He hit his left elbow particularly hard against the pavement, which left him with yet another injury he wouldn't seem to recover from. It also retained its functionality but from time to time a burning sensation eroded from it.
Although minor and relatively insignificant injuries, they had dealt a massive blow to his psyche and his ego, one that he wouldn't recover from either, and after his second injury everything went from bad to worse. To him his fighting days were over, he had lost the love of his life, and he no longer cared for anything this life had to offer. He simply let go of himself. He didn't care for when he went to bed or got up, and his abuse of alcohol and drugs increased greatly. He didn't cook and only got junk food, whenever he got anything to eat at all, and he was beginning to get slightly overweight. His hair was unkempt and messy and he had grown a big, burly beard. The past couple weeks he hadn't seen anyone or let anyone in. He no longer cared to try to substitute her company for anyone elses or to leave the apartment at all. He had become a recluse, living like a ghost and staring into the wall, and drinking and abusing in his own silent company, and now he was laying here, ready to die, ready to let go of it all, weakened from days without food or water, and getting close to get his wish fulfilled.
Suddenly he heard the voice of what sounded to be an angel. "Are you there?", the voice inquired. It pierced the veil and ecchoed in his mind. In this dreamlike state he thought it was an angel or something alike, sent to help him pass to the great beyond, and his dry lips let out a low, hoarse "yes". There was a strange bumping sound. "Hello?", the voice continued. "Hello? Are you there?", it asked again, a little higher this time. "Yes!", he answered again, more firmly than the first time, confused and frustrated that the angel didn't seem to hear him. "I am... I am right here", he stuttered. The strange bumping sound was heard again, louder this time. It didn't stop this time, in fact it only rose to an unbearably loud thundering. It brought him back to consciousness. Someone was knocking on the door. Hammering, more like it.
He groaned out in pain, as he struggled to shake his limbs out of entropy. With some effort he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The room was dark. There was no light, and that was fortunate. His eyes would have a hard time adjusting to it after having been passed out for days. "Hello Sir, are you there? Please open", the voice sounded again, this time more clearly. It was a young girl, and she was yelling. She knocked on the door again in the same insisting manner as before, and he groaned out in pain again and fought to get on his feet. It took a couple of attempts but under great pain he finally got up and staggered towards the door, coughing loudly. "Please Sir, you have to let me in. If he finds me, he'll kill me!", the voice implored him. Why couldn't I just have died?, he thought to himself and sighed wearily. He unlocked the door and opened it.
He was blinded by the light from the hallway, but he could sense the silhouette of the little girl, as she immediately hurried into his apartment. "Hold on...", he objected, his voice still low and rusty, but she interrupted him before he could say anything else. "There he comes!", she bursted out. "Do something! He'll kill us both!", she yelled, clearly frightened. That triggered something in him. He couldn't quite see the guy yet but he could hear him cursing and yelling threats and insults, and roughly make out a blurry silhouette coming towards them. Dwayne acted almost on instinct as he assumed the stance from his training days, left foot in front of the other and his fists just in front of his chin. The right foot stepped in front of the left and he swung his upper body, right arm and shoulder. It all moved in unison and with momentum, and he felt his fist collide with the strangers face. It made a cracking sound and the stranger fell over and dropped down on the ground without another sound. The cracking sound hadn't come from his fist. In fact it didn't seem any worse for it. "Well, this thing still works", Dwayne said to himself, looking at his fist. For a moment he felt content with himself, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time, longer than he could remember. It only lasted for a brief moment however. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the light, he noticed that the guy didn't move at all, not even because of breathing. His nose was broken. He was dead.
That was it. A bleak and overwhelming void blocking out everything. No lights. Not even a brighter shade. Everything was just pitch black. He was out cold, passed out from the excessive abuse, from the unloving and uncaring treatment of his mind and body. It wasn't the first time by any means, but it was going to be the last. He had outdone himself this time, and perhaps purposefully so. Perhaps subconsciously. He had been abusing recklessly for many months now, more than he had cared to keep count of, as if he had an underlying desire to leave this world behind for good, and this time he seemed to get his wish granted. He had taken everything he could get his hands on. Alcohol, drugs, pills, you name it. He had been out for days, collapsed on the old, dirty mattress in the humble, crummy apartment that he would have deemed a fitting mausoleum.
The place hadn't been cleaned in a very long time and was littered with junk. Old pizza trays, empty and half-empty bottles, porn magazines carelessly spread all over the floor, piles of dirty clothes, remains from cigarettes and joints, insects... the place was a hellhole. His hellhole. It would be a joke to say that the place needed a womans touch, because no woman would care to do it, and it defied logic that he had ever had female company in this room. It had been a long time ago as well. Most of them had been prostitutes. The cheap kind. The ones that hadn't been were even less appealing. Unattractive and no self-respect. A couple of psychos as well. He hadn't cared for any of them really. It was more like he had used them to try to get past someone else, someone that mattered, but afterwards he had just felt worse, and been drinking and abusing heavily to forget all of them and all of it. He hadn't had much success so far but this time he was sure to erase a sizeable amount of his memory, if not his entire life.
"I'm sorry, Dwayne. I can't do it anymore", the voice spoke, taunting him. That voice. The one voice that would never silenced or forgotten, no matter how hard he tried. Even now, hanging in this limbo between life and death, the voice mocked him. The one voice he cared for above all others. Her voice. He cared so much for her but it was over. "Goodbye", the voice stung, before the door had been closed and left him to his own company, to live like a damned, and he had damned himself further since then. Rampaged his apartment and everything in it and punched his right fist right into the wall in utter frustration, only to cause an injury it wouldn't fully recover from again, making him even more despairing and reckless. It was a lesser and somewhat insignificant injury but the hand never felt quite the same afterwards, and neither did he.
He had been an MMA fighter once. Fitness-junkie too. He had been working out all week, several times a day even, and he had gotten quite impressive results. He had been fond of lifting weights and passionate about the fighting, doing it for years. Gotten quite good at it. Gotten quite big too. After the injury, however, he had had to take a long pause. The hand got better but never fully recovered. It felt odd at times, like something in it was slighty crunching, and the vein sometimes popped back and forth. It remained its functionality but mentally it crippled him. He felt handicapped, and after a couple of attempts at getting back at it, he quit the MMA and the weightlifting altogether. He began drinking and doing drugs, and one day while he was totally beside himself and trying to stagger home, he walked out in front of a moving car and was hurled across the road, rolling around in a rapid pace. He hit his left elbow particularly hard against the pavement, which left him with yet another injury he wouldn't seem to recover from. It also retained its functionality but from time to time a burning sensation eroded from it.
Although minor and relatively insignificant injuries, they had dealt a massive blow to his psyche and his ego, one that he wouldn't recover from either, and after his second injury everything went from bad to worse. To him his fighting days were over, he had lost the love of his life, and he no longer cared for anything this life had to offer. He simply let go of himself. He didn't care for when he went to bed or got up, and his abuse of alcohol and drugs increased greatly. He didn't cook and only got junk food, whenever he got anything to eat at all, and he was beginning to get slightly overweight. His hair was unkempt and messy and he had grown a big, burly beard. The past couple weeks he hadn't seen anyone or let anyone in. He no longer cared to try to substitute her company for anyone elses or to leave the apartment at all. He had become a recluse, living like a ghost and staring into the wall, and drinking and abusing in his own silent company, and now he was laying here, ready to die, ready to let go of it all, weakened from days without food or water, and getting close to get his wish fulfilled.
Suddenly he heard the voice of what sounded to be an angel. "Are you there?", the voice inquired. It pierced the veil and ecchoed in his mind. In this dreamlike state he thought it was an angel or something alike, sent to help him pass to the great beyond, and his dry lips let out a low, hoarse "yes". There was a strange bumping sound. "Hello?", the voice continued. "Hello? Are you there?", it asked again, a little higher this time. "Yes!", he answered again, more firmly than the first time, confused and frustrated that the angel didn't seem to hear him. "I am... I am right here", he stuttered. The strange bumping sound was heard again, louder this time. It didn't stop this time, in fact it only rose to an unbearably loud thundering. It brought him back to consciousness. Someone was knocking on the door. Hammering, more like it.
He groaned out in pain, as he struggled to shake his limbs out of entropy. With some effort he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The room was dark. There was no light, and that was fortunate. His eyes would have a hard time adjusting to it after having been passed out for days. "Hello Sir, are you there? Please open", the voice sounded again, this time more clearly. It was a young girl, and she was yelling. She knocked on the door again in the same insisting manner as before, and he groaned out in pain again and fought to get on his feet. It took a couple of attempts but under great pain he finally got up and staggered towards the door, coughing loudly. "Please Sir, you have to let me in. If he finds me, he'll kill me!", the voice implored him. Why couldn't I just have died?, he thought to himself and sighed wearily. He unlocked the door and opened it.
He was blinded by the light from the hallway, but he could sense the silhouette of the little girl, as she immediately hurried into his apartment. "Hold on...", he objected, his voice still low and rusty, but she interrupted him before he could say anything else. "There he comes!", she bursted out. "Do something! He'll kill us both!", she yelled, clearly frightened. That triggered something in him. He couldn't quite see the guy yet but he could hear him cursing and yelling threats and insults, and roughly make out a blurry silhouette coming towards them. Dwayne acted almost on instinct as he assumed the stance from his training days, left foot in front of the other and his fists just in front of his chin. The right foot stepped in front of the left and he swung his upper body, right arm and shoulder. It all moved in unison and with momentum, and he felt his fist collide with the strangers face. It made a cracking sound and the stranger fell over and dropped down on the ground without another sound. The cracking sound hadn't come from his fist. In fact it didn't seem any worse for it. "Well, this thing still works", Dwayne said to himself, looking at his fist. For a moment he felt content with himself, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time, longer than he could remember. It only lasted for a brief moment however. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the light, he noticed that the guy didn't move at all, not even because of breathing. His nose was broken. He was dead.