FetzenAs a man of logic, Herbert reasoned that there must be some rationale behind what he was experiencing. The obvious was that it was a continuum of a dream, for the last thing he remembered was dreaming, though it was indistinct in his mind’s eye. But Herbert did not believe that; this was real; he could feel it. There was a diamond hard edge to the reality of the things around, which no mind in dream could hope to emulate, not even the most observant.
Eliminating that possibility, however, left room for the strange and fantastic, and the altogether frightening. The more prominent postulation was that he had died, and he was in purgatory or hell. Which, he had not decided upon, but it was certainly not heaven; he had never been a strongly religious man, which made many of the atrocities he committed easier. He did not deserve heaven, nor did he believe it could be so cold. What scared him most about this was that he might have sacrificed an eternal life with Liza on the hopes of a few more precious, but ultimately, impermanent years. That he could have been wrong all this time, it terrified him. He discarded this line of thinking; he didn’t need it clouding his judgement, but it was lurking there, whether he liked it or not.
He brought his hands close and breathed into, rubbing them together furiously. Even this close to the fire the pervading cold was inescapable, and surged in and out with a fast wind, keeping him ever mindful of its presence.
Upon deciding he was sufficiently dry, he moved away from the ghoulish flames, and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. It was then that he noticed his notebook and the gnarled pencil he used to fill it where both missing. Unimportant, Herbert decided, probably blown away with the wind, now irrecoverable. He thought no more of it, and began divining the safest, or rather, the least treacherous, path to the tower, picking where the snow was thinnest, preferably where he could see rock, as he did not know what lay waiting under the white sheet.
The cold was biting; stepping away from the fire, it became apparent just how life saving it had been. The snow fell in heavy clumps and limited his vision, but the tower was growing closer, each apprehensive footfall made sure of that. His shoes and lower trouser legs were thoroughly soaked now, and his feet had gone numb, and violent shivering plagued his body, but his core was keeping adequately warm.
Around him, Herbert began to notice other shapes resting, half-buried in the snow, all dead, so Herbert hoped, for they were horrid in their appearances and certainly of unearthly origin. It was a bizarre Danse Macabre, all truly equal in death.
A movement ahead. Too cold to flee, he watched, holding his breath praying that whatever came was equally as lost as him. The creature revealed itself, and Herbert was taken aback. Made entirely of bone, the tiny creature defied reason. But, he supposed, it was just one of those days when reason went out the window. Herbert sagged, visibly exhausted and drained.
He felt it look at him, with an eyeless stare that managed to convey a sentience behind those empty, shadowed sockets. It reminded Herbert of when Liza fed the birds and the park, mostly thrushes and pigeons; it moved with a dim recognition, no fear of what it stood before, but an expectance. It had unknowingly endeared itself, and because this was the most familiar thing so far to Herbert, and because he was desperate and somewhat in a daze, he spoke to it.
“Hello there,” He said through chattering teeth, “I don’t suppose you know where I am?” He asked.
This is stupid, he told himself, look at it; a creature of malignant birth, all bones and no flesh, how it is even “alive” is a mystery, but talking to it? Now that is undeniably stupid. It probably is just sizing you up before it consumes you. I wouldn’t be surprised.
He pushed these thoughts down, this was the first “living” thing he had encountered, and beyond the solely-bone structure, it was not that intimidating. He’d be damned if he’d pass up an opportunity to get helped, for he doubted he could survive more than a day alone, so even if the thing were to kill him, at least it would be a quick death.
Eliminating that possibility, however, left room for the strange and fantastic, and the altogether frightening. The more prominent postulation was that he had died, and he was in purgatory or hell. Which, he had not decided upon, but it was certainly not heaven; he had never been a strongly religious man, which made many of the atrocities he committed easier. He did not deserve heaven, nor did he believe it could be so cold. What scared him most about this was that he might have sacrificed an eternal life with Liza on the hopes of a few more precious, but ultimately, impermanent years. That he could have been wrong all this time, it terrified him. He discarded this line of thinking; he didn’t need it clouding his judgement, but it was lurking there, whether he liked it or not.
He brought his hands close and breathed into, rubbing them together furiously. Even this close to the fire the pervading cold was inescapable, and surged in and out with a fast wind, keeping him ever mindful of its presence.
Upon deciding he was sufficiently dry, he moved away from the ghoulish flames, and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. It was then that he noticed his notebook and the gnarled pencil he used to fill it where both missing. Unimportant, Herbert decided, probably blown away with the wind, now irrecoverable. He thought no more of it, and began divining the safest, or rather, the least treacherous, path to the tower, picking where the snow was thinnest, preferably where he could see rock, as he did not know what lay waiting under the white sheet.
The cold was biting; stepping away from the fire, it became apparent just how life saving it had been. The snow fell in heavy clumps and limited his vision, but the tower was growing closer, each apprehensive footfall made sure of that. His shoes and lower trouser legs were thoroughly soaked now, and his feet had gone numb, and violent shivering plagued his body, but his core was keeping adequately warm.
Around him, Herbert began to notice other shapes resting, half-buried in the snow, all dead, so Herbert hoped, for they were horrid in their appearances and certainly of unearthly origin. It was a bizarre Danse Macabre, all truly equal in death.
A movement ahead. Too cold to flee, he watched, holding his breath praying that whatever came was equally as lost as him. The creature revealed itself, and Herbert was taken aback. Made entirely of bone, the tiny creature defied reason. But, he supposed, it was just one of those days when reason went out the window. Herbert sagged, visibly exhausted and drained.
He felt it look at him, with an eyeless stare that managed to convey a sentience behind those empty, shadowed sockets. It reminded Herbert of when Liza fed the birds and the park, mostly thrushes and pigeons; it moved with a dim recognition, no fear of what it stood before, but an expectance. It had unknowingly endeared itself, and because this was the most familiar thing so far to Herbert, and because he was desperate and somewhat in a daze, he spoke to it.
“Hello there,” He said through chattering teeth, “I don’t suppose you know where I am?” He asked.
This is stupid, he told himself, look at it; a creature of malignant birth, all bones and no flesh, how it is even “alive” is a mystery, but talking to it? Now that is undeniably stupid. It probably is just sizing you up before it consumes you. I wouldn’t be surprised.
He pushed these thoughts down, this was the first “living” thing he had encountered, and beyond the solely-bone structure, it was not that intimidating. He’d be damned if he’d pass up an opportunity to get helped, for he doubted he could survive more than a day alone, so even if the thing were to kill him, at least it would be a quick death.
