The Rapture of Remembrance
In the beginning, there was light. Scintillating, varnished light.
i don't understand it, this nebulous thought. and to whom it may serve anyways? certainly what I may take from it isn't anything economical, given the implications. but my eyes grow heavy regardless. the advent of my entire past is at stake. how much does it cost? some space outside of time, I rip myself open and greedily shove my most cherished memories down my gullet. molars crush and crunch my own bones. the flesh of my organs is coarse in experience. the solidity of all of the physical parts, all in function to keep me together, athletic even, shred themselves and leave hanging bits, splattered fluids, and shocking pains all for me to have. but this is the ecstasy: I travel through time. to something larger than what I can be. to lose a sense of my own veneration. what i would give to give you my all.
feed. my gluttonous beloved.
end of transcription.
A retrospective piecemeal of Mr. Aloe’s interpersonal relationships tells us that he wasn’t the most charitable of men. In fact, some have described him as a bitter sponger. He was, however, undoubtedly successful nonetheless. A new technology seemed to be able to give him the ability to transfer his consciousness into an artificial dream-like past. The only condition? His own flesh.
for the small price of one leg, my beloved allows me to postpone my awakening for 100 more days. i live that day again, anew. 100 days have passed by in my present, but none of what you can give me isn't worth it. a light that never goes out. the propagation of a golden age.
the dream figures ask who i am outside of this. i am not.
shame.
somehow, a novel event introduces itself to me. a person to be more precise.
its an old man. after some attempt at interpretation, the conviction falls upon me that the man i stare at is myself.
he stares back. frightened in the eyes. the environment around us, a swirl of dark blue projections, fading out into the distance, begin to inflict themselves vividly into my peripheral. the old man says nothing the entire time, but his apparent sense of dread tells me i'm doing something wrong. finally, after what was no more than a few seconds to him, he falls to his knees, never breaking eye contact, and screams. viscerally, still he makes no sound. and all while piercing his gaze into my soul. i vomit. and i suddenly feel as if i am the only one here who's alive.
where are my reliables? my old friends? no. somethings wrong. this wasn't supposed to ha-
end of transcription.
The machine transcribes each thought that Mr. Aloe has in his slumber, as well as audio recordings of what grotesque sacrifices he must make when he’s awake. The entries before you were sent to the addresses of the local news station, the nearest hospital, and the nearest government-owned property anonymously, and in parts.
by now i’ve coded my material body to consume itself without the need to wake up. one finger ripped off and sloppily set down its inevitable path. without the respect to even attempt chewing, I use my other hand to violently thrust it down faster, and wash it down with its own consequences. but it’s not enough.
each skyline gets duller by the day. escapes me. the smell of my own skin becomes unbearably repulsive.
I notice for the first time the blisters I’ve collected from my drudgery follow me into my dream. but before i can make sense of any of it again i feel something pressing against my head. clawing, viciously. the talons of a vulture, picking at the dead. suddenly two more start to rip at me. then five. then twelve. they start to make their way into my skull. the blisters on my fingers get worse. they start to cry, even.
a fetter manifests itself around me as the birds take away pieces of my head. they start screeching incessantly, as if to signal out a cry of war. and they start feeding on what’s inside. the tips of my fingers have been shaved down to the bone. almost as if they grabbed each piece they took with hands of their own, a terrifyingly familiar feeling presented itself to me as i lay chained to the ground. but i’m losing too much blood to give it any thought. a terrible ringing and i gurgle my own blood as i start to lose my train of thought. the ringing gets louder and louder, as if a burning metal rod had cemented itself between my ears.
haunting. louder. utterly malicious. louder still. relentless and satanic until-
end of transcription
In the end, there is only the memory. A heartbeat flatlines. A grip loosens. An investigation begins. And a new story about a man found dead with bits of his own brain in his wounded hands airs the news.
Joshua Mariano