those whispers under the wooden boards

strange, I thought, how you can be living

your dreams and your nightmares

at the very same time

- Ransom Riggs, Hollow City

Her hand slides against the cold walls as she slowly makes her way through the dark hallways below. There are round lights placed strategically every few feet, thick green arrows, with exit signs everywhere she looks, seeming to mock her. They do not bring much light with them; they're only subtle guidelines, so no one gets lost completely.

Her body trembles.

But she's already lost and no longer sees a way out.

Trapped somewhere between then and now.

Everything feels out of focus, and it seems like she has spent not hours but days here, wandering aimlessly through the countless, identical hallways. And whenever she goes, she ends up in the same place, feeling more drained with each passage of time.

Time.

She's not even sure what that means anymore. She came here to find out the source of the sounds but ended up getting much more than she had bargained for.

Everything became heightened.

The buzzing.

The voices.

The pain.

Each damaged and bruised part occupying her body and mind felt flipped backward and roughly yanked outside, placed on full display like raw pulsating flesh.

Her head is constantly ringing as she holds onto the cool walls covered with smooth oily paint, often resting her forehead there, even if only for seconds of foolish temporary relief. The waves of furious pain are the worse. As if an invisible attacker relentlessly stalking after her, hitting her spine, limbs, and bones with an old baseball bat, leaving long, sharp splinters behind after each hit.

Yet she keeps walking, dragging feet against the concrete floors, holding on to pipes and anything that she can find, wishing she could rip out one of those things and get it over with. Maybe if she hit her head enough times against the hard metal, the voices would stop.

Ghosts don't have bones to break.

They don't have ways to listen to the pain.

No body, no muscles, no skin.

No vessel to let in the wicked ones, child.

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah.

She hums softly, laying on the floor of the room she has no memories of, with no clue how she even got there.

Sounds,

sounds,

sounds.

Repeated sounds against the concrete, her blurry stare trying to lift and find the source of the noise. She looks up but already knows. It's his wooden cane tapping against the floor. It taps lightly, but there is nothing soft about it. It feels like it's cracking her ribcage, attacking the lungs, and twisting the vocal cords as she screams out the wreckage that never stops tumbling down. Her body a city in ruins, under constant attack of war.

And then it shifts, and she's crawling, laying on the dirty floor and dragging her body forward, nails scraping against the ground.

Nothingness.

She's limping now. Twisting her face in pain with every step she takes.

And without any explanation, she's leaning on a chair. How did she get here? What happened before?

No in-between.

Only shadows.

Whispers.

The rage.

The chair hits the opposite wall, ringing like an ear-shattering gong as it hits the massive pipes. Her hands itch as she covers her ears, the lungs threatening to explode from exhaustion. There are other identical chairs like that laying everywhere.

It doesn't matter. All she sees is RED. It swallows her up.

Darkness as thick as tar. Deep, sticky, syrupy, coating everything in sight.

She's standing almost straight, looking with hate at him, broken pieces of rust-colored metal held in her hands between the outstretched pulsating fingers.

Rust inside of her and around her.

Aren't you tired, child? Is your mind not bleeding?

I will let you rest,

I will let you sleep.

Time is just another abstract to swallow. Not medicine but poison.

Arsenic for one, please. And keep it coming.

My tap is always open in this bar.

She's on the floor again, only the whites of her eyes, seen from under the long eyelashes. Time stays nonexistent; there is just the pain that speaks of infinity. It's eternal, a flame that never dies out, constantly pulsing in her blood. It is all too easy to let go. To listen to that voice, to those soothing words.

Nora!

This voice. It rings out louder than shimmering in the afternoon light, cathedral bells as they begin their dance. Moving their heavy bodies against each other, their invisible echoes causing tiny ripples to form between her and the pain.

At first, but then it penetrates deeper, harder. Scarping claws against iron and sinking between layers, using force that blends with something kind, lifting a thin veil between darkness and shades of grey.

A certain slant of light.

So easy to miss.

Something shifts again. She's being yanked back into reality, into the unbearable physical things, the matter around her. She despises it, fights it, resists it. But it happens anyway. Her body shrinks into a ball as she is once again reminded of her sensitive human flesh and the wet, warm liquid under her fingertips. What happens to her is hard to describe, almost as if she is being sewn back together by crimson nylon threads, connecting her form and gluing it back to her spine, to the limbs that felt lifeless before. She doesn't want to come back but finds it hard to sink into the void, into the black, oily whispers.

Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah.

She coos under her breath, far too low for anyone to hear.

Why isn't it ending?

Nothingness. So warm, so peaceful.

Not yet, Elle. Not yet.

S t a y.

A different voice whispers - farther away, separated by months of lonely days, of solitude that feels decades and centuries old. And then, her body is lifted into a sitting position. GOD, HOW IT HURTS. How it bleeds. And then she's standing, and there are arms around her, locking her into something that she is unable to escape. Lips pressing into hers, LIGHT pouring into her bones, the muscles. Into the deepest, most rooted structure, filling the skin, organs, and even brain cells, one by one. FILLING HER UP COMPLETELY. TO THE BRIM. And there is peace, softness, kindness. Love that has no stains or faults, the purest of kinds. It's an embrace in the middle of the coldest of winter nights. It's the hand you grab when you're drowning, that one smile that glues your broken ceramic shells with gold - a thing undefined but so familiar, something that has always been there, a memory of something that every living creature knows.

It's beautiful. It fills everything with bright flickering light.

As if warm wings made from countless, feather-soft dreams wrapping around a form too fragile to exist on its own.

Did you enjoy it? I hope you did.

Remember it because it was your last saving grace.

_____

I wake up screaming on the floor next to my bed, tangled up in grey sheets like a cocoon, limbs stiff and sore. My voice is still hoarse, and I end up sounding like a wounded beast at the exact moment when it's being ripped apart. I groan in frustration and cough as my throat automatically tightens, barely managing to swallow. It feels like someone has planted thorns through the entire length of my neck. Damn it. Why does it feel like I'm in a never-ending time loop, constantly falling into the same rabbit hole? How many times can I wake on the floor covered in cold sweats before something changes? I was so sick of the nightmares playing out in my head on repeat, eyes wide open or not. By now, it didn't matter if I was being attacked in my sleep or in real life; it all felt the same. The only difference was that the nightmares left less bruises on my body than the physical adversary. Though even that was a lottery sometimes - I think and rub the right elbow that I managed to bang pretty badly when hitting the floor. The skin there stings, and my joints protest as I try to stretch the arm, moving it in all sorts of angles. My eyes absentmindedly catch a glimpse of the thin bandages on my hands in the dim light of the morning, and I sigh, feeling more tired than ever. I shift a bit and rest my back against the front of the bed, fully aware of the cold coming from the wooden boards on the floor against my bare legs but not having enough energy to care.

My mind drifts in unknown directions. I let it wander loosely, not wanting to focus on anything specific; instead, I put the nightmares to the side and let them blur out gradually - wanting a small escape before it was time to fight for another unclear tomorrow. My thoughts dance around slowly until they take me into a room filled with books and dark oak shelves. I see a wide, heavy desk filled with papers and pretty old trinkets; a small elegant lamp covered with green glass on its top and a gold rim around it, catching the attention the most. For a moment, I hold onto the imaginary door, taking in my surroundings, and then walk deeper into the room and see a little girl in a chair far too big for her petit form. Her hair is long and nearly black, tied only with a dark blue ribbon on top of the head that matches the color of her denim dress. It has buckles that hold the top part in the front and a skirt that goes barely above her knees, showing off black, thick tights with delicate grey flowers imprinted into the material.

It must be winter time. I think as I watch her. She twitches on the chair and scratches her left arm above her wrist, where it's sticking out of a furry yellow sweater, slightly stretched out and crumpled from being worn all the time. Mmm, she could never stay still, especially when intrigued by something. The little girl listens with wide eyes as her father reads her myths about Greek gods, warriors, and foolish mortals that craved more than they had. I smile despite the tired state and let myself stay in that scene a little longer - one of the few good memories I could place when it came to my father. I take a deep breath and recall the myth of Sisyphus - a man that cheated death twice and was punished for it by the Gods. I think of the boulder he pushed up the hill every day without end, and let out a tired sigh. How sad that I could relate so well to that struggle, to the constant nightmare. Punishment on repeat. Yes, I understood it all too well. I cheated death again, and now I was paying the consequences.

But how many chances do you get to cheat your demise; before it calls you home for the last time?

Or drags you there with a satisfied smile.

Eventually, the faded autumn light creeps into the window and colors the floor next to me in brighter shades of brown and caramel, making it look warmer rather than just seeming black and dirty. I wonder if I should ignore it and crawl back into bed, but then decide that my body needs some movement; so it doesn't become a useless block of cement. I get up, legs trembling, everything around me seeming shaky and unstable. I stumble into the kitchen and slump down on a stool next to the tiny island occupying the center of the space. Then after a while, gather enough willpower to reach for a round, slightly chipped ceramic teacup from one of the cupboards. I pour cold water into it and drink it greedily, only to cough out nearly half of it as my throat closes in protest. Like liquid needles and pins - I think and hold the pale blue cup above the sink, my hands wrapped around it as I stare at the remaining water. It's quiet in the apartment, and most people in the building have already left for work or school, only the low traffic below stopping it from becoming too silent, too still.

For a while, I stand and feel nothing, the numbness feeling good, like a familiar coat you had for years. Easy, warm, and not complicated. Then, out of nowhere I start to blink, alarmed by something small that I'm unable to define - like a pesky fly wanting to grab my attention, a thought wanting to resurface, an invisible finger tapping on my shoulder.

Yesterday. I think. It feels so fuzzy. So far away from today, like a dream. A nightmare. I close my eyes tightly, fingers still wrapped around the cup, suddenly sensing the air becoming colder, uninviting. An invisible black smoke moving into the kitchen, wrapping around my shoulders, ankles, and neck. I tremble and know that it's not from the cold. My breathing speeds up. That room, the darkness. The blood. Wait, what room? Was there a room? I can feel my heart wrestle against the ribcage like a terrified bird wanting to escape. How quickly I had let the monsters slip away from my mind.

Nora!

I shiver, remembering my name called with such power, such desperation - as if I was the apocalypse on its way and the last man on earth was begging me to stop.

Well, look at who we got here. It seems that little miss Eleonore has found herself a friend.

The cup slips away from my hands, tumbling against the side of the counter. I hear crashing sounds but don't look down. She needs to pay the consequences... the poison is spreading. Shreds of words and thoughts are hitting me out of nowhere. Are you sure it's out of nowhere? A voice whispers, and I flinch - thinking of the nightmare and feeling my chest tighten over my lungs as I acknowledge something I already knew but didn't want to take in. It was the first time I realized with full awareness that until now, almost everything about the previous day felt erased. I remember Jeremiah, the last moments before he left, standing there with Charlie and not being surprised that one of the shadows following me was there. But what hits even more; is that I had no memory of anything vital. I recall going down the stairs and then standing there hours later with nothing in between. Told me what? What rules, for fuck sake?! What poison? I jump and suck the air sharply, when my knee hits a lose cabin door that was now wide open.

Shit, shit, shiiit!

I put my hands on the counter, and try to calm down my breathing, the pain spreading through my entire leg and ringing in my teeth. But perhaps this outcome surprised even her. I hear the words as if they were whispered into my ear and freeze, everything in me wanting to shut off all the noise, the static. You can't stop me or the thing that's happening to her. I told you there is no way out for her, no redemption. My chest lifts and falls, threatening to steal the oxygen around me until there is none left. I hold onto the metal sink as more things force their way into my thoughts. Perhaps if she would choose her victim more wisely. Victim? VICTIM??? As if she planned this as if she wanted any of this. As if she was a killer, a sociopath that relished in suffering and death.

No redemption. No saving grace, little sinner.

Memories, static. Tons of static. Words, feelings, rage, fear, anger, force - hitting me all at once. I feel the red membrane under my eyelids, dripping with something that burns my insides, coating everything like a living organism, slithering forward like a snake, and wrapping around everything on its path. Tick-tock, little one. All of your lucky charms have ran out. A different cup smashes against the kitchen wall, parts of it the ceramic bursting and flying everywhere.

Fuuuuck!

I push everything off the counters, everything in sight; dirty plates with leftover food, a few glasses, wet rags, and clutter - a frustrated groan tearing up my lungs like an old rusted razor blade.

Why? Why the hell it had to be me?

I move around the kitchen in a frenzy, hands tightly pushed to the sides of my head, parts of the sharp ceramic elements crunching and digging into my feet, my mind exploding in every direction. Repeatable static, lightning, and darkness meeting on the night sky in my head. Destruction in the making.

_____

I sit on the kitchen floor, oblivious to the mess and small fragments and shells of broken things digging uncomfortably into my skin. Barely even registering the open cuts on my legs staining the boards, and painting the worn-out wood. Unaware of how much time has passed and not finding even a single reason to care.

Not yet, Elle. Stay.

The voice from my dreams rings out in my head like the lowest of sighs, disturbing the silence and ruining the numbness shielding me from hitting rock bottom. And then I hear it. The sound of glass breaking somewhere in my chest, tiny pieces of a bruised heart falling like snowflakes around my beaten-up form. I burst into tears as the truth hits me, bursting between my ribs, unbearable pressure seeming to suffocate the entire air in the room. Dan. He was there.

No... No. That couldn't be. The dead don't speak.

Breathing rapidly, I bend my knees and wrap my arms around them, swaying back and forth with force, begging the world around me to disappear.

No. Just no.

Are you sure? My own voice asks, ringing in my head, and I tremble, slowing down a bit and blinking away the tears. Was that possible? Did I hear him? In my darkest hour - did he somehow reach out to me, not letting me slip away? I finally stop swaying and look around at the mess that I made. Was there a spark of light in all this chaos that I created? I inhale as something pushes me to drag myself out of the nightmare. To keep going. And if it were so? She dares to smile a little, the expression almost shy. Good things still happen, even to you. Remember that - I tell myself. Even if the old me wants to sink into the darkness, the fear, as deeply as possible. The things that I came most familiar to in the last two years.

And yet.

It seemed I had more than just one guardian angel looking after me. I shake my head. Maybe it was just a hallucination coming from all the pain I had to endure, a mental breakdown that came to me with a delay, or a nightmare disguised as a memory. I wasn't entirely sure. But a gut feeling inside of me told me that it was him. Somehow, someway. It takes a whole village to save this one. The thought plays out in my mind, and I smiles as it's somehow colored by Dan's voice, as if he was standing behind me, lifting a lock of my hair to the side and softly whispering the words into my ear. I know it's not really him, but the sensation of him being there brings some peace.

Just like it does with Charlie - I think, and my body shivers from the cold, sudden panic hitting me with a fresh new wave. What if I lash out again like I did in the kitchen? I look around again and feel my shoulders quiver, heart pounding. What if I cause damage not just to my surroundings? What if someone gets hurt because I can't keep my demons at bay? It's just a panic attack. Calm down. Be rational. But I can't. And the only thing pushing away the fear is Charlie's name. My body, my whole being desperate for his presence.

Slowly, I move forward on my knees; and and cuss under my breath as the hurt leg protests loudly- feeling too weak to stand up fully. I spit out the nastiest, filthy words I can manage and finally make it to the counter where the stationary phone is. I pull it down and choose the number from memory.

I want to tell him to rush here right away, right now. I want to tell him not to bother with anything but me at this moment. I crave to be selfish and not care about the consequences. I want instant relief, instant gratification. I need him to come here and make it all stop. I want all of that like a junkie on damn crack. But I don't. I stop myself. And instead, I smile through the headache and the whispers filtering under my skull. Leaving him a voicemail. Telling him things we could both live with it.

Come whenever you have a free moment in the day. I know how overworked you are. No worries, I'm not going anywhere. I will be here the whole day. Resting, tucked away under a blanket, with liquids and brainless TV to keep me company. I will leave the keys under the doormat.

I smile reassuringly into the phone as if he could see me and hang up just before the beeping sound can penetrate my skull. I feel empty inside. Like a robot. A machine, trying to convince everyone it was working correctly, even through the smell of short circuits melting and smoke lifting in the air.

______

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn

51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek

52. https://theprose.com/post/526170/walking-on-eggshells-and-ash