They said that they did not die but woke from a dream that they had lived . Aztec netherworld legend
I awake. Barely conscious. The long drawn out haze parts slowly like morning fog on a lake. I am confused by my location, not by my surrounds. The path of mental resistance is strewn with boulders of my own making. The sterile smell hides hospital reality from noone.
My eyes reach for the familiar faces. I know the judgement waiting. The ruddy glow of relief I have not perished. The moral compass of why on earth is do this over and over again. It’s self fulfilling. Who amongst them coves to see the rebirth. Broken people understand. Fixed people never will.
Today, my comeuppance has arrived. My family isn’t here. lI can’t rationalize what I see. A man… His features dark and stern. His eyes are not human. His head starts human but more rounded and drawn back with a hair wrapped in colorful feathers falling over the shoulders.
“I don’t know you.” My voice rough, breathing tube having something do with it. “Who, or what are you doing …here?”
The figure raises up to some seven feet tall. His head and feathers extend into a fierce display of strength. His dark eyes and dark tanned flesh seen to burn into me. He turns rather than look straight at me. He paces around the bed silent. Three times he circles.
“You are mine. I’m not happy. I admit this. You have entered my house. You are not scheduled for many moons to come. You are not deserving of this spot. What have you accomplished to claim on eternal place? I search. I destroy. Souls like yours are feed for darkness. Here we sit.” He that has no Earthy name speaks in deep rumbles.
“I didn’t ask for this… Really. I ..” A voice rises from within.
“Silence!” The voice causes lights to dim. “You do not need add nothing. That’s all you have added to this point. Take, use, look for more. Ask for pity. Blame others when pity does not met you. Why should pity waste time on self loathing? Does not people who try deserve pity? Can a designed fail get noticed when the free living struggle? You are a lead weight. The stone at the bottom of a well.”
“But I am suppose to be dead. I took a bottle of pills and drank” I try to reason.
“Silence! I have a black obsidian knife. It’ll make cubes from that tongue. You have cruised into my world. I’m your master. I control ever breath. I will control every motion henceforth. You will wish you succeeded. Because you only suffered in your mind. You only thought of the struggles. Never tasted your own blood. Never felt your heart bruise! Do you want to feel the bruising? I can lift it beating. … I can hold it high. Your eyes can witness the last beat. It releases both of us.” His demeanor is the blackest darkness. He holds the scabbard of a sheathed blade, hoping to produce it. There’s a nervousness and eventuality his motion.
I pass out. Cowardly of self preservation. The hope that this was dreamland run a mock. Please, this time let the illusions be just that.
My eyes see an elderly woman. Way too tried. Her eyes are clouded. Her senses dulled from the routine of it all. Her shadow has feathers.
“I’m awake. The dead won’t claim me anytime soon. Sorry, but I got lost.” I find a voice reminiscent of Kansas and little dogs.
“Remember, you belong to me! How are you doing ? I was worried.” Mother’s voice slowly returns to where it should be.
My heart pauses. My eyes search for the obsidian knife.