The Century Of Longing

Part 2: Animated by Ignition

Consciousness begins in the vacuum of space, encompassed by the void of time. You are keen to your own existence, though of none other; as you float in limbo like a bird against wind you germinate consecutive sentiments. What am I here for? You start to wonder, the sound of your heartbeat providing the only company. A moment like this is one you never forget. Serenity in the form of complete darkness, nothing but a mind untainted by deception and pain, reality hypothetical, catching yourself on the threads of memory. Many think this is what death feels like however if death were this placid, I would have preferred nihility. 

Language develops, memory slowly fades from static and suddenly you see color stark as blinding light. You may be in your room, playing with stuffed animals or enjoying a family dinner when you realize you have broken the binds of perception. That was not the case for me.

Furor sultry with lightning meandered its fingers into my cortex, feeding on my boiling flesh like ravenous dogs whom have suffered starvation. As the dogs, my viscera became swollen in torment and my only wish, my first grievance, was to quell the hunger of agony. My eyes melted, my skin steamed and oozed as my blood bubbled to the surface, all the while I screeched horrible atrocities with no vernacular, my being convulsing as the electrical misery sought no ending.

Abruptly it was quenched. 

I was of this world, puppeteered by the grip of torture with no knowledge of my creator. That moment I realized I existed, however through unnatural means.

There was chatter, multiple people conversing though I knew not what they were saying. The only focus I had was that my entirety ached and I could not move. Paralyzed from trauma, vegetized by experimentation, I had been animated by ignition.. Though much more diabolical compared to Frankenstein. My eyelids strained to open and before I could get my first glimpse of reality, I fell back into the clutches of limbo.

When I awoke, I could move. My eyelids parted in a hazy state, though still then sight was impossible. Wherever I was, sable and frigid, appearing to me nothing but cruel awareness. My body remained groggy, sinew nearly tearing like paper as I attempted to move. As fearful as this place implied, this was my actuality and soon I would believe this was ordinary. 

"Awake already?" A voice echoed amongst the emptiness- concrete structure carried the sound toward me. To whom it belonged, I did not know yet.

"Ghh..og.." My searing swollen tongue and lack of dialect prevented proper language, my voice not yet developed- fried like fresh catfish. At the time I did not know what caused the agony of my first memory though as time toiled onward, I learned to use that pain, conquer it. That is exactly what the phantom voices wanted, to take my suffering and empower it. Weaponize it along with covetous constitutions. As the voice spoke, gravely and wicked, I could smell the rot rising from the hollowness of his being. The scent, even as gratuitous as I was, caused my near purple skin to broil with goosebumps. My first inclination of dread, foul and vile. 

"Three days, you will come out." He promised. I did not know what that meant, though apprehension whispered to me in the dark and spoke blasphemies. 

His promise did not go unfulfilled. My concept of time was naught, it felt as if I were alone for an eternity. The afterimage of my awakening succumbed to the growing chill the stone prison carried. I could feel my once burning skin cracking, lips splitting, bones crumbling, blood congealing under the hyperborean pressure. I vomited capriciously for two of those days, each time an oil-like liquid disgorged from my guts, twisting them into mince. There was no place to relieve myself other than a corner, and soon I grew a revolting pile of excrement that contained nothing solid, for I had no insight on what food and drink were.