A gasp of fresh air burst into the lungs like an icy dagger's edge, constricting the throat with an executioner's invisible hand. From the convulsing throat emerged streams of bitter bile, mixed with the putrid waters of the past. Just when it seemed you had surfaced from the abyss of despair, you find yourself sinking back into the void.
"Hold on!" screams the inner voice, "Don't drown, you've already touched bottom!" But the treacherous, sucking mud pulls you in, transforming solid ground into a deadly trap. Despair crashes over you like a wave, threatening to drown you in its murky waters.
Don't give up! Breathe! Surrender to the alluring fan of wheat-colored glimmers that flash through your consciousness like sparks of hope. Allow yourself to suffocate in fits of passion, to go deaf from your own moans. The scent of milk-soft skin, stirring the depths of what seemed to be a long-dead soul, awakens you to life again. It pulls, beckons, scattering like a spray of hope. And you catch them like a blind man desperately yearning to see.
But from the impenetrable darkness of disappointment comes an ominous whisper: "Die! Stop!" The voice, like the screech of rusty knives, continues: "You have no heart, just a scrap of meat torn apart by disappointments. Rotten and covered in scabs of unfulfilled expectations."
The malicious clown, this demon of your nightmares, screams from the darkness: "This isn't Love, not passion, die! This is merely debauchery! Sin! You were created to suffer! You're incapable of feeling this, you're just a corpse walking on autopilot!"
You wander through the darkness of a labyrinth woven from betrayals and emptiness. In blind hope of reaching the light, you catch every glimmer, every spark. But again and again, you hit dead ends. Where light seemed to dawn, the cry "Die!" rings out again, and in the darkness flashes the gleam of a knife. Another blow, another wound. It's not light, just another betrayal, another dead end in the endless labyrinth of pain.
You stop, breathing heavily. Blood sprays from your pierced chest, scattering like rubies against the crimson moon. Fall? Surrender? And again, the cruel "Die!" invades your consciousness. The clown's scream behind reality's curtain, and again the knife's thrust, gutting what remains of hope.
Your legs give way, and you fall. The cold cobblestones knock out the last remnants of strength. And there, in the reflection of puddles, among shards of broken destinies, you see it again - the gleam of wheat-colored hair. A gentle hand touches your face, bringing coolness that drives away the pain. Two lakes of birch-water eyes look upon you with favor and understanding.
"Live!" her tender lips whisper, "In spite of everything. Yourself, the world, and enemies." A lonely tear rolls down your cheek, leaving a crimson trail on your battered face. You start, realizing it's just a mirage, a ghost of an impossible dream. But even the thought of her flows like a pleasant chill through your veins, driving away pain and despair.
With tremendous effort, you rise to your feet. The world around sways and spins in a strange, sinister dance. Clenching the remains of your will into a fist, you raise your eyes to the solitary moon. Like a wounded wolf, you howl, driving away fear and pain. A deep breath - and the wounds heal, leaving only scars. In your chest, slowly but surely, hope begins to awaken.
"Enough!" you growl through clenched teeth, "In spite of everything, I will make it! I will succeed!"
And now you're screaming in your inner clown's face, plunging the knife into his yielding innards. Blood fountains into your face, washing away fear and doubt. "I won't give up!" you roar, "She will be mine! I will show her the whole world, give myself without reserve!"
Your lot is war, your passion is playing with death. You're an actor on life's stage, and you'll play this role to the end! In spite of everyone, especially in spite of yourself!
"This is my world! My soul!" you proclaim, "Not sin and not debauchery, I am who I am, and I will make it. To the end! Or die..."
And with these words, you take a step forward, towards the unknown, ready to challenge fate and death itself.
YOU ARE READING
Beyond the Neon Masks
Short Story"Beyond the Neon Masks" is a searing, unflinching observation of modern society's descent into superficiality and moral decay, written by an author who dares to stand as both witness and critic to our collective madness. Through a series of intercon...
