Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

The Message I Send

Eyes, flickering across a page. The dark browns drink in every word, every faded letter, they examine every picture for hours on end, with no way to break the spell cast upon a gaze. Fascination, awe, that's what this is, and the man reading such a story sees it as just that - a story, a set of tales and folklore weaved through statements compiled by hundreds of people and thrown into one big bunch they call a book.

They say he's diseased, and they're right. He's diseased in every possible way imaginable, from mind to body, fact to opinion. He can't discern real from not real, at least, not when he's satiating his thirst for knowledge.

He has become part of the history he studies, but soon, just like the foreign names he skims over like Cleopatra and George Washington, he'll fade into the words of a book, screaming for remembrance.

A foundation may be built only once every single blueprint has been gone over and tested. I can't do anything unless I want to risk killing someone, because those foundations, they can come crashing down any minute. Crashing down, crashing down, crashing down... He fumbles with the pages, and it's then that he knows what's coming. The tremble in his hands is a signal.

He hasn't taken his daily dosage yet. Those tiny little pills sitting on the nightstand are the masterminds behind his every move; they dictate where he goes, when he does something. Without them, he'll fall apart, until he's nothing but the pages of a century-old book which crumble at the slightest touch.

Only when the first dull spike of pain hits him in the center of his abdomen does he slam the book to a close, and mentally curse himself out. Quit thinking in metaphors, you loony. They only confuse everyone.

"Not my fault they know nothing," the man hisses, grasping down at his stomach. He's learned over the years that not breathing sometimes helps, so he holds his breath. Being from Four, a district of swimmers, he's learned to hold his breath for minutes at a time. Over the years, however, this skill has dwindled, and it's not long before he's forced to open his mouth and suck in the air he deprives himself of.

With it comes pain, sharper this time, as if a serrated blade is teasing his scars. It pulls at the stitches long dissolved, and he clenches his fist against the desk. His nails dig into his palms, and he can feel the sting when they eventually cut through and draw blood. Distraction, distraction, distraction....

I can go a day without the medicine. I can. I can. The little engine that could, that's what I am. Too bad no one else has heard the story -

He's forced to abandon his train of thought when the knife breaks the skin of his stomach and begins to play with his flesh. Down his fist goes, slamming into the table. The book jumps over to the edge, teeters for a bit, and falls, bending the pages once it hits the ground. He can hear the tear of the pages, and he's left with this sense of disappointment that goes away when the knife wriggles about inside him again.

It's a snake infesting him, and soon its fangs are sending awful venom through his veins, spreading the pain through the entirety of his body. He reaches out for the nightstand, desperate to grab his medicine up even though it's on the other side of the room. No! I can go a day without them! One day! One. He slaps his own hand down, and in doing so, falls off the chair.

Then he's clawing at the floorboards at the sheer pain he feels, reaching for purchase on something to squeeze. The foundations, they collapse. Crashing down.

The pain is fresh, as if the invisible dagger is being shoved inside of him for the first time. The walls fall down, the foundations collapse, and he sees trees. Water, he sees water too, the dirty brown water that swamps are known for. His hand is hanging off in the water and he's swirling his fingers around in it, coming out thick with mud.