A Story I RewroteThe shaking is nothing—he read that before—nothing but the potions pushing their way upstream, but a thing is here, a something, a somethingness. It clings just beyond where he can see. It trembles from his darkness, produces an overbearing ring, and slowly overtakes him—a blister of sound ready to burst into light across the room.
Can that be right—seeing sound?
"Fuck," he tentatively utters. He fears for the fate of these sounds. One defenceless vowel ended by the unforgiving crack of consonance. It is all very emotional now.
Christ, it’s only a word. Did I just say that?
Anxiety grinds his teeth. Unfettered eyes dart about the room. They dread receiving one object’s impression. Time passes, and eyes grow weary. They decide to quit, rolling back into their skull. Here feels safe. He contemplates their object for a while and tries an epiphany.
What I am is me, for that I came.
He is offended.
These words are usurpers!
Spittle frames his lips, while his mouth remains parched—another symptom he read of—though “symptom” now seems completely meaningless. He grasps at Baudelaire and Saussure, all meant to signify, signifieds—all floating in front of him like hung meat.
A television set seethes in the corner. It spits out a maelstrom of colour.
Lines of light and sound continue to realign. An old war movie presses on from inside the T.V. while the radio sounds off soft piano ballads. The curtains bulge and flatten, and each time he feels calmer.
I’m coming down.
The realization settles like balm over sore wounds. Normality grows, and he slowly notices the room, his flesh, and finally the hour— 2:00 AM.
A quarter of the day spent in no place and time.