The End of Days
The End of Days.
His eyes opened to a bed. Or at least, the blurred vision of one. Or maybe they had been open, but he hadn’t been able to see. He couldn’t be sure. He felt the pain. It was sharp, but dulled. He wasn’t sure how that was possible. He felt the movements, the aggression and the harshness of them, but the pain was dulled. Not as sharp as it should have been for the quickness and depth of such hard strokes.
He felt the hand in his hair and the heaviness of the body on top of him. He opened up his mouth to scream, but his vocal cords had been stolen. He wanted to throw punches, roll over, push the heaviness off. But he couldn’t. He could barely move his hand to the pillow, barely turn his head to the side to keep from suffocating. Did he want to keep from suffocating?
“He’s awake.” came a bodiless voice from behind. Calm, cold, observing.
“He can’t do anything.” the heaviness replied.
And he was right. The world could have been ending (and for all he knew, it was) but Ryan wouldn’t have been able to run for cover. He would have to lie in that bed and let the Armageddon crash around him as the four horsemen road in. If he was remembering correctly, one horseman held a pair of scales. That must have been the heaviness crushing him.
His eyes started to roll backwards in his head, trying to claim sleep, but he forced them to stay open. If the end of the world was coming, he wasn’t going to sleep through it. He had to know. He had to stay conscious. He had to survive to tell.
“I liked him better unconscious.” the bodiless voice spoke again.
“He practically is.” the heaviness stated, still crushing, still moving.
As the dulled pain continued to echo through his body, his mind held onto that image of the horsemen riding in on the Apocalypse. And as images painted in his mind of the End of Times, he found a prayer that he had memorized a lifetime ago. A prayer he didn’t believe to a God he didn’t believe in. But he found it spinning through his brain.
O God, Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils, that, by reason of the weakness of our nature, we cannot stand upright, grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome through Thine assistance. Through Christ our—
The bodiless voice interrupted the verse in the same calm voice. “Are you almost done? I need to pick up cigarettes.”
The heaviness said nothing in response, but Ryan felt the pain quicken. Even if it was dulled, he could feel the tempo. And he felt the climax, the hand tightening in his hair and the seed of violation spilling inside of him.
The heaviness abated, but his strength did not return. He lay there, cold and shivering, exposed. Still seeing images of the horsemen in his head. He heard the rustle of fabric and the door creak open, the voices from the hallway and then nothing as the door clicked shut, the heaviness and the bodiless voice gone.
The tears began to stream from his eyes. No sobs, no cries, just tears. Running down his cheeks and trailing down his chin before dripping onto the bed or soaking his lips. This time when his eyes began to roll to the back of his head, he let them. The horsemen retreated and noises of the Armageddon were deafened.
He stepped onto the cement in the morning, hood up and hands buried in his pockets. His eyes raised to the sky. Pale blue, not a cloud in the sky. He saw a lone bird flying through the air. People on the sidewalks in packs, walking to class and talking amongst themselves. He lowered his eyes back to the ground and followed his feet to the room he lived in.
He stood in the shower, letting the hot water burn his skin. He wasn’t sure if he was crying or if it was the water. He stood there long after the water had gone cold, trying to figure it out.
He felt the hand in his hair and the heaviness of the body on top of him. He opened up his mouth to scream, but his vocal cords had been stolen. He wanted to throw punches, roll over, push the heaviness off. But he couldn’t. He could barely move his hand to the pillow, barely turn his head to the side to keep from suffocating. Did he want to keep from suffocating?
“He’s awake.” came a bodiless voice from behind. Calm, cold, observing.
“He can’t do anything.” the heaviness replied.
And he was right. The world could have been ending (and for all he knew, it was) but Ryan wouldn’t have been able to run for cover. He would have to lie in that bed and let the Armageddon crash around him as the four horsemen road in. If he was remembering correctly, one horseman held a pair of scales. That must have been the heaviness crushing him.
His eyes started to roll backwards in his head, trying to claim sleep, but he forced them to stay open. If the end of the world was coming, he wasn’t going to sleep through it. He had to know. He had to stay conscious. He had to survive to tell.
“I liked him better unconscious.” the bodiless voice spoke again.
“He practically is.” the heaviness stated, still crushing, still moving.
As the dulled pain continued to echo through his body, his mind held onto that image of the horsemen riding in on the Apocalypse. And as images painted in his mind of the End of Times, he found a prayer that he had memorized a lifetime ago. A prayer he didn’t believe to a God he didn’t believe in. But he found it spinning through his brain.
O God, Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils, that, by reason of the weakness of our nature, we cannot stand upright, grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome through Thine assistance. Through Christ our—
The bodiless voice interrupted the verse in the same calm voice. “Are you almost done? I need to pick up cigarettes.”
The heaviness said nothing in response, but Ryan felt the pain quicken. Even if it was dulled, he could feel the tempo. And he felt the climax, the hand tightening in his hair and the seed of violation spilling inside of him.
The heaviness abated, but his strength did not return. He lay there, cold and shivering, exposed. Still seeing images of the horsemen in his head. He heard the rustle of fabric and the door creak open, the voices from the hallway and then nothing as the door clicked shut, the heaviness and the bodiless voice gone.
The tears began to stream from his eyes. No sobs, no cries, just tears. Running down his cheeks and trailing down his chin before dripping onto the bed or soaking his lips. This time when his eyes began to roll to the back of his head, he let them. The horsemen retreated and noises of the Armageddon were deafened.
He stepped onto the cement in the morning, hood up and hands buried in his pockets. His eyes raised to the sky. Pale blue, not a cloud in the sky. He saw a lone bird flying through the air. People on the sidewalks in packs, walking to class and talking amongst themselves. He lowered his eyes back to the ground and followed his feet to the room he lived in.
He stood in the shower, letting the hot water burn his skin. He wasn’t sure if he was crying or if it was the water. He stood there long after the water had gone cold, trying to figure it out.