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Horror Stories . . .
 

A L L   Y O U   W I L L   E V E R   B E . . .
A real horror story by Alex Severin.
 

How does it feel to know you are all you will ever be? 

How does it feel? 

Does it eat you up inside? 

Does it sting?

Does it feel like a kick in the balls every time you think about it?

Do you lie awake at night and wonder when your tenuous grip is going to fail you and everything slips away...again? 

Does it pray on your mind that your reach will always exceed your grasp? 

Clutch at straws.

Flail wildly.

Quicksand dance.

Do you want to scream, tear your hair out, pound the wall with your fist when you dwell on the fact that you cannot even rise to your own lowly expectations?

Knuckles on plaster.

Slide down the wall with a wet face.

Does it chip away at that hard exterior, stab a jagged beak into your soft meat underneath the shell, when you sit alone and ponder all those hopes and dreams and wishes upon stars that will never be granted?

I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.

Please.

Please.

Please?

Does it feel like salt in an open wound when you realise that you are not the one, you are not blessed or charmed or smiled upon by Gods or other assorted deities?

This is it.

Is that all there is?

Fade to black.

Does your rage hammer in your temples, mercilessly pound the back of your eyes with your crushing red torrent, throb incessantly in the veins in your neck, because you know what you are?

How does it feel to know that you are all you will ever be? 

Does it burn a hole in the pit of your gut knowing that your raging thirst will never be quenched? 

You can feel it there, eating.

Gnawing.

Chewing.

Digesting.

In your reflective, solitary moments does it does it trouble you that your desire, your lust, your needs will never be met, you will never be satisfied?

Never be sated.

Never be validated.

Never be.

Never. 

How does it feel to know that in this world, outside your own door, out there you mean nothing? 

How does it feel to be insignificant? 

How does it feel to know if you died today you would leave no mark? 

How does it feel, knowing that the world wouldn't be aware that you ever existed and even if it did it wouldn't care?

How does it feel to be nothing? 

Black hole.

How does it feel to be nobody? 

Zero

How does it feel to not even exist? 

I was not here.

How does it feel to mean little more in the grand scheme of things than a figment of your own imagination? 

How does it feel to be a flat, one-dimensional character on a page, drawn with a thin, scratchy nib in black ink in a series of keen lines? 

How does it feel to be a stick figure?

No depth. 

No texture. 

No colour. 

Transparent and cold.

Shallow.

Hollow.

Empty.

How does it feel to know you are all you will ever be? 
 
 

© Alex Severin 2004