Isabela - Day 1

What do you see when you close your eyes?

I used to see a house by the shore. It was a small house of red bricks standing on the edge of a cliff. I can almost see it. I can almost hear the waves crushing on the ice-cold stone and taste the sweet morning air. I can feel the golden rays of sun gently combing my hair and smell the salty water and wet sand slipping between my fingers. I used to think this was a beautiful image. I used to think of the sun, the sand and the wind to be the only place where I would find comfort. Perhaps also, the only place I would call home.

Now I dread this house by the sea, I dread the monsters that hide behind the perfectly painted shutters, the perfectly mowed grass. I can still hear them. I can still hear them whisper at my ears at night, they whisper to my ears the horrors concealed in that house for far too long. Stories hiding in between its walls, behind its windows, stories extending below its very foundations and into the depths of the earth.

I used to flinch as I felt the unknown carve its way to my bones and into the depths of my soul. I used to look straight at the wall, waiting for them to come. I heard silent roars rise from the night progressively setting itself in this small room. They rose from underneath the darkened clouds hovering over the once immaculate walls and muttered in my ear. I was confronted to the void, to a feeling of emptiness and immense desolation. I felt the temperature drop as I brought my legs closer to my chest. And just like that, I know that they were there. I felt them crawl towards me, I heard their claws painfully scratch the marble floor as they approached me. I remained calm in appearance; too empty to move. I felt their cold skin touch my neck as they found their way into my mind. I felt their rough surface against my soul and their empty eyes ink into the depths of my mind. That is when they began talking in a voice that could have been human had it not been reddened by their past.

The waves broke on the shore and ebbed back, allowing the wind to carry their bitter taste. I still remember this house. I recall its terrifying rooms filled with hatred and vice. I can still see them, the ghosts. I remember one night, in this horrid house, where a beautiful girl came to see me. I can almost see, as though she still stood in front of me, her smooth skin and curly black hair. I remember tears rolling down her icy cheeks and touching the ground changed into bright roses. I remember the distant voice in which she spoke to me. The memory of her voice still makes me shiver. She shared with me the story of this house and the unspeakable crimes the walls had witnessed. She cried petals of roses as the tale unwound before her tired eyes. Her cold voice unveiled the story of a man dragging his motionless lover across the porch leaving nothing but a trail of aster to recall the hatred that once nourished his soul. She uncloaked the countless ghosts hiding between the walls and into the very fabric of the sheets I had rolled myself with. This house was rotten, and its pretty façade would soon fall to ashes.

I remember walking mechanically across the house and into the garden where, under the soft grass, hid a sea of corpses; cold bodies that had not been given a chance to live. I remember walking through the garden and feeling the grass tickle my ankles. I recall the fear that grew in my chest as I walked, hoping for the tickles not to turn to bites. I walked along the fence, a unique structure separating the outside from what was secreted inside those walls and thin structure. I kept my eyes wide open, too scared to close them never to see the light again. And even though the world remained silent, I could touch their screams, I could feel them fall, I could smell them break, I could hear the waves crush. The everlasting silence only made the scene more oppressing and the secret heavier to carry.

What do you see when you close your eyes?

In appearance, nothing had changed. The picture appeared to hang in time. The house stood on the edge of a cliff and I could hear the waves breaking on the stone that seemed to absorb all that was living. I could still taste the morning air and feel the icy sun combing my hair to the rhythm of the waves. I could smell the salty water and feel the wet sand slipping between my fingers. Every grain of sand seemed to contain in itself an entire universe slipping away, never to be seen again. I flowed like time; without anyone ever noticing.

I really used to think this was a beautiful image. One of solitude, one of peace. This picture lasted a long time. I long lived there, buried in the impression of safety and freedom. I lived with an ever-growing feeling of peace and satisfaction. I did not notice the multiplied arachnis flowers now invading my backyard nor the aconitum growing at my bedroom’s window. I barely noted the smell of decomposition in my sheets or the distant mutters of death. I simply kept on living until what had to happen occurred. I began hearing noises around the house. I heard the wooden floor crack behind me

It was a growing discomfort, one I chose to ignore as I thought that ignored, it did not exist. Before I noticed, I was leaving all lights on and carried with me a series of protective amulets. Any sound was up to suspicion. Every wall carried whispers. All mirrors were subjected to removal. The windows were left closed. The moonlight never reached my skin. Sleep soon became a thing of the past. Safety, serenity, peace, all became things of the past.

Objects seemed to move without me touching them. A door I thought I had closed was now open, the cellar wood cracked and worked under an invisible weight. Soon silence became my only reality and fear my only taste. All I could hear was Death sharpen its scythe as I walked across my empty corridors.

They say that at seventy-two hours without sleep, adenosine levels increase as all memory references fade away. Hallucinations start to dance in front of your glassy eyes, eyelids heavily falling. Any colors, any source of light will be unbearable. They say hell are others, but after seventy hours, you become a raging fire. You lose your capacity to focus and experience extreme hallucinations and paranoia leading to the questioning of your own identity. In a few days, I had become another one of my ghosts.

What do you see when you close your eyes?

Now, I see nothing. Only darkness, utter darkness. It seems all color has left the world. I close my eyes and see bubbles of light dancing in no specific order, forming no clear pattern. I don’t remember when I ceased to see the house. I don’t recall the day I ceased to dream. I was, perhaps, when cacti grew under my eyelids, their thorns piercing through my fragile skin. It was maybe the day when their golden flowers burst where my eyes used to be. Now I see nothing. It all went dark. I no longer see the house, no longer hear the waves crash against the cliff. I no longer taste the bitter wind and smell the salty sea. I see nothing. I have become nothing. Sometimes I wonder if it is too much to ask to someday be able to live.

photo credit: https://www.itinera-magica.com/wp-content/uploads/IMG_3190.jpg