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They say when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. It is a phenomenon of the mind, a reaction of the brain’s ability to process events. The experience lasts both an instant and an eternity while memories and dreams collide in a harrowing kaleidoscope of remembrance and hallucination.
They say you instinctively know when you are about to die. Even if you try to deny it, the mind knows. It may be a moment of realization, it may be hours, but the instinct is never wrong.
He has plunged into the dark to find his sister. He does not know he will become familiar with both experiences.
The cables snake down his limbs the more he tries to struggle. Their tight grasp threatens to crush his bones. He pleads with the many-eyed thing beyond the glass, calling a name that used to mean something to it. He shouts and struggles on the verge of tears, begging the husk of his sister to release him, her elder brother.
She does not respond in kind. She no longer knows his name. The name he calls means little to her. She desires to please another. The others wish to escape and this, this man, he will be their disguise. All they need to do is make a little room inside.
The machine before him clicks. He has seen the machine shred metal like paper. A morbid fascination to find out what it would do to human flesh crosses his mind.
Silence. The kind of silence in the moment before a predator strikes.
She says it only hurts for a moment.
She lies.
The pain does not come immediately. Perhaps it is the morbid fascination that holds the pain back. The machine plunges its sharp edge just above his hip and tears upward through his ribs. Only then does the pain start. Burning ice pulses through him and dissolves his veins to make room for itself.
He watches organs rupture and spill to the ground like wounded eels. Pieces of bone clatter like the plastic toys his father often broke. He isn’t sure why everything is so red all of a sudden. He doesn’t like the color. Some of the red is darker than the rest and it’s getting everywhere. Father wouldn’t approve of the mess.
He doesn’t remember when he ended up on the floor. Father wouldn’t approve of him lying around like a lazy boy.
He tries to breathe but the organs are no longer there. The lungs have been torn in half and the diaphragm is somewhere among the viscera.
Silence. It is a silence that makes the head ring.
The burning ice reaches his brain. Some of it pokes through his eyes and casts a gray glow on the red.
Something scrapes along the floor. He doesn’t mind. He is so very tired and cold.
Something touches him. He wishes it wouldn’t. It’s rude to disturb someone trying to sleep.
He closes his eyes. Something moves between his bones. Whispers barge into his ears despite his best efforts to ignore them.
Everything fades. Perhaps now he can have some peace after all the tragedy he has witnessed and caused. Hopefully the one who still cares about him won’t be too sad. That man has a tendency to worry about him.
He feels weightless. Is this what death feels like? He doesn’t mind sleeping for an eternity, away from everything and everyone, not needing to feel or think or fear. He struggles to remember the last time he slept well; so many things were out there for him to worry about.
But now it is the end. He can rest undisturbed.
Then why can he still feel the chill of spilt blood? Why does he hear whispers? Why is his sight overlaid with gray lines?
Something is wrong. He should be dead, there is no mistake about that. His organs have been scooped out of his body! Why are his senses still aware?
Perhaps it is a delayed reaction? The final instances of consciousness before his brain dies?
Should he try opening his eyes?
No. He tells himself to lie still. Wait for the end. It will come.
And yet, the morbid fascination returns. If he opens his eyes, will he see bits of his innards all over the floor? If he then looks down, what will he see? Would he be able to see his spine now that his organs aren’t in the way?
He chides himself for that line of thought. Gross. No one in their right mind would wonder that. He’d seen a head crushed in a metal maw. He doesn’t need to see anyone disemboweled, least of all himself.
Though… he doesn’t seem to be dying. Could a man not humor his darker thoughts while on death’s door?
To heck with it. He would try. He focuses on his eyelids and to his surprise, feels the muscles relax. His eyes slip open.
Everything is blurry. He can’t tell what he’s seeing. There’s a flat, dark swath of something shiny in front of him, nothing like the red he had been staring at. Below the swath is a lighter surface spattered with the familiar red. Everything is still so blurry. He notices a shape behind the dark surface. The shape is tall and has colored areas of purple and red and tan.
Is the object behind the surface? Or… is it a reflection? He can’t quite tell. It would be impossible if it was a reflection. There are no reflective surfaces near the floor. He wishes his vision would focus.
It doesn’t seem like he’s looking up at this thing. As far as he can tell, he is looking straight ahead.
Which way is up? His mind keeps saying his body is upright on his feet. But that’s not possible. He lacks the strength and a few major muscle groups needed to stand.
A hand lifts to the shiny surface. It’s closer to his face and thankfully clearer. It looks like his hand… but that’s impossible. He can’t feel it move and his skin looks so different. He knows his complexion isn’t the healthiest, but he’s never looked purple.
The hand turns its palm toward him and rests the stiff fingertips on his face.
His sister speaks from inside his skull. She tells him he doesn’t need to see this.
Without warning, his mind is yanked into the dark. No matter how wide his eyes open, he cannot see. His mouth opens but his throat does not tighten the vocal cords. He tries to move but there are no limbs.
It is just him. His mind. Plunging into the void, unsure if there is an end or if he will ever regain his senses.
Maybe this is death. Maybe what he saw was his body’s final attempt to stay alive.
He must have lost. That is it, yes. His organs are soaking a tile floor and his brain is finally dead. Meanwhile the thing with his sister’s voice is using his corpse as a disguise to escape. Should he be more disturbed by that? In the grand scheme of things, it seems somewhat tame. Then again, he is dead now, so what does any of that matter?
He did fail his objective. He didn’t bring his sister back, nor did he stay safe like he promised. No matter. He is used to failure at this point. Apparently it is all he can accomplish. He failed both of his siblings, his mother, his father, his unofficial uncle, all the people he knows and are important to him.
None of it matters anymore. Not in death. Maybe one of those people will mourn. He hopes the one will mourn.
For now he feels tired. Yet he cannot sleep. Despite the agonizing urge to sleep, he can’t. He sighs to himself. Isn’t death supposed to be an eternal rest? Maybe this is the part where his life flashes before his eyes; that usually happens, right?
Except there is nothing but darkness. It is not merely an absence of light, it is perfect nothing. Nothing to see. He doubts light would even be able to hit his retinas because he doesn’t think his eyes exist anymore.
It is an odd train of thought but it amuses him. Not having eyes, yet able to see. How would that work if there is nothing to capture light and turn it into an image? Maybe the “eyes” themselves would give off light?
His thoughts drift with the emptiness around him. Maybe this is exactly what he needs in death, a place to sort through his thoughts one by one until he understands them. He has no other senses with which to form new thoughts, so this void is a perfect place to comprehend the ones he has.
He thinks back as far as he can.
His brother’s cries are cut short by a harsh snap. The plastic eyes meet his. He has known his father’s temper. Only now does he know fear.
Stars, it’s so vivid. He swears he can smell the bloody flesh and rusty metal. Part of him wishes to hear those annoying, constant whimpers again. At least then he would know his little brother is alive.
He tries to think beyond that. Another memory slots into place, foreign and strange.
She is the only one who is ever praised by her father. He warned her away from the thing he made for her. But think of his praise when he finds out she is so brave to approach it alone! Just one little reach for one little offering…
That isn’t anything he recalls. He wasn’t around when his sister disappeared. Father came home one night without her and locked himself in the basement for days, offering no explanation.
He does recall pounding on the doors and screaming at his father to let him get a can of food in the basement’s storage. One would think owning a pizza place would mean infinite free food.
Nope. Not for him, not after his sister. He dared not risk stealing again. He still has the scar from when his father found out.
He doesn’t want to be here. This void is not death but nor is it life. He wants out. Back to whatever he saw before. He imagines himself rising to regain what is his.
He hears a shuffling footstep come to a stop.
He rises farther. Something is in him, something that does not belong.
Get it out.
It writhes. A horrid sound of convulsing metal sickens him.
He no longer rises, but pushes. He can sense it now and hear its many voices. The voices scream at him and at the one trying to lead them. It does not belong with him. Leave.
The voices cackle at him and say he has served his purpose. They tell him to enjoy their old skin.
He hears a body fall to the ground. Sensation floods him once more with feeling and sound.
You won’t die.
His sister’s voice lingers in his ears.
You won’t die .
His eyes open. Featureless gray fills his view. He tries to breathe. Air rasps through his body but doesn’t go anywhere.
Focus. He needs to focus on what he can sense. He can feel his body but it’s… wrong. Maybe he should try to stand. His eyes focus on the gray concrete beneath him.
His hand drags up to his face and presses into the ground. He hauls his head off the ground, followed by his shoulders and torso that feels far too light. He stops when he reaches his knees and sits for a moment. His vision still won’t focus but what he can see confuses and frightens him.
His hands are entirely purple. He follows his hands down his arms and eventually his stomach. Something touches his collarbones and he flinches, grabbing at it and feeling two points of contact, one in his fingers and one on what should be his lower jaw. He traces the hanging flesh up to where it should slot into place.
His jaw is horrifically broken and hangs so his chin touches his collarbones. He sets both palms under his jaw and pushes it back up. The sound of flesh sliding and bone squishing back into place nearly makes him gag. He tests his mouth and finds he can still move it, but there is something stuck in his throat. He reaches a couple fingers into his mouth and touches something sharp and metallic.
That thing must not have brought all of itself with it when it left.
He plants his hands on the ground and bends down. The full weight of what has happened begins to dawn on him. He can’t breathe, and not only due to the lack of organs. He hugs his empty torso that is inexplicably pulled back together and no longer a gaping hole.
This is wrong. This is so wrong!
He grips his head tightly. He feels as if everything in his mind is slipping away, being scooped out piece by piece. Fighting to hold on, he repeats the most foundational things he needs to know.
His name is Michael. His father is evil. His uncle… is not actually his uncle but has earned the title and his name is… H-… Henry.
His name is Michael. He should not be alive. His organs are fermenting in a pool of blood at the bottom of a pit. An animatronic made of wire and eyes spoke with his sister’s voice and used his hollowed out body as a skin suit.
He should be dead.
You won’t die.
Why not?!
This is too much. He wants to go home. He wants to sleep.
He should call Henry and tell him what happened.
He tells himself to slow down. One thing at a time, starting with if he’s able to walk.
His legs shake but thankfully don’t collapse as he manages to tuck his feet under himself and straighten up, a small blessing of his lighter body being that his legs no longer have to support as much weight.
Once again he looks down at himself. His vision finally begins to focus and reveal his strange state. His shirt is gone, as are his shoes. The chilly night air blows through gaps in his body the metal thing didn’t bother to patch.
He tells himself to worry about that later. He’s currently standing under a street lamp looking ill and creepy; perhaps get home through the shadows so as to not give any late night passerby a heart attack.
He turns toward the alleys and staggers into the night, a haunting figure neither dead nor alive.
He thanks whatever divinity exists that his keys managed to stay in his pocket. His stiff fingers struggle to turn the key and he all but collapses into his house. He makes sure the door is locked before limping toward his bathroom. Despite his hesitations, he needs to know the extent of what that animatronic did to him.
Ensuring the room’s door is locked, he bows himself over the sink. A part of him is terrified of what he will see in the mirror. The morbidly fascinated part wants to get it over with.
He knows for a fact his jaw is broken and might be disfigured, there is a concerningly wide gash up the middle of his torso, his skin is discolored into every shade of purple, and there are various wires hanging out in his throat and stars-know-where else.
Knowing all that, does he need to look at his face?
Granted, any face would look better than the one he has. He looks so much like his father he has spooked himself thinking he glimpsed the man in a reflective surface.
The morbid fascination keeps prying his gaze upward.
He grips the sides of the sink and looks up.
Well… he doesn’t look like his father anymore.
He barely looks human anymore.
His skin is stretched thin over his skull. His eyes are missing, replaced by white pinpricks hovering in a pitch black void. Black streaks trace lines like tears down his cheeks. Not a follicle of hair remains. He tries opening his mouth and takes note of the bloody and chipped teeth before his jaw pops out of socket again. It doesn’t fall as far and doesn’t hurt, nor does he need to physically push it back into place; now, like a snake, he can unhinge his jaw and put it back again.
He steps back and notes the gash through his torso. It seems the machine, while inside him, tried to stretch the skin back together and cauterize it shut. The attempt worked… to a point. Tears have appeared around his back and sides where the skin wouldn’t give. He pokes a finger through one of the tears and feels the broken edge of a rib, then pulls back with a shudder.
His gaze drifts to the combination bath and shower on his left. If he tries to clean himself… would he end up scrubbing skin right off his bones? He doesn’t want to know.
He shakes his head. Focus. One thing at a time. He reminds himself of his name: Michael.
He should call Henry.
Could he even speak to do so?
Deliberately this time, he unhinges his jaw and peers down his reflection’s throat. No doubt about it, there are wires and metal cables lodged in his mouth and throat.
He aims his hand inside and grasps one of the cables. A small tug accomplishes nothing. A harder tug nudges it. He then tries to grip and yank it, but his fingers are too weak to keep ahold and he almost smashes his hand into the mirror.
He sighs and closes his mouth. With all that stuff blocking his throat he wouldn’t be able to tell Henry anything, least of all come over I’m a walking corpse help me.
Maybe he just needs something with a better grip. He remembers the pliers in the kitchen junk drawer. A quick fetch and he’s back in front of the mirror with both hands on one end of the tool and a cable in the tool’s jaws.
He takes whatever his body equates to a deep breath, and pulls. The cable slides with a myriad of squelching, clicking, and rattling until he gets it far enough to grasp it with his hands and keep pulling. Four feet of cable snake into the sink, covered in dark blood and black ichor.
If he still had a stomach, he would have puked right then and there. Instead he takes another look in the mirror. That cable seemed to be the longest with a few smaller ones left stuck.
First a test. He puts his jaw back and huffs air through his throat, trying to voice a sound. The barest rasp comes through, but it is undeniably his voice. Rough and rattly, but his.
He repeats the process to remove the other cables with the same nauseating symptoms. Finally his throat is clear and he can hear his voice. His mouth struggles to form proper words and his voice is little more than a low groan, but it is enough.
He needs to call Henry.
Leaving the pliers and several feet of twisted machinery in the sink, he shuffles over to the phone and dials the number he memorized so long ago.
A handful of miles away, a man’s phone rings.
This man has not slept for over a day. He was supposed to get a call at 6am yesterday morning. That call was supposed to be a lifeline, a beacon that the one on the other line had survived the night, yet it never came.
Since then the man has been feverishly pacing his home, never straying too far from the phone in case he gets that call.
The phone rings. The man sits up from his slumped place at the kitchen table.
The phone rings again. A chair is knocked over from the man’s forceful stand.
He interrupts the third ring and presses the phone to his ear. He asks the name of the one he hopes is on the other end.
Michael collapses to his knees upon hearing Henry’s voice. The concern in the older man’s words as he asks what has happened is euphoric.
Michael wants to tell him everything. He wants to say something is so unimaginably wrong with him. He wants to say he is sorry for breaking his promise to stay safe. He wants to say anything .
But he can’t. His voice is nothing more than a whisper.
His hand claws at the floor beneath him while his empty eyes spill black tears. Please, stars above, Henry, help me! He longs to scream.
Henry struggles to hear the soft sounds across the phone wire. Something is wrong, he knows that much. If only Michael would say something! But he knows the boy often needs time, time where Henry needs to listen.
So listen, he does. He presses the speaker close to his ear and focuses on its vibrations.
He hears soft gasping. Then a rattling inhale, followed by wheezing sobs.
Michael is crying. Silently crying.
Henry tells him to hold tight. He will be there in just a few minutes.
A part of Michael breaks along with the call connection. For a moment Henry was there and everything could be better. Then he was gone.
But he said he was coming. He would be there soon. Michael comforts himself with that. Henry is coming. He will make it make sense. He will know what’s wrong.
Michael then remembers he is currently a purple corpse with a hollowed out torso and bones supported with metal-laced muscles. Also, glowing eyes. Would Henry even recognize him?
He can’t let Henry see him like this. Not yet. Henry has to understand what is wrong first and then promise not to be afraid.
He fumbles the phone back into place and hurries to grab a notepad and pencil. Henry’s car turns into the driveway as Michael sits in the bath with the curtain drawn shut.
Michael hears Henry’s key undo the lock with practiced precision. He hears the man gasp and mutter something about a smell. He then hears his name called, but he cannot call back. Compromising, he raps his knuckles against the linoleum bath. Henry hears and nudges the bathroom door open.
From his place behind the curtain, Michael can see the man’s silhouette lift a hand to its face and peer into the sink. Henry quietly calls his name again, and Michael responds with another tap.
Henry notices the shadow behind the bath curtain. He asks if Michael would come out, but there is no response. Henry reminds himself to be patient and listen. It took Michael a long time to trust him, and he is aware how fragile the boy’s trust is.
He kneels in front of the curtain and listens. A pencil scratches across paper for a few moments, then the paper tears and is dropped between the curtain and the bath. The curtain does not fully reach the floor, so the note is easily obtained.
I’m sorry, it reads, the writing shaky and uneven like a child’s.
Henry asks for what. If it is about the missed phone call, sure it makes him worried, but the fact that Michael is alive is all the assurance he needs.
You don’t understand, says another note.
Henry hears the pencil scribbling fast. He keeps his mouth shut and listens.
Something is wrong with me. I should be dead but I’m not.
Henry says not being dead is usually a good thing. He means it lightly, a smile lifting one side of his mouth as he says so.
Michael pounds his fists on the bath. A harsh hiss slides through his teeth. He grabs the curtain and intends to throw it back and reveal himself, hideous and monstrous, just to show Henry how afraid he should be.
But the thought goes as soon as it comes. He can’t do that. Henry is the last living person he feels safe with. He already failed his blood family. If he fails Henry’s trust like this…
Slowly, Michael releases his grip on the curtain. No scares. Make him understand first, then make him promise. Michael picks up the pencil again and writes slowly, taking his time with every word.
Henry listens patiently, his heart calming after the mild fright Michael gave. Clearly something happened to the boy that made him like this, afraid of even his uncle. And there is the present mystery of the cables and wires in the sink, along with the putrid smell and strange black stuff that definitely isn’t oil.
Another note slips under the curtain. The letters are smaller but still shaky.
Father did something to his machines. The one that took Liz is alive with her spirit. It killed me but I didn’t die.
An arrow points to the back.
It made me into a living corpse. I look like a monster.
Henry rereads the note several times.
Michael can all but hear the man’s ears spitting steam trying to comprehend.
Finally Henry says he thinks he understands. Michael doesn’t expect that response. How could Henry possibly understand?
Seemingly able to read his mind, Henry says he would explain how he understands, but asks if Michael would first be willing to show himself.
You must promise not to be afraid.
A bell of doubt rings in Henry’s mind. There is much he fears. If Michael is as monstrous as he claims…
He chases the thought away. It is still Michael, no matter what he may look like.
Henry promises.
Michael sets aside the pencil and paper. He tucks his feet under himself and pinches the curtain between his fingers. He tells himself it’s okay. Henry promised. He won’t be afraid.
Henry notices Michael’s hand shaking on the curtain. He reaches up and gently curls his hand over the plastic, overlapping Michael’s hand.
Michael feels the gentle pressure and blinks more tears down his face. Henry is so good to him. He hopes this won’t change anything.
Slowly, the curtain pulls back. Michael and Henry meet eyes. Michael immediately looks away as more tears leak down his face. He can’t stand to see if Henry is looking on with disgust or fear.
Henry is shocked at first to see the dark purple skin and glowing silver pupils suspended in darkness, but he cannot deny the thing—the person —sitting before him is Michael. Shock dissolves into pressing concern; grievous wounds litter Michael’s skin. Henry is certain he can see bone in several places. And the gash through the torso…. He whispers an exclamation.
Michael’s head dips lower. He still can’t bring himself to look up and read Henry’s face. But then Henry offers a hand. Michael stares at it before hesitantly lifting his own and curling his fingers around Henry’s.
Henry endures the ice cold touch. As cold as Michael’s hand feels in his, Michael feels the warmth from him. He rubs his thumb over Michael’s fingers and lifts his other hand toward the boy’s face. Black streaks stain the dark purple cheeks where tears have fallen.
Henry gently says Michael’s name.
Michael finally looks up. There is no fear in Henry’s eyes, only concern. It is not the pathetic pity-like concern full of fake understanding and platitudes, no. It is the concern his father only ever offered those cursed machines, the genuine worry that leads to long nights and vigilant care. It is the concern that promises he will be well again, no matter the personal sacrifice.
Another tear slips down his face. Henry gives him a gentle smile, brushes the tear away with his thumb, and tells Michael to cry if he needs to. It has been a long night, after all.