muted silence ·
8 April 06

It ended as strangely as the whole thing started. My friend and I sat in an auditorium watching a series of films on screen with a crowd that was enthusiastic enough to be taken out and replaced at a bloody, violent war cheering on the oncoming death to one and all.

In this case they were cheering on a series of bizarre videos that didn’t make sense to either myself, nor my friend. The first video featured was called “The Suffering” and involved scenes of torture, snuff videos to the suffering of malnutritioned people in Africa.

The cheers echoed round once more, and at times became deafening. I assume this was my friend sat at the top after only the first film we had watched. I was now seated next to lady who wouldn’t stop touching the back of my earlobe, as we watched the second film called, “The Judgement” which was similar in tone to the previous film.

As the film became more graphic, it also turned into a lucid nightmare from the mind of the depraved. Here we sat, unaware what on Earth we had walked into, but it was clear now that this was not a place for us. Having to continually swat the hand that touched my earlobe hadn’t helped either, but I couldn’t stomach much more of the footage that was being demonstrated.

Yet we heard cheers of “bravo”, “magnificent” and “wonderful specimen – no two wonderful specimens”. The last statement was certainly bizarre, but seeing as my friend and I were the only two people that we could remotely regard as out of place in this auditorium, I decided to get up slowly. My attempts at making this a discrete practice was rather fruitless as the woman touching my earlobe just stared in wild disbelief, and as I walked over to my friend sitting, quietly shocked at what he had just seen, I whispered to him, “Remember he said two wonderful specimens, let’s get the fuck out of here.” while being overheard by an Asian man sitting a few rows below my friend, who seemed keen to eavesdrop as though it was a routine pleasure for him.

We left in a speedy hurry, heading out of the doors and ignoring the whispering conversations that echoed down the corridors as we headed for the door, leading to the exit of the city.

Outside, night had fallen, and everything was quiet. Things felt unexpected and I was nervous, the sweat beads rolling down my forehead, slithering into my collar and leaving a dampness that felt equally uncomfortable. My friend looked confused, bewildered and unsure of his own bearings, let alone the questionable whereabouts of my own bearings.

We headed towards a bridge crossing it, but always being unsure of what was coming, or what was behind us. The darkness was pitch black, and without any street lights, nothing was illuminated. For all we knew the demons of the dark had come out to play, waiting, and preying on our fears to force an error that would render us absolutely incapacited. There was a bombing of my mind, the conductor of the auditorium guiding his baton to the sound of torturous screams and yelps burning in my ears. What had we seen, and what were to see more of?

Nothing made sense, and even as we continued walking, a sense of dread grew and crept up behind me, grasping my throat and refusing to let go. “We will fucking kill you, whether you stay awake, or whether you sleep. Open a window, open a door, and we will wait patiently for your carcass.” I had no idea where these thoughts had come from, obviously it must have been a case of feeling disturbed by the sounds and images I had been exposed to. My friend on the other hand, was frankly rather calm.

This disturbed me further, and questions pondered across my mind. Had he devoured the violence and enjoyed the moments of madness that were expressed in that auditorium? Why was there no fear written across his face, from what little visibility that was offered across his now featureless face? His eyes were faced forward, gazing like two strobe lights finding their way to a highway exit that didn’t exist, only to be met by a dead end, to be shut off, to no longer exist. What was wrong with him, I worried.

Neither with a watch, or any way of telling the time, it felt like hours had passed, but it may have easily been a matter of a few minutes. We headed towards a fork in the path, leading in two different directions naturally, neither of which seemed pleasurable to adventure down.

Still left or right was the choice, I don’t quite remember which road the devil offered, or which the road the devil went down. Would following the same path bring devestation and misery, or was it simply a case of the fiment of the imagination growing in the darkness and wanting to take a part of my soul, and that of my friend? Though looking at my friend, it was almost as though his soul had already been eaten and whatever walked with me was simply and empty shell of a human being, the soul devoured and the soul gone?

Questions, more questions, where the fuck were the answers? And moreover, where the fuck were we? I had to pull my friend over to the path, the left path as he walked along aimlessley. We continued to head down, the lights growing, illumination existing and the darkness becoming less so than it was before. Could we find our way back to the hellmouth if we chose to, if we were forced to? I don’t know, but those images haunted me. I swore I had slept for a few minutes, standing, not moving, waiting for something to awaken me, and then they did.

Two men, dressed in low quality garb, torn into bits and shouting in a language we couldn’t decipher. My friend was the last to turn and run as I slapped him across the face. I hoped the slap was enough to awaken him from his muted trance, and it wasn’t. I followed the slap with a punch that cracked the skin on my knuckles. Awoken, we both ran into the darkness once more, we could have turned left again and taken the right turn we hadn’t taken before, but for some reason safety sounded and echoes towards the auditorium.

It didn’t make a whole ot of sense, and I couldn’t comprehend the logic but it seemed we were destined to head there once more. No one followed, and no one knocked on the door behind us. The girl stood at the far end of the corridor, huddled in a heap and I could hear her tears echoing down like a whisper underwater.

My moronic, dumb mute friend for all his value still stood vacant of all expression. I walked down the corridor to the girl, curled up, sucking her thumb, tears rolling on to the floor. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “The words, the words have gone.” she replied. I look at her top, which lay partily unwoven, the multicolour cotton number read, “OLOUR EXTANT”. “I’m colour sextant, but now I’m not, it’s been undone and I’m no longer the same.”

At the other end of the corridor, the conductor had arrived, covered in blood, holding tools of violence and walking along in his dark foreboding clothing. My friend hugged him tightly, the man gently edged away and headed towards colour sextant, who was no more. “Who the fuck is that guy? And who the heck is this Indian?” Fury raged in my forehead, but I refused to follow the whim of violence. “She’s been undone, she’s no longer colour sextant.”

Chop, chop, chop he went and colour sextant was no longer “OLOUR EXTANT” or anything else. She was no longer human, no longer alive, but simply flesh sliced, seasoned with the blade and served in a flood of tears and blood. He shakes my hand, thanks me, lays down his violence and tells me he forgives me for the disgrace I’ve brought to him and his fellow companions.

I have no understanding of what this means, but I still lay sleeping at night waiting for the creaking of the door or the colder draught entering from the window left ajar, fearing and hoping that I’m not on the menu.