The Truth

Horror • 2024

IT

Mark Amara's eyes shot open.

The word echoed throughout his skull, bouncing around his mind like a basketball. He clutched his temples tightly with his hands, feeling that if he didn't his head would shatter into millions of pieces. The rest of his body shuddered with the force of the word as it spread through his muscles and skin like wildfire. He screamed in agony, falling and rolling around as if he were trying to extinguish the raging force within himself.

Yet through all the effort to manage the pain and hold himself together, the sensation only ended after an eternity of torture, leaving the man heaving and shaking. He held himself tightly, the touch reassuring him he was still here. Still alive.

Mark slowly rose to his feet, his bones cracking under the immense pressure. He managed to steady himself after almost falling over, letting out a whistle of air and a groan of discomfort. He looked out onto the space around him. He had never comprehended where he was while he recovered from the word.

He was nowhere.

At least that's how Mark would describe it. The place was devoid of colour, an infinite expanse of white that never began or ended. Even though he had fallen to what he had thought to be the floor a little while ago, there was nothing solid to stand on, yet he did. Not to say that standing was pleasant, a constant feeling of free falling perturbed his senses as he tried to reorientate himself. With no landmarks or physical objects around him, he had no idea what could happen.

He lifted his leg, preparing to take a step. He stopped. His foot hovered over what could be the next foothold. What if there was nothing left to stand on? Maybe he had gotten lucky, this spot being the only part where he could stay. He started to withdraw his leg but paused again before putting it down. If he didn't move now, he would be stuck here forever, unable to move from this spot until someone saved him. Or he starved. He would prefer to fall and die instead of that.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His throat caught on itself whenever he tried to breathe, only allowing air into his lungs by forcing it down. He gripped and un-gripped his hand, allowing his fingertips to feel his rough moistening skin. It was soothing.

He tentatively took the first step.

Like his other foot, it stayed in place. His body hadn't tipped over like a scale, falling into the vastness below, if down is even possible here. Could he fall upwards? He pushed the thought aside, his other foot meeting the first. He now stood as he had before. Nothing had changed. He slapped his face lightly with both hands, his resolve now steeled.

He took another step.

Then another.

He kept walking until carefully placed steps became a full sprint. His heart raced and his breath was rapid. He flung his arms into the air and cheered. He could stand, he repeated over and over again in his mind. He came to a halt.

Nothing had changed. The space he was in was still devoid of anything. He couldn't tell whether he had moved or even taken that first step. It was overwhelming. Everything felt bigger yet confining. It was as if he were running on an inescapable hamster wheel.

He scanned around him again, twisting himself in every direction, checking for something, anything that could help. If he couldn't find anything now, he would run until he did.

He began to sprint again. He looked around, turning in circles like a dog chasing his tail.

"Help! Anyone!?" he screamed, the sound of his voice quiet and drowned by infinity. He started to trip and stumble, as he continued, the aches from before dragging him down. Every nerve in his body boiled as he stopped again, falling to his knees.

Nothing had changed.

It couldn't be, he thought, clenching his fist so tightly that he felt his fingernails drawing blood from his skin. This wasn't a dream. Mark sat up, trying his hardest to catch his weakening breath, as his eyes tried to adjust to the nothingness. How long had he been running? That didn't matter, He would find something, If there was more to find.

Eventually…

IS

The word shook his entire body, shooting bullets of pain throughout. He collapsed again, spasming uncontrollably as his flesh danced the line of bone-chilling cold and uncontrollable inferno. He breathed slowly, trying everything he could to numb the pain. Why him? Even after all he had done, did he deserve this?

Mark felt an uncontrollable force urge him on. He would survive this. Even as he twitched on the floor, unable to control himself, his mind focused on beating this. Whatever it was. Adrenaline flowed through his veins. He ground his teeth so hard he thought they would turn to dust. His breath became more controlled.

Time seemed to pass slowly. He couldn't believe this. What were these attacks? They seemed to come after a word echoed throughout the void, so what did they mean? Were they forming a sentence?

It is…

What could that mean? Is somebody or something trying to tell him how to escape? Or that it was impossible to escape? Questions circled in his brain like a merry-go-round, searching for a plausible answer to anything and everything important to his situation. He racked his brain, straining his vision. Or was that just what he could see?

He stood up again, everything screeching at him to stop. The force from earlier, the urge to survive returned, the primal need for freedom consuming him. He trembled as he gathered his strength, chuckling maniacally as he balled up his fists. If he couldn't escape by looking for an exit, he would make one by force.

"Fuck this shit!" he shouted, charging forward with his right fist raised, poised to punch harder than he ever had in his life. His fist glided through the air, a whooshing sound piercing its way into his ears. He turned, twisting his body into another fearsome blow that did nothing but fly through the air. Punch after punch flew, Mark's entire body throwing itself into them. It was like an animal clawing at the bars of its cage desperately trying to grasp freedom from the jaws of captivity.

His body gave out.

Tears of exhaustion started to form in his eyes as he lay there gasping for oxygen. The aching in his body had turned to a constant burning feeling that pulsated throughout his limbs, making one of them spasm when the pain became unbearable. He looked down at the white below his face.

Nothing looked back.

The more he stared, the more time started to slip by. His mind struggled to stay focused, cutting in between complete consciousness and emptiness.

NOT

The unbearable pain returned as the word seared its way through his bones. Mark finally cried. All his efforts had been in vain and now all he had to show for it was more pain. Even if striking the air itself did not hurt him, his actions felt like the equivalent of punching against a brick wall. He wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop. He would do anything to make it stop.

Every sob shot out another wave of hurt that came crashing down on his body, mind, and soul. All his perseverance — that need for survival had meant nothing. Like it had before, his anger and fear took everything from him. Has that ever happened? Had he lived a life? Or was this nothingness all he had, or ever will have? He would gladly give his life to end the pain. Kill me, he begged in his mind, unable to squeeze the words out of his drying lips.

His body felt like sandpaper, his organs scratching against it smoothing down all of his bits and pieces. He didn't feel hungry or thirsty though. His body degraded like it required those things but he didn't yearn for them. What he wanted was an escape.

The void was getting to him. Maybe it wanted something. Maybe someone was waiting on the other side, torturing him, trying to force him to give them some sort of information he didn't or couldn't have. He had no family or enough money to warrant this kind of intimidation. If someone wanted something it would be a small-time criminal, How would they be able to simulate perfect nothingness?

Mark started banging his fist on the ground, trying to focus his thoughts on how this happened. What he would need to give to get out of this situation, but like before, his hand made no physical contact with anything. The floor was not solid, not liquid, not gas — it felt like it had earlier; like his hand was hitting nothing, even though he was able to lie on it.

The lack of solid and malleable objects other than himself left him starved for contact. He was no longer satisfied with just hugging close to his knees, or pinching himself to remind him he was there. The loneliness choked his mind, a continual headache plaguing him, no longer allowing him to escape with sleep for more than maybe ten minutes at a time.

How much longer could he go on?

When would he finally lose himself? He had heard how this kind of exposure to loneliness had affected survivors of shipwrecks, deserted on islands that they never thought they'd leave again. How even after survival they always felt a part of them had been left behind in their lonely hell.

Was it his turn?

His heart began to race, his breaths soon became wild and unsteady. As his heart continued to pound out of control, his vision blurred and the world spun around him. He knew what this was. He had dealt with them before.

Mark Amara was having a panic attack.

He desperately tried to focus, stamping his foot, but without sensation he found himself continuing to lose himself. The only way he managed to calm himself was through careful control of his breathing, counting to five each time he breathed in… then out…

Eventually, it passed, initial relief washing over him until his stomach erupted into a deep gargle. Vomit rose from the pits of his stomach. He only just managed to swallow it, a slimy warm sensation crawling its way back through his throat. An instant mania gripped him as a violent maniacal laugh passed through his lips. He tried to control himself, pinching his arm tightly but the laughter had infected him.

He punched himself in the stomach. Hard. It hurt, blood splattering from his mouth onto his shirt, staining it crimson.

It felt good.

The contact of his fist against his body, the vibration of the impact. In a world where nothing made sense, it was satisfying. Grounding.

He looked at his fist.

Trembling he tapped his stomach with his fist again. He felt nothing. Frustrated, he started to hit harder and harder. He continued to laugh, looking up with a crooked smile on his face and tears of relief streaming from his eyes.

Is this what they wanted?

YOUR

Mark Amara had given up.

Escape was impossible. There was nothing or nowhere to go. He had begged and begged but no one was coming to save him. He should be angry. He should be kicking and screaming every step of the way to his death like he had promised himself before. Yet now all he could muster was nothing.

He couldn't smile. He couldn't cry. He couldn't feel anything. He was a living breathing corpse. Undead. The only thing keeping him from zombie status was his inability to stay unconscious. Not that he felt the need to. What he could do was think. Without any other distractions, like fear, or the need to care for his life, he found clarity in thought. Perhaps the decline in his sanity had led to delusion. How would he know?

He was the only one there…

He was alone. More alone than he had ever been, or even considered possible. More alone than when his family died. More alone than when he sat on the edge of an ambulance's patient compartment with a rough feeling shredded old blue blanket wrapped around him like a crappy hug.

He had managed to think a lot about that, much to his initial dismay. With nothing else to focus on except for infinite emptiness he soon accepted that he would have to sit with his thoughts. These memories were the only thing he could muster, so he did.

It was like watching a movie over and over again.

The student-teacher conference. His mum and dad both were able to make it. The sound of a firework shocked the entire hall. The sound of screams, deranged laughter, and the groans of the injured. Then the silence, which was not unlike the void he found himself in now. Only the sound of breathing and the beating of his heart bled into his ears. The smell of gunpowder and smoke threatened to choke him.

Then he coughed.

It was involuntary, something he couldn't control. The saliva he coughed out stained the wooden floor below, his mother placed her hand on his back, a fearful look in her eyes. His father desperately looked in all directions, tears welling up.

Then the footsteps.

The sound of the grim reaper coming to drag you to your grave. Everyone froze for a moment. Perfect little statues, they could've been placed in a rich person's garden. What happened next goes by fast. Mark's father stood up, distracting the attacker whilst his mother tried to lead him out of the hall quietly. The assailant then shoots his father, the bullets tearing through his skin in slow motion, his limbs spasming as he falls.

His mother then screams, pushing Mark out the doors to the hall, running to be by her husband's side. Then bullets rip through her too, landing in a thud on the cold wooden floor.

Then the rough old blue blanket wrapped around him on the edge of the patient compartment.

Mark at first thought this clarity would lead to some kind of epiphany already, but all he could do was lay there. He hadn't changed since back then. He was alone then and will now be alone for the rest of eternity. So he decided to do nothing. All the effort he had made was worthless now, drowned by the reality of the never-ending void of emptiness.

Nothing was left for him here. He had started with nothing and still, nothing was ahead of him. The void was still unchanging, the nothing stretching out to infinity that he'd called home for…

How long has it been since he arrived here? He didn't even know how he got here. Not that it mattered anymore. He was here to stay, whether he liked it or not. He was the only company he had, and he had to accept that. When you're all you have, you have to learn to appreciate yourself. Something he could never do before.

Was he thankful?

No, of course not. Good coming from something terrible was never the answer. Yet here he was in a state of nirvana.

With the void he had found a way to contemplate, its voice echoing through his body keeping him in the moment. Keeping him focused. He didn't know how many times the same five words repeated, or whether they ever had been said. If time had stood still, or millennia passed like seconds was something he would never know. All these facts meant the same as the void. Nothing.

Mark Amara, for the first time since getting there, began to move. Grunting with the strain of moving his brittle bones. His skin had dried, making him look like a raisin, his muscle and body mass withered away to nothing. Still, he continued, his body crumbling into dust, and he managed to stand.

Even with his body the way it is he stood looking out into the nothingness, an expression of finality on his face. A sort of readiness to move on and die without regret or sadness. He was confused at first, why would he be happy now? After the horror of living in this void, wasn't his sense of any happiness gone?

A sudden warm feeling of joy pulsated through his body, intoxicating him, and proving his useless theory wrong. Even though nothing had changed about the place, a sunset stretched upon the infinite horizon. An ending. He didn't care that he was imagining this, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Mark had learned to love the void.

It had always been there, waiting for him, waiting to help him, cradling him like a mother holding a newborn infant. Ready to help him reach this moment. A final swan song to the man who had been Mark Amara.

He took a step.

Then another.

He dragged himself to the burning pure light of the fiery sunset.

The void faded around him.

FAULT