Stand Up and Walk

My Own Soul

Ed bows to you as well, taking your hand in his own and kissing the back of your fingertips gently, and you giggle down at him. "Thank you, my knight! Now, what is the first order of royal business this morning?"

Al begins to cheer, pumping his fists in the air. "Picnic!" he chants, doing a little dance in place. "Pic-nic, pic-nic, pic-nic!"

His antics cause you to laugh again. "Yes, my royal jester!" you declare, waving your hand in a boisterous gesture. "A picnic it shall be!"

※※※

You wake standing upright in a writhing mass of red. The fibers writhe beneath you like worms, and you blink, trying to make out their shape in the dim lighting.

They are soft and squirming beneath your feet, and you have to constantly shift to readjust your balance so you don't fall.

Suddenly, a faint, rasping voice calls out from the darkness. "Hello?" it calls. "Is someone there?" The voice breaks on the words, sounding like it hasn't been used in a long time.

Squinting against the darkness, you begin to take slow, hesitant steps forward, toward the voice. The ground squelches and squishes beneath your boots—it feels like you're walking on some sort of giant squirming sponge. The scent of bile and wet meat fills your nostrils, and you can practically feel your nose hairs singe at the odor.

Up ahead, you begin to make out a faint shape. As you creep closer and closer, you're able to make it out more clearly.

It's a person, standing spread eagle, each of their limbs tied with chains to the red, writhing walls. You try to take a closer look at their face, but it seems to shift and change beneath your gaze, never looking the same for more than an millisecond at a time.

The sight of it makes your head begin to swirl, and you rub it with the back of your hand, glancing down instead toward their bare feet; they still shudder through changes like thumbing through a flip-book at double speed, but at least they make you a little less nauseous.

"Who are you?" you ask the person. "Where are we?"

"It's been such a long time..." they tell you, and you can't make out any details about them from their voice; "...since anybody has listened to me."

You can't tell if the voice is male or female, young or old; indeed, it seems to somehow be both all of which and none of which all at the same time.

"Well, I'm here, listening to you now," you tell the person, and lick your dry lips. "Can you tell me where we are?"

They sigh, sounding long weary. "We're in the dark place that he puts the things he doesn't want to see," the figure tells you cryptically. "Things he doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to feel."

"Things who doesn't want to feel?" you question. You try to remember what you were doing before, but your mind comes up blank. "What are you talking about?"

"It's so nice to finally be heard," they tell you, and you risk another glance up to their face, which continues to shift under your gaze. You can feel your temples begin to throb more and more the longer you look, so you avert your gaze again, this time focusing on their bound wrists.

"Why are you chained up in here?" you ask them, watching the hands flicker, nails fluctuating in length, appearing nearly blurred with the speed.

"Because," the figure sighs. "I tell him things that he doesn't want to hear."

You feel a lump beginning to form in your throat. "Like what?" you respond, still not knowing the he in question.