[Reaching Out, 613 words, Genre: Experimental]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
He lies there. Soaked in piss, blood and vomit. Nobody knew him for the man he once was. They just look at him for the mess he became. There on the floor, he crawls and reaches for something just out of sight. Out of sight of the four dimensions of our reality. He is reaching for something though. You can see it in his eyes. Those bloodshot eyes that are seeing something more than we see. He has had the shit kicked out of him one too many times. He coughs, he splutters. But the fight has not yet been beaten out of him as his enemies had wished.
People thought he was nothing and that’s where he’s going, to the great abyss of nothingness. He’s reaching for something though, we can’t see what. He’s on a different level, a different plane of existence. One hopes that is higher than the one we currently perceive, though one can never be sure of these things. Higher or lower, it is just somewhere else.
Those around him. They kick him in the ribs. Digging their heel in between the spaces between each rib. He’s already sick. They don’t care. They kick with their legs. They have their sticks that they slam down into his back. He’s a beaten dog. Who knows what made him sick? The alcohol? Or something else? Maybe the alcohol was the only cure they had for whatever he was suffering.
They’re calling out to him now. Calling him names. “Low-life!”
Whatever he did, did he deserve this? They kick at him still. Maybe it was the mania of the people that continued to inflict so much pain and devastation upon his wretched poor soul. It doesn’t matter why. It just matters that it’s happening. It’s happening and he will not likely see another day. Another point in time. Another beautiful moment free of such things. A time of peace, free of what he suffers from in this ever presentient moment.
He’s reaching out for something. Nobody knows what it is. But he’s crawling. Using his vomit, using his sweat and piss as lubricant to crawl on the ground. Towards something. He must be seeing something. Their insults are falling to the background. He can’t hear them anymore. As he reaches for something unseen. He is not escaping from anything. He knows there is no escape from this. From these last moments there is nothing that will stop the bitter end. But the way he reaches for something, you don’t know if this is the end.
What does he see in those last moments? A child smiling? The lord and saviour above the cross? The life he could have led if it wasn’t, if it wasn’t for all of this shit! This shit that we constantly surround ourselves with. This shit that we wrap ourselves up in and call a blanket that feeds into our own insecurities, crushing hope, crushing dreams… That shit! That shit, don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve lived a life. You know what shit I’m talking about. That shit is comforting, we wrap every other part of our lives up in that shit.
Maybe that was what he was finally escaping. He was escaping that shit. And now, like a snake shedding its skin, he was reaching out for something. Something less or more, more or less.
What did he see? As he closed his eyes for the last time. Unable to bare witness to any more shit. As his hand fell to the dirt. As those kicking at him cheered at his final breath. What was he reaching out for?