I’m out of time and out of options. The walls are too near – closer upon every measure. Doors are closed and lights fading to null. It really shouldn’t worry me. A life spent lingering in the spaces between possibilities, sniffing at uncertainty, always knowing that ruin was inevitable. The best days were spent firing off riddles into the dark. Questions, statements, curiosities. Little flares placed to navigate the night lands, each a living sanctuary. Imperfectly made, usually incomplete. DNA unstable.
And now mutated horrors come back looking for me. My miserable little zombies, they have become. Unfulfilled. Hungry. Seeking. Stuck between the walls and the abortions of dreams, hideous refractions of the reality I wanted nothing of. Now I am a pathetic parody of my creations, and I know, deep down, they were always prophesy.
All refuge is comprised of nightmare spaces. My fellow travellers urge me into this one or that one, but one other door reopens. All know of its existence, but they dare not speak its name. It is a vilified space. It is cold and absolute, a one-way deal, but it proposes a personal redemption and an end to horror. There is no anxiety or despair or picking between nightmares. To gather up my mutated creations and enter the oblivion that was before time, or not, that is the final question.