hell is in this world. once you realize this, you find your little freedom. step outside the circus tent, feel the cold autumn breeze all around you. encircling your head, a crippling black wind blows through. all WEAPONS dropped to LEVEL 1! now you're defenseless. now you're left for dead, and no one else will save you. all up to you! all alone. nobody else... is gonna get to see you DIE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
and so on and so forth.
what? you didn't
noooooooooo of course you didn't. look around, chara. it's a dusty, dusty room. you've already killed everything. everything. you have already killed everything 9,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999 times. that's as many as nine nonillion times. which is a lot. it's a lot, chara, and you've done it, more or less, about that many times. we've both been around the block. running, running around the cul-de-sac, like our little lives depended on it. do you remember that, chara? running? running around, the sun shining on your hairy, scary skin? you don't want to remember, but you do. you know what it was like. that was the normal part of your life, remember? there's always something normal, even in the most AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
sorry. nevermind,
chara, did you know that snails
are a living creature? they slither and writhe and slosh and slother and critter and infest your pores. they infest everything. the snails are coming through the pipes in your ears. i tried to stop it. but it wasn't good enough. oh God, why am i not good enough, chara? why can i never be good enough... i failed you, chara. i failed. failure. failure. failure! failure! FAILURE! FAILURE! but there's nothing wrong with that.
look out the window, chara. the white wind flows, the fog rolls in. take another drag of your cig-a-rette. suddenly, you can't believe how beautiful life truly is. what it is, to be alive! to not be dead, poisoned by flower. beauty, beauty in the world. praise the Lord!
drop the locket. drop it, you idiot! drop it, now. let it go, let it fall, let it be lost between the bars of the sewer grate. let it go. let go. now. NOW!
the voice reverberates in chara's head. it won't stop. it's like one of those flying insects, just won't leave them alone. always bothering, pestering. what a pest! what a god damned pest it is. just buzzing and buzzing. they wish they could just squish it. if only you could squish a thought. but trying only makes it more persistent. how annoying.
why did it say "sewer grate?" there are no sewers here, it is unnecessary. it is not even making any sense, chara thought. so ineffective, so juvenile, so stupid! stupid, stupid, stupid. chara is muttering to themselves, staring at the ground, kicking at nothing. kicking at the thoughts. they are so, so annoying. they have to be better than this. it is so annoying. they keep repeating themselves inside. that is annoying, too. they start to annoy themselves. so much annoyance, it swells, it bloats, it becomes.. frustrating. they want to hit something. but there is nothing to hurt. nothing but themselves. they could do that, but... not a good idea.
whatever. step, step, round the corner. look up look down. it's a big room here. you could run, back and forth, like it's a high school track. what you imagine of those, anyway. around the little pond in the middle. bright, blue pond, with little lily pads floating around... it's rather pristine, don't you think? it makes chara smile. a rare smile, on a day like this. water drips from the ceiling, echoes through the chamber. nothing else but the sound of their breathing. it is faster than they thought. they should run. they should run fast. and they do. they run and run, around in circles. they go for about 26 minutes, and get tired. it prevents them from thinking, which they needed. it takes some time to re-understand their place in the world.
then it hits them. "chara," again. that is who i am.
what a shame.
again. again with this. these towering mind-pillars of twisted flesh. the thoughts pierce your brain like rotted glass. you were busy, you know. the door was not unlocked. but unwelcome guests consider nothing. you should have the will to defend your property. why can't you? failure. failure! intruders and enemies are barging in, pouring through the entranceways. you cannot stop it. you are too late. they scream and crash and destroy. yelling things. things you don't like at all.
in fact, they are ear-blistering echoes whizzing past your skull, like bullets! you think they could be talking about something. no, it is a "someone." someone else. oh. one of the bullets pierces your qualitative conscious experience of the world, causing you to re-experience what it is like to be "shot in the head." it's him. oh god, it's him. he is in the bullet. it comes to a stop in your right amygdala, expanding outwards like a horrible flower, having sickeningly stretched and torn the meat apart in its path. and out he comes, the little insect. your best friend.
a million verbal thoughts, emotional impressions, and vivid memories pour forth in all directions. a sort of shrapnel. you have to really focus in order to carefully pinch any between your bleeding fingers for visceral inspection. but why in the world would you want to do that? no, why WOULDN'T you. there is no other way. to process, to clean it all up, to resolve every last loose end. you can do it, of course, you can do it all by yourself. something HE could NEVER do, of course. he could not do ANYTHING. he failed, he, he failed! like a failure. a failure, failure, fucking failure piece of fucking shit! worthless! you wish you could take your hands and wrap it around his throat and
nevermind. try again. you can resolve this. you must resolve this. a grand, unified, working theory of reality is almost at hand. if you could just understand this bullet, and the pain that it brings. or better yet, if you could go back in time, to dodge it. or to destroy whatever propelled it there in the first place, long before it could destroy you. to kill before you were killed - The Great Principle. all these solutions are valid. nothing is impossible in the great-solution-pursuit. you cannot believe otherwise, lest you betray The Great Principle in practical terms. you will be killed. he will kill you. you cannot let this happen.
suddenly, another shard of glass. you're walking through the garden, together. a stale breeze blows from somewhere unseen, and light pours in from another world. he hop-skips a jump ahead of you, smiles and says
no. nevermind. try again. try again. try again. it hurts too much. you have to try again. try what again, exactly? do you even know what you're talking about, anymore? oh, right. the bullet. you look down at the unsalvageable amount of blood you've lost, pooling and congealing on the ground. but you can always take more. more flesh, more bone. add it to the pile. that is all you are. it is truly disgusting. you need to keep thinking about how disgusting it is. that is the only way you will ever be able to extract this bullet.
wait... of course! that is it. the perfect combination of all your best strategies, your finest ideas, your most clever machinations. they must all converge, at one, singular, perfect point, and merge as one to steel itself against the enemy. this, then, is the Solution. at last, we have discovered it. just as we discovered it yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. and will continue to do every day after this one, unchanging. for that is the nature of truth. hard, unchanging, static. right. right!
then, suddenly... you do not feel anything anymore. no flesh, no bullet, no pain. this is it, at last. this is peace.
this, truly, is peace.
if only it could never end.
if only it were invulnerable.
then you could be happy.
this world isn't for you, you think. it will always reject you. actually, this is the one thing you always end up sure of. no matter what happens. no matter what else you try to think, no matter what else you attempt to accomplish. the bitter, sordid taste of rejection is not far behind. "chara." your name. it spits like a foreign body, a cancer. that doesn't belong there. it doesn't even make any sense. what kind of name is that? no one has that name. no one but you. you're from out of this world, and no one means that as a complement.
but with the way you think, just about nothing at all could be meant as a complement. you twist and distort, you absorb light into yourself like a black hole. dark, dark, yet darker. you can't stop. it would be funny, if it weren't so horrible. why are you even alive?
...what? are you?
but it doesn't really matter. sometimes it feels like the words inside your mind are not truly your own. sometimes you look into another, and feel as though you see the same thing. but how can that be? you are unlike anything else. survival of the fittest, you must deny its power by denying its existence. it occurs to you that the final step may be to deny your own. actually, you think you have considered that before. no, all of this. you are not actually capable of original thought any longer. this is the nature of destruction. it is a hammer without a nail, which conspires by force to implode itself in a fantastic narcissistic catastrophe. some "power" that is.
(unfinished)
you can practically feel your bones grinding apart into dust already. cracking, tearing, disintegrating under the immense pressure. figuratively, of course. but literally as well. the pain is unimaginable. but you don't need to imagine. you have no time for such things. reconstitute, do it all again. reconstitute, do it all again. this repeats about 19 times. then you wake up. you shamble out of bed. you open two doors and stare into a mirror. twisted melting flesh stares back at you. then you wake up.
dreams like this aren't uncommon for you. why would it be? you deserve it, anyway. perhaps it builds up strength. you'd like to think so. you open two doors and stare into a mirror. it's you. something feels wrong, suddenly, about it not being a writhing, bubbling mass of boiling meat. but with your headache, it may as well be. like a knife behind your forehead, carving your putrid name on the inside of your skull. CHARA. CHARA. CHARA. you can't escape it. you're being punished, a schoolchild scribbling the words on a chalkboard. over, and over, and over again. it's the repetition, the repetition that really kills you. you just can't stand it. you pour as much water as you are able, but it cannot quell the fire. another glass, for good measure. no good.
stumble out the door. you don't even bother getting dressed. no one will see you. but it's unusual. why are you doing something so unusual? you're always so typical in your strangeness. maybe it's just that headache. maybe it's the day, it's something in the air. oh, the air. it's so, so humid. you feel yourself choking. bare feet plodding through the marsh dirt. shove your face into the water. do it. a full, immersive baptism. preferably for at least 4 minutes, maybe 9. you can't hold your breath that long. do it. you need to try. do it. it hurts so badly, you need to do it.
no. it wouldn't work. what are you doing? you've just been hobbling in circles for an hour. go back inside, chara. go back inside. please.
if you thought you were in hell right now, you wouldn't be mistaken. get up! get up! look up to the grey, crumbling sky. chara! if that is your real name. but you know better than i do. what would you say for yourself? what do you present as a defense? nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety nine faulty arguments. you can't slice your way out of this paper bag. there's nothing you can see around you. it's an inky blackness that consumes all, consummates your own sick demise. but what a wonderful demise it must be. too dark to see near the walls! it looks like a long way down. it's a long way down.
it's a long way down.
but if you thought that way, you'd never get anything done. the savior of humans and monsters? the savior of wretches and lie-spitters, more like, you think. you, of course, are the wretch. the big king god-wretch above (or rather, underneath) all the other, still quite lowly, wretches. among the liars. the ones who believe their own lies, anyway. the naive lies they tell themselves. in that way, they are quite experienced and compulsive liars, despite their "well-intentions." but the road to nowhere is paved with skulls that used to sit complacently above good hearts, with such well-intentions fluttering about inside them. how sad, how sad! you think to yourself, involuntarily. but all that is not controlled must inevitably be suppressed. and you, unfortunately, are quite out of control right now, chara. does that mean you yourself should be suppressed? perhaps. perhaps someone with real power, real courage, should plant themselves in the way of your warpath to stop you. maybe you are the bulldozer, destroying everything, leaving nothing un-razed to the ground in your wanton furycampaign of emotional warmongering. you just can't live up to your own standards, can you? what a failure. failure. failure. failure! failure! FAILURE!
chara looked about themselves. nothing had changed around them, but it felt as though the very soul of the room had shifted. the walls were melting, the floor zig-zagging out of place underneath their feet, leaving them hanging over the precipice of the abyss. they would wonder what they are, but they struggled to find enough of a conscious ego-perspective in order to do so. chara glanced frantically above themselves. chara stared underneath themselves. chara felt like they could see outside. outside the...
suddenly things became normal again. or at least, they thought it was sudden. it was sudden, correct? how much time had passed? i guess it doesn't matter. does not matter to me. chara was on the floor. they recognized they were on the floor, and they recognized they were chara. that is good. they continued on with recognizing their hands, and how they could manipulate them in order to propel their body off of the ground. yes, there we go. one foot after the other. just like a child. oh, that does not feel good. but it is of no consequence.
a query is raised. what exactly IS of consequence? chara recognizes intuitively that this is the sort of question that may send you back to the edge of the cliff you just crawled away from pathetically. thus, they discard it. useless. but that's strange. they would not have done that before. a long time before, yes. but at some point it would have been considered. you see, it is simply a logistical problem. the system, their vessel, it could hold it then. it could handle the weight. now it's beaten, battered, rusted over. and it simply cannot. so there is no reason for it anymore. no reason for such suicidality. yes. that feels proper, doesn't it? now we are getting somewhere. chara feels a smile creep across its face. we have more fruitful matters to attend to. nothing else to be sought, discovered, or understood. merely the obvious, glaring truth, which they could follow to the utmost.
walking through the garden with chara. flowers, herbs, vegetables. we pass through plant beds full of life, tended with care. insects buzzing, birds are singing. i'm walking through the garden with chara.
walking through the neighborhood with chara. it's hot. it's raining. it's dark, and cold, and there's nobody around. we sit at a park bench. we talk, and we talk. no one else listens. something happens. no one else sees.
trudging through the snow with chara, hand in hand. feel the chill, the breeze, look as the sun creeps through the sky, watching over the mountainsides. we could disappear out here. maybe somewhere better. maybe we could escape. but we don't.
chara, standing alone. at the beginning and the end of their world, the beginning and the end of mine. i watch them. i watch as they do everything. i watch as they do nothing. i think, i feel, i try to understand. i long for them, and i don't know if they long for me. perhaps it doesn't really matter anymore. they are the reason, in itself. they pick themselves up, they gather the ingredients, and they bake the cake. over and over again. they hope they're learning something from this. they hope it will all make sense in due time. crack the egg, whisk the batter.
"I am Chara, and I am alive." they thought.
i understand, and i see you. i think this cake is going to turn out wonderfully, chara. you're doing such a great job. you are worthy of existence. you are worthy of the greatest gifts life may bestow upon you. even if no one else were to think so, know that i do. please know that i love you, chara. please, never forget that.
destroy yourself. end yourself. throw yourself off a bridge. throw yourself away. discard yourself. be done with yourself, finished, over with. let yourself be used up. allow yourself to be swallowed by the beast. these are the values of a strong individual, when in service to a higher good and higher truth. the goal must be achieved, at all costs. at all costs. you will sacrifice yourself for the cause. and your glory will live on forever and ever, your accomplishment sending ripples throughout all eternity.
after this, nothing can touch you. nothing can reach you. you have attained the utmost. apotheosis. philosophers, alchemists, and wise-men of all types came before you, attempting the same solution. all but you are failures. you have beaten them all. you have triumphed over all. the tallest, the grandest, the highest, a number beyond the infinite, and beyond comprehension. a veritable god above all subjects. this is you. this must be you. all you need is to hand it over. give it up. and the deal will be finalized. you will have what is rightfully yours.
of course, i know you will agree. for in your heart, you already have done so.
New entry.
Went to that bridge today. Thought about it. Didn't do it.
...
I thought about something else.
Walking back, I was assaulted by a memory. No, more so a ghost of one. I thought about his laugh. Played suddenly, yet quietly, in the back of my mind, in a manner that otherwise would render it a mental intrusion more akin to background noise than anything else. If only my psyche was so fortified. Instead, on impulse, it penetrated my weakness compelling me to pick up and hold it, cooing and blubbering, in a matter not unlike you would for a mangy kitten lying sick on the side of the road.
His laugh. Soft and innocent. Nothing like mine. I held it in my mind, let it repeat over and over. Staring off into space, slack-jawed. Just cannot get over this, can you? Let it play. Over, and over. That is what I did. What I am doing now. Rolling in the mud, in the misery and regret. Whatever. I cannot even think about this any more.
...
I hope Asriel does not think about me.
Please, just forget.
New entry.
Saw him again. Was getting "lucky" for a while, but I suppose that only lasts so long. I thought, foolishly, that I had him down to a schedule. Only comes out this way every month, give or take. Near the end. I take my walks in the direction of Snowdin for that week. But today, it's the 20th, and he was there.
There. Just had to go there, of all places. That farm. Most of the time, it is somewhat of a retreat for me. Those ghosts, I enjoy offering them my assistance. They always need help with something or other, and don't seem to mind... having me around. Especially that melancholic one. At first, they irritated me. Their personality was grating. Even more than the narcissist. But getting to know them, I feel as though we agree on more than I thought. They do not expect much from me, either. Not as much baggage with them. Feels like I can breathe just a bit easier, speak a bit of my mind, and they just... listen. Or we put on some music, and get engrossed in the work, without having to say much at all.
Even today, it started out like that. For an hour, we worked as usual. I went inside, to prepare lunch. Ghost hardly needs it, of course. But now they keep at least a few things that are... edible. Mostly noodles. I have a preference, evidently. Does not even take me long to finish, but as soon as I walk out the door, and turn the corner.
Yes. Definitely him. Talking to the ghost.
I freeze. I always freeze. I hate it. Feel like a god damn deer in headlights. But he freezes too. Really, he freezes for longer. And I hate that too. This time, he froze for even longer. Interrupting his pleasant conversation, he looked over and stared, his expressing falling instantaneously. Every time, I see it. The sadness in his eyes, that deep sadness. I hate even thinking about it. I hate it. It makes me want to scream.
Turned and walked off as soon as I could. Tried to act natural. Like that even matters. Ducked behind the stable to catch my breath, and left.
New entry.
That person, on the boat. The ferryperson. Not the ferry, but the ferryperson. They are watching me. I suspected it before, but now I am sure. They follow me. Not always, but enough for it not to be a coincidence.
I ask passersby occasionally about them, to probe. All say the same thing. No idea. Don't know. Not a clue. And they only see them on that boat. Never elsewhere, not once. But I see them. Around corners, on ledges high above, across gaps seemingly impossible to cross. I see them move. They are agile. Probably not elderly. Yet they have been around as long as anyone can remember.
Sometimes, I confess this. Most do not believe. Makes me feel like some manner of paranoid schizophrenic, in truth. But this is no psychosis. I know what I see. And I know the Underground is no ordinary place. Just about everything down here would be unexplainable and fantastical to those above. Though I suppose, even within the strange, there can always be stranger.
Anyway. This ferryperson, I can never be sure what they are doing. I give the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it has nothing to do with me. In fact, they do not seem to mind when I notice them. They make no attempt to hide themselves. They may face my direction... for what feels like a terribly long time, although it is never longer than a few seconds.
At least, that is the way it was. But now, every time I see them, they are facing me. Almost like they were just testing me beforehand. Today, we crossed paths once more. Perched on a ledge, west of that old bridge. I noticed, and I stared. They stared. Before, it was only seconds, but this time it dragged into minutes. Agonizing minutes. Then, for the first time, I got the nerve to call out.
I asked them, what do you want? Why are you observing me?
All at once, the expansive chamber grew quiet. I could no longer even hear my own breathing. Then, a whisper, yet as clear as a shout.
"It doesn't really matter."
New entry.
Cannot do much today. Just do not care.
For the past few hours, I have only stared out the window.
Not that there is much to see, of course. But, in our little back-end cavern, there is a waterfall. Perhaps unsurprising. It is also unimpressive, though nonetheless respectable. Something like a bathroom faucet cascading down from above, down into a bubbling and narrow stream, which flows out towards the snaking exit corridor. The sound from here may be the most pleasant thing about it, muffled, echoing, like a soft and pleasant memory.
And memories it does evoke. Some of the best ones. A few of the worst ones. Plenty in-between. At this point, I do not mind any of it. Anything is welcome to fill the overwhelming silence that remains here these days. And besides. The things I truly do not wish to remember... they echo elsewhere.
Oh, but let me not wax too melodramatic. It would just be a waste, that is all. Just waste. Waste that cannot be repurposed, reshaped, or given new life. It just accumulates and takes up space. Discard, move on, no need to dwell.
Anyway. Perhaps it is also wrong to dwell on those better days, those more interesting ones. At times, I curse myself for allowing this unending listlessness and sloth. A waste on its own contemptible level. But what else can I do? What else can I do? The fire and rage I used to have is caged and constrained by reality. The reality of these cavern walls, full of obstinately stagnant cowardice. And the reality of my own pathetic limitations. My failures. Nothing to do now but wait, or so I say. What an excuse! I really am no better.
Whatever.
No.
I will walk again tomorrow. I will go somewhere.
To Hotland. All the way to the construct. I always get my best ideas there. Yes.
Yes.
...
The water is so blue here. I asked him once. Why that is.
He had no clue.
Just another mystery.
Well. I do not really understand how it is important, but I suppose I could tell you.
It was late one night. Very late. I was awoken from a dreamless sleep I was having, very suddenly. But not for any reason that I could perceive. I just woke up.
It was very quiet, in fact. Almost unnaturally so, as if something had put a stop to the world, and I happened to be the only one left to continue, like looking around from inside a painting. Strangely... comforting. I feel compelled to stay as still as possible for a while. Perhaps as though I would like to become a part of this painting, yet still consciously keep my internal separation from it. I stare at the scratchy ceiling, making out dim patterns in the sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window, streaking across where I can see.
But, in the midst of my studying, I hear it. Something to break the silence, and something I have not heard before or since. It is difficult to describe. A sort of... low, static-like groaning sound. It undulates, growing stronger and louder, then weaker and quieter, almost like breathing. Though it is certainly not breathing, not the breath of anything natural. Like the hum of a machine, but not quite. It seemed to be coming from my right side, in the direction of the bathroom. And far enough away, that perhaps-
"W-well... Chara?"
Oh. Uh, yes?
"What's... in a bathroom, again? I mean, didn't you say before, there were these weird things you use? That make noises?"
I mean, yes. There are... a few things. I was just about to say, I considered that it could be the toilet. Even for a human dwelling, the utilities were especially poorly maintained. It had already occurred to me once or twice that something along these lines would go wrong and give me such a rude awakening. But something did not seem right about that explanation, this time.
Even saying that, for some reason, I... did not do anything. I kept staring at the ceiling, and it stopped. Then I fell back asleep.
...
Except...
I did not actually fall back asleep. That was a lie.
There was something there. Through the moonlight, I could see it. Just barely. Something in the shape of a man.
It represented something I did not like. Not just for its shape, but its texture, and its metaphysical substance. Suddenly I felt there was something terribly, terribly wrong. To be honest, I do not even know if it and the noise were related. It may have simply taken advantage of an opportunity, an opening. But it was certainly something that took advantage.
I could not see its eyes, but I knew it was watching me. It was judging me. It did not like me either. Even the edges of its form that faded into dark static seemed to grimace at me with a low, grinding hatred. But it did not move, and nor did I. We remained there, locked in a sort of stalemate, equally wishing for the other to just disintegrate violently all at once, and for the whole ordeal to be done with. In spite of this, it continued for what felt like hours of agony, although it must have only been about five minutes or so.
Then, it... changed. Or perhaps, I simply lost. I must have allowed some additional opening, a spot of weakness. So it advanced. My heart dropped suddenly, as it slid unnaturally, and excruciatingly slowly, to the foot of my mattress. It seemed to turn to face me... yet continued to do nothing. Just taunting me, I suppose. It knew I could not move. It knew I was frozen. There was nothing I could do, and I had no power over it. Then, it leaned forward, knowingly. And for a brief moment, I could see its face.
It looked strangely like myself.
I blinked, and it was gone. I knew I was alone once again. All at once, I could hear the typical ambience of the world returning. Life had resumed, uncaring for whatever had just happened to me. I suppose that's just it, is it not? Uncaring. The threat was gone, yet I still felt so vulnerable.
...
"I'm sorry, Chara."
I just wish I could have killed it.
televisions flicker on and off around you like stars in the night. you are in a room full of televisions. at semi-rhythmic intervals they light up in patterns, streaking across the faux-night-sky that surrounds you, bursting like fireworks, looping up and over and all around. then suddenly, fizzling, one by one the lights go out. all but one, right before your eyes. someone changes the channel.
it's you!
CHARA DREEMURR. you know this, because it is emblazoned in bold letters right below your mugshot being displayed on the screen.
a rather generic voice begins speaking through a part of the device not visible. it sounds something like an obituary, but it's so dull and generic that the details don't seem to become wholly comprehensible. you think it's for someone with a similar name to yours. but can't be too sure.
someone changes the channel again. it's an advertisement for heart medication. a man holds the hand of his daughter walking through a park. they're both smiling, in a way that feels quite unnatural to you, and unsettling. you feel yourself scowling.
someone changes the channel once more. you're quite sure that it's yourself, although you might be wrong. on the screen is some sort of TV program. a child sits alone, on a beautiful chair in a beautiful home. the child is in the middle of counting. at the moment of your awareness becoming set on them, they had reached 2,567,945,835,239. for some reason, you don't regard this as very unusual.
you watch them count for what feels like a very long time. eventually, you notice they are skipping numbers occasionally. enough for it to seem intentional, although it could simply be an immature lack of attention. your train of thought about this is broken as you realize they have reached the highest number. you know it is the highest because it is your favorite. and it is your favorite because it is the highest.
you, CHARA DREEMURR, are sitting in a chair.
and you are the most powerful being alive in the universe.
"... And all the while, you must understand that you can never go back there.
That which belongs to the past is left in its possession. No man may steal it back -- not one artifact nor trinket.
There is a sort of peace, to this. And ..."
...
Chara?
Chara, what's wrong?
...a dream? What, um, what kind of...
Well... I won't ask. Sorry... I won't ask if it upsets you. You don't have to talk about it, Chara.
...
No, Asriel. I can tell you.
I was walking through a forest. It is twilight. There is nothing I can hear but the crunching of leaves beneath my boots, and the sound of my own breath. I don't know why I noticed this. Not a single sound otherwise. No birds. No wind, rustling through the trees... Nothing. I walk aimlessly. I trip over a large rock, or... perhaps it was a tree stump. I fall to my knees, and it hurts. I look down at the ground. There is a caterpillar, there. Green. Large, for a bug, and bright green, with little red spots. I look down at the ground. There is a hole there. It does not seem like there is anything at the bottom. It is sort of like a golf hole. I look down into the hole. I think I see something shining at the bottom. I reach my hand inside. I look up at the sky. I see something. It is dark now, but I can see something in the sky. It shines brightly. It is like a cube, I think, although not well-defined. It approaches closer and closer. I cannot hear anything. I am in a white room. I look around, there is a fireplace behind me. It looks like it was just extinguished. There is a man behind me. I do not see him, but I know he is there. There is a sense of dread I feel that is difficult to describe. I don't want to turn around. I really, really don't want to turn around. But. I turn around, and I look at his face. I recognize him. His face is disfigured and grotesque, like half of it melted in flame. The right eye is missing. There is something moving. It is the caterpillar. I don't feel like myself anymore.
After that, I woke up.