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Made it! (pt 3)

Engel's picture
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I open my eyes. It was all a dream. The sandstorm, hell and the baby.

I open my eyes once more. Oh no it wasn't. It's just that the sandstorm is finally over. I'm still here, on the pilgrimage. Small rivers of red sand pour off me as I mechanicaly rise and continue my journey with a machine-like dedication, still holding a dead baby maybe a little bit too tight but no one cares.


The desert is naked, stripped of features here but in the distance I can see the Wall. And just under it, a concrete dome - my destination. I can already see shapes around the dome. They don't look so pretty. A throng of naked people examining their own nostrils like it's the most interesting thing in the world, putting fingers in each other's mouth just to feel what it's like. Madmen. They are the ones who made it through. They are the ones who made it.

I made it.

An old blind man takes the baby from me and holds it like it's only sleeping. He comforts the dead baby. I dare not say a word because the scene, horrid as it is, is somewhat heartwarming. It takes a moment like this to understand that all your dreams can come true, even the bad ones.  This is a place gone comfortably wrong. All I can wonder is how long will it take me to lose my mind in a place like this among these nice people.

Of course, I kinda know all these men. Bunch of wrecked, used up clones of the same person. We are all here. The clones of myself that wouldn't die. All the ones that dissapeared without a trace, recalled to this haven. 


But instead of haven - this is all we got.



Joe Spivey's picture

((Dead babies are the epitome of sadness and horror alike. They are wrongness personified. Sorry, new grandson. Too many feels.

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Subdane's picture

((Whoa, great job at visualizing the scene and emotions. 

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