The mind does not shatter. It chips away, bit by bit, and it bends and twists and regrows what was lost, just a little bit different, until as a whole, there is nothing recognizable left. Is that what happened to me, so suddenly? As I hung between life and death, I awoke from the dream and lost what came before. Once, I knew what was real and what was not.

Was I an only child, or did I have a brother? Had I never fought in my life, or had I led a thousand campaigns from the front? Were my hands soft from lotion and book-work, or were they rough with a lifetime’s worth of weapon calluses?

Had I ever known love? That was easy, no.

Did I ever want to know love? …Perhaps.

I want to live.

It screams at me, this endless refrain, this eternal truth. The beating of my heart replaced by words, thundering in the space between. The blood pounding in my ears, a mantra of live live live.

So it goes.

Fall.

Fall.

Fall.

…

Down in the dark, we fought.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

In a void, does the dark become more powerful? If there is no light, is there a shadow worth speaking of? If there is no sound, is there the concept of music? In an absence, what is there?

There is nothing. When you cut it all away, there is nothing left.

We existed and knew it was wrong. Nothing pressed in around us, through us, between us - crushing, stretching, contorting - seeking to strip away individuality and render us down to...nothing.

In absence of stability, there was conflict, and in conflict we found stability. To strive against was the singular constant, whether directed at the other or the place we were not. Nothing longed for peace, to bring us peace, to know peace, to deliver a peace of stillness and silence eternal.

Madness. He first, followed soon after by I (or was it the other way around?). Alone, the pressure was too much to bear. Thusly we fought as mindless rabid animals, on instinct and reflex and habit, the hatred in his eyes replaced by unthinking madness. Dimly, I’m sure, what was left of me recognized and resented that. (If we were so bound to battle forever as unreality rejected us, he could at least have done me the favor of remembering why.)

But by then, of course, I had stopped thinking. Much easier than clinging to the same old, on and on through that infinite moment. To render the process of existence down to a simple algorithm: if attacked, counter, then counterattack. Living, simplified.

So it goes.

It happened all at once, and never, and always, and it was over.

Darkness, blinding, unable to see without sight. Flickering torchlight, the only illumination.

Solid earth beneath my feet, wet leather in my palm. Gripping something I’d cast aside an eternity ago, gripping something I’d never lost.

Cold air against my face, dry and stinging. The sharp sensation of an inhale, an exhale, burning nose and throat and lungs. Expand, contract. Lungs, ribs.

Awareness of everything in sharp relief, like putting on glasses, but for all my senses. Noticing things I never thought I’d notice again. The reassurance of reality under me, around me.

I existed once more. Alive.

Alone.