The Empty Mirror
Chapter 22: Apolo 11
The anesthetic whisper of the liquid, stirred by the course of the germs, and my panting breath echoed in the nocturnal stillness, weaving a discordant symphony befitting a distressed entity. With the dagger's blade still firm in my trembling hand, I venture into the gloomy task of stripping the creature of its skin.
Each incision is carried out with meticulousness, though my eyes seem to slightly cloud, as if witnessing a macabre dance. My intellect, shrouded in a fog of unease, struggles to persist, clinging to the resolution of this somber undertaking.
With a silent knowledge of the beast's anatomy, I consecrate myself with devotion to perform this task with the utmost precision possible. While learned critics may question the results and methods employed, in this moment, they are the only offering I can present.
Uncertain mastery slips through my sweaty and trembling fingers, yet I hold on to the hope of having achieved some degree of skill in my endeavor. The procedure becomes a genuine challenge, a grotesque choreography of dissection and organ extraction, while my consciousness wrestles between fascination and the revulsion that this eerie task evokes.
Every gust of wind carries the unmistakable stench of fresh flesh, a nauseating chord entwining itself in the depths of my being, further intensifying the wickedness of the scene.
With difficulty, I discern a nearby rock serving as a pedestal to cleave the flesh with the knife. The unleashed violence and my lack of technical skill manifest in each clumsy movement, but I persist with the determination of one clinging to the edge of sanity. Blood adheres to my hands, a viscous fluid that seems to have irreversibly amalgamated with my being.
A shudder runs down my spine as I ignite the bonfire, armed with bow and drill, an act that seems to evoke dark forces amid the nocturnal gloom. With meticulousness, I take one of the hind legs of the boar, clearing it meticulously before placing it carefully on the rudimentary branch grill, hoping the meat will cook evenly.
The crackling of the fire creates an unsettling atmosphere, intensifying the feeling of being immersed in a forbidden ritual. After an endlessly stretching time, the meat finally reaches its point. I contemplate it with a mixture of disbelief and repugnance, unable to accept the monstrosity of my actions. I had never conceived of engaging in such an activity, and now I find myself on the brink of the abyss of my own human condition.
The grotesque shadows rise around me, unintelligible whispers seeming to emerge from the depths of my troubled mind. A chilling silence pervades the air as my trembling voice stammers the final words: "She was just... a simple merchant; I never imagined survival would drag me into committing such atrocious acts."
Still disturbed by unsettling events, I fail to notice that the night descends with its cloak of shadows. The firmament unfolds like a vast sinister abyss, while the moon, with its penetrating gaze, attentively follows each of my movements.
My once radiant hair now bore stains of blood, intense crimson drops as if profane blood had saturated every strand. Without fully comprehending what was happening, I felt compelled to take a piece of meat and devour it ferociously, experiencing a primal ecstasy that plunged me into an animalistic state.
Although the meat was roasted, my senses perceived the raw taste and blood, a repulsive illusion defying the laws of concreteness. My mind was immersed in a whirlwind of confusion, unable to string together coherent thoughts. In that moment, the world lost relevance; I plunged into an abyss of desolation, abandoned to my fate in an oppressive landscape.
I remained in the forest for much of the night, beside the carefully extinguished bonfire, casting the surroundings into an even more oppressive darkness. Bewildered about how to deal with the boar's remains, which constituted the majority, I chose to hide them under branches, as if intending to bury the traces of a sinister act from the inquisitive gaze of the surrounding nature.
As the darkness of the night stretched and the embers languished in their slow demise, I sought refuge beside a majestic tree whose twisted branches rose threateningly, like whispering claws sharing dark anecdotes with the nocturnal wind.
I wrapped myself in the soft silk fabric, seeking shelter against the tangible oppression looming over me, as if longing for that covering to provide solace amid the unrest rooted in my being.
While grappling in a sea of uncertainties about the hours and minutes, I strenuously endeavored not to lose track of time, as the sense of control had become a treasure in that distorted panorama.
Nevertheless, the security commitment insidiously whispering in my ear, was it a truthful promise or merely a sinister artifice destined to plunge me into an abyss of nightmares and despair?
In the ominous and suffocating dawn, my eyelids were violently snatched from their reverie by the first gleams of the rising sun, whose rays eagerly slid through the corroded recesses of consciousness.
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With growing unease, I was compelled to forsake the truce of my rest, only to discover a barren world, devoid of emotions.
In a cosmos immersed in disheartening monotony, where even the most insignificant glimmer of astonishment seemed devoured by the silhouettes of oblivion, I moved with unwavering resolution to fulfill my inevitable responsibilities and free myself from the icy embrace threatening to envelop me. Ensuring everything was left in an impeccable state, I embarked on the journey back to the imperturbable castle, a monument secluded in the sinister confines of the forest.
In this dense grove, where twisted branches whispered unfathomable mysteries, a darkness unfolded before my troubled being that concealed more than it revealed. At that precise moment, an unsettling sense of dread seized me, and the mere thought of prolonging my stay in such a sinister place became an unhealthy obsession.
Though my eyelids had gained the coveted and fleeting rest, my fatigued limbs still bore the weight of exhaustion, as if an insidious entity had silently drained the vitality from my being. It was then, in that moment of somber wakefulness, that my fingers clung tenaciously to the knife, recently purified in the murky waters of the lake, whose blade hinted at disturbing traces of past unsettling events.
With hesitant and unsteady steps, I ventured into the winding path that twisted northward, dragging behind me the crushing weight of my desolation. Each step resonated with the heaviness of my discouragement, shrouded in an indescribable melancholy that nested deep within me, like a serpent clinging to my existence.
As my steps progressed, the imposing walls of the castle rose majestically before me, silent witnesses to the arcane remnants they guarded jealously. The cold and damp wind seeped stealthily through the cracks of the main door, penetrating the castle's confines and caressing my face with frosty fingers. However, to my bewilderment, no being emerged to welcome me, plunging me into an unfathomable sense of abandonment, as if the very stones themselves had come to life and taken over the place.
The silence, like a sepulchral slab, stood as an insurmountable obstacle, only interrupted by murmuring babble that seemed to emanate from the stony bowels of the castle. 'No displacement has occurred at all' - my voice echoed within with a blend of uncertainty and confusion that spread into every crevice of my troubled mind.
Considering the castle as the unchanging framework, regardless of how much the forest has been explored, the net displacement results in null. Though I have wandered and explored my surroundings, I haven't progressed an inch, as if trapped in an illusory labyrinth woven by the intellect of progress.
Then arises the question like a tangled enigma overwhelming me, plunging me into deep contemplation about the true utopia of my experiences: Is it worth highlighting all the actions taken, or are they mere fictitious illusions with no relevance? This mystery, in all its enigmatic essence, drags me into a whirlwind of unfathomable thoughts, prompting me to question the very reality around me, as if on the verge of unveiling the hidden corners of a ruthless and capricious universe.
In the gesture I was about to undertake, the presence of that satellite, like a guardian and confidant of Earth, revered throughout the ages, the moon, becomes nonexistent. It is a stony celestial body that orbits our globe, playing a transcendental role in celestial phenomena and being considered the favored paramour of the deities. The Moon reveals itself from Earth thanks to the sunlight that reverberates—a fundamental knowledge for any individual immersed in decent education.
In this realm, the lunar magnificence rises in the firmament, double the size of any satellite mentioned in legends. Its imposing presence illuminates the darkness of the night, creating a unique celestial panorama that captivates all who behold it. This phenomenon is exclusive to this forest, this fortress, this historical moment, as there has never been just one moon. In reality, our Earth has five moons of worthy dimensions rotating around it, regulating cosmic phenomena and holding the title of guidelines for astronomers.
Since the third epoch, shrouded in legends, myths, and murky historical records of humanity, it is recounted that at the end of the second epoch, there existed a moon twice as grand as any trace from another universe or cosmos. This moon was an object of veneration, a source of inspiration for astronomers and poets, the protagonist of transcendental dramas. However, at the conclusion of the Second Epoch, the moon was torn apart by an apocalyptic event. Tears, in the form of crimson, streaked the moon's cheeks, leaving it completely fragmented. Only with the arrival of the true gods, the Primarchs of humanity, did the moon begin to disintegrate due to their influence. The moon turned into an imitation of a continent, distant from the cosmos, in an isolated place, a farce and satire.
From the shadowy stillness of the New Moon, where its countenance remains veiled in twilight, emerges the Crescent, a faint curve of light coming to life. Subsequently, the First Quarter unveils the right half of its splendor, followed by the Waxing Gibbous, approaching fullness without fully embracing it. At its zenith, the Full Moon appears majestic, illuminating the night in its entirety. But its radiance yields to the Waning Gibbous, declining towards the Waning Moon, where only a thread of light persists before fading again into darkness, thus concluding the lunar cycle in the mysterious anticipation of the next New Moon.
The ancient knowledge, preceding the heartbreaking lunar fragmentation into five periods, was conceptualized before the moon shattered into its current states. Even in the ether, remnants persist of the moon that comprises the majority of its satellite. This black sun is not regarded as a genuine moon or sun, lying submerged in total darkness, immobile on its orbit, following its gravity. It moves solitarily in a dance with the Primarchs, completely black.
This understanding of time is not quantified conventionally but through scant historical records narrating the era when the moon was a single entity, marking the Third Epoch, the second longest in human history. Therefore, the moon remains estranged from modern history, a contradiction. I am a doll in a tea party, a chimera trapped in a narrative. I cannot suppress the horror-stricken tears at the thought that this integral moon still gazes from its perch with its whitish glow; a "natural" satellite of Earth. A lie…
In the cosmos, vomit danced, on Apollo 11 condemned,
Twisted bodies, trapped in the spacecraft, bleeding.
In the abyss of space, darkness was their misfortune,
In filth they floated, Neil, Buzz, Michael, their souls in distress.
Star worms voraciously devouring the skin,
Devouring the skin, in a broth of pathogens, a cruel stench.
In the feast of pus, traces of pus spread,
Spread on the Moon, paranormal nightmares liquefied.
The flag waved, a blood-soaked rag,
A blood-soaked rag on the Moon, a deranged circus.
In the ether echoed, the whisper of horror resonated,
Resonated on Earth, Apollo 11 consecrated in disgust.
Floating misfortune, souls gutted in space,
In the condemned space, the cruel stench of the plague spread.
The outer nightmare spread, a deranged circus on the Moon,
On the Moon echoed, Apollo 11, an echo consecrated in retching.