MAGIA: The Program

12 - Where The Cursed Go

He was born into darkness. His sight was faded into pure blackness by the mile. Every direction was another path to nothing. The void stretched as far as he could see, or for the matter, not see, devoid of any sign of life. There was but a single point to my awareness; the fact that I understood there was a "he." He could not see whatever it was he could feel, but there was pressure on his being. His hands outlined the shadows and came to terms with the flowing shape of that which he recalled as himself, now reduced to an emptiness he loathed. He frantically felt around him, reaching for any sign of life to satisfy my deep-rooted curiosity. Then, in the corner of his eye, there it was. Movement, sound, light. At first, it was but a spark, a flicker ready to ignite, awaiting further action impatiently. A blazing desire to be something more. Quinlan delved into the distance in a desperate jumble of limbs, only to feel himself start to fall in the midst of the air. The flame burned with an intense vigor, the world around him flaring to life as his surroundings' world became that of a relentless inferno. He could feel it upon his flesh, searing with heat as the stinging yet familiar, putrid stench of previously supple skin caught in the act of scorching. Blurry droplets of color now remained over his field of vision, a wide array of reds and oranges to match the outline behind it. It was clear now; a room. He was in a dark living room, bronze walls, and a large clock standing by the bookshelf, a composition of furniture so familiar, the moody colors matching the decorative theme. The velvety textiles and fabric of the pillows, the texture of the couch as it sat there, the same sage green as always. The lounge chair in oak wood and a matching set of cushions. The detailed rug of a myriad of colors, the lights hanging from the roof by string. There were cracked frames on the paintings tinged with a yellow undertone. Quinlan remained perfectly still as he took in these sights of his old childhood home, his eyes flickering about as nothing else would respond. He was unable to form any words, to move a muscle, to even think. All there was in his wake was a night in which the hellfire reigned. The fire came to life as it devoured Quinlan's body, singing every inch of his already hurting soul, every drop of hope for escape seeming to dissipate. It fed upon him in a way that tantamount to that of a starved beast in its final moments, clawing at every living part of him. It crept along his limbs, leaving its mark upon his shaking body in a cacophony of blistering crackles over the sound of his inner screams. It hungered and would only stop once the plate was licked clean and broken, smashed into bits and pieces upon the wooden boards, which had been the first to surrender to the gluttony and wrath of the wildfire. His blood was boiling inside of his body, lighting his insides aflame to accompany the raging from his outer layers. The agony and torment augmented into a state of purgatory as the aching became dulled by the extreme state of his own senses. His nerves were fried, the remains being what allowed him to sense the smoke rising from above. A thick fog would settle in and block out flames, causing a bit of relief which only lasted so long as he suddenly faced how each breath he took was now one of exertion and struggle. The air was thinning out at the pace of a wind's brushing along his fair features, which now came in different hues of a disgusting set of pinks and reds. Quinlan felt his knees finally give out as they buckled forward, and he faltered in his step, faceplanting into the carpet. He watched as a bystander of his own corpse as it lay flat, allowing the grave to soon consume him while still breathing. He yelled time and time again for himself to rise, to kneel, to beg, to fight back. It all would've taken a single second to force himself beyond his limits to survive. As his grip on reality began to fade into the same blackness he once knew, obscuring his view, his eyelids involuntarily shut.

Quinlan sprawled out of bed, a deafening roar of pure terror leaving his hoarse throat as he awakened in a coat of cold sweat. He promptly threw his blanket overhead and fell back into his ocean of cushions, pressing one to his chest for the slightest glint of solace. Tremors enveloped his entire body as he would lay on his side. With a light twitch from his bottom lip and a jerk, he hunched over forward and stifled his breath. Quinlan slapped a shaky hand over his mouth as he fought back his gag reflex. The urge to vomit out his stomach from the overwhelming nausea only increased as he battled his body, clutching over his abdomen while he retched. Following his little episode, he fell back to the sheets in victory over his fear and began to hopelessly gasp for his breath. A glaze would overlay his tear ducts, heavy beads of salty trickles trailing down his cheeks as the memory would remain burnt into his mind, the charred scraps of his previous nightmare. There were no shame in his tears; they were for a good reason. He knew so, yet he could not help but feel so pathetic. He did not even remember such an event from his life, there were no evidence of this event from his life... Yet looking down at his unsteady hands, something spoke to him. He attempted to reminisce upon anything alike that he'd gone through in his life, yet there was nothing. No recollection, no marks, no pain. Only the distant hum of a past unknown to him.