▇▇ IN THE FOREST, HE FINDS A PIANO.
it is encircled by the looming trees with whispering
leaves, dead vines and grass with wilted flowers in
the cracks permanently attached to the chipped white-
painted wood. the instrument. the wood is splintering,
dark and deathly worn behind the white, revealing that
it had once been a beautiful instrument.
he presses his finger against one of the keys. the
sound is low and does not echo, the leaves creating
almost a soundproof wall. no one could hear me out
here, he suspects. he does it again and after the note
is lost into the air, all he hears is ringing. silence was
never really quiet.
then, he stands in front of the piano, his eyes closing.
he breathes in the heavy air through his nose and lets
out a deep sigh. the quiet surrounds him like a cloak.
he starts to press the keys, playing a tune that feels
familiar. his fingers glide across the piano as if he
knows. he doesn't remember being taught piano.
johnny does this for days and yet he can't find the
reason for his melancholy.
▇▇ THERE IS A MAN
in his reflection that is not him.
the bathroom mirror was always an object he had
particularly felt more fear in him than any other
object in the house. besides the house itself, the
mirror was chillingly hanging on the blue tiled
walls, above the marble sink with blood stains that
weren't from his hands. the lights would flicker
quickly for just a moment, signaling that he was
to leave the bathroom. he was never told to leave
when that would happen, but it was just a feeling.
a reflex that he has to run.
this man in his reflection has golden eyes, taking over
the room. he is clothed in an all black ensemble, with a
dark peacoat over his shoulders, snug on their arms. it
wasn't hard to decipher that it was him, but a completely
different version. the reflection had purple veins under
his eyes like tree roots, a sick smile playing on his pale,
pink lips, eyes peering up from his hair, taunting him
silently.
you are rotting, his reflection says. he doesn't move a
muscle. his reflection lets out a chuckle, it echoing more
inside his brain than in his ears. you are going to rot here.
▇▇ HE HAS FORGOTTEN
the tune of his favorite song.
his memory is failing him again these days.
those godforsaken nights between the cold
sheets of his bed, staring at an off-white wall
with dark stains from somewhere he couldn't
place, would have him laying there until the
morning sun has risen.
this town is exhausting, he thinks, trying to fall
asleep.
he wakes up not remembering his name for
a few seconds. then he starts to forget more
and more as the day goes by. one minute's
passing would take a memory with it. he
wants to sleep. the rot from his skin has not
come off yet. maybe that's why he can't sleep.
he scrubs his skin raw in the bathroom until
he bleeds.