Prometheus Freed

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  You are tired. The room swims before you, a haze of lethargy obscuring all but the simplest of shapes and colours. The squares of the walls, The soft curve of the giant archway and the black depths of the corridor through it, twisting into the unknown. You blink hard four times, willing yourself alert. You wish it was as easy as that. You’re sure you’ve left your tormentors behind now, long ago, somewhere in the maze of the sewers you traversed, but their presence still haunts you, still dogs your every step, still pushes you ever onwards, as far away as you can get from the memories they so graciously bestowed upon you. Bloodied torture and the impossible draw of a single day. Never again, you promised yourself, never again would twenty-four hours last so long.

  Like a ringing in the ear that rings on long after its source is killed, you can still feel the shackles around your wrists. They were there so long that the skin feels alien without the clamps that bound them, the residual grip reluctant to let go in your mind. Insanity, perhaps, is taking hold. You certainly wouldn’t be the first case and no doubt you’d be the last. Your subconscious, however, professes itself as thoroughly untainted.

  You would say that, you think to yourself.

  You stumble onwards through the darkness, your hands in front of you, groping at the velvet blacks that shroud your future in mystery. Whatever was behind you is gone now, hopefully to remain nothing more than a painful segment of past you’ll spend countless thousands on to get rid of with a shrink. For what good it will do you. Can you really forget the feeling of a sharpened scalpel against the skin, the warm rush of blood towards its silver touch, the twisting retches of nausea that sweep up and out of you at the sight of your own inner workings spewing out of a hole, only to be sewn up again for the next day? Prometheus in living colour, no immortality to hold one down but a surgical knowledge of exactly what one can do without for ten minute intervals. You stop in the darkness, run a finger along your side, feel the stitches of the wound. They’d used the same opening time and time again, opening it fresh every day. What did they expect to find there tomorrow that they couldn’t find yesterday? The questions run amuck in your head, countless questions of origin and motive and the inevitable why me, but most of all, front and centre, does it validate your burgeoning insanity to refer to yourself in the second person? You tell me. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
A long time ago I wondered whether I could make a choose-your-own-adventure story on BPD. I’ve been planning it for a long, long time, but it’s still not ready to be born. It may never be. But I definitely wanted to do something with the perspective regardless, so I banged this out in a fit of inspiration. But, as the end confesses, it’s not really 2nd person, is it?

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~ by Joseph Blame on February 8, 2011.

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