blazheirio889
Banned
- Pronoun
- she
Fear. It’s a strange thing, you know? It’s often perceived as a negative emotion, but it’s also one of the main driving forces of life: you put your all in that competition because you fear losing; you naturally shy away from dangerous objects because you fear pain; you thrash, scream, cry because you fear death. Fear is, in a way, as important to survival as food or drink is.
There are some times, though, when fear can’t help you any more than food or drink can. Hint: think fatal diseases. It’s not really a disease, not in the truest sense of the word, but there’s not much of a difference. There’s nothing that can be done to reverse the process. There’s nothing that can slow down my inevitable death. I won’t be confined to a wheelchair, God forbid, nor will I randomly vomit blood. No, I look and act perfectly healthy. How, then, do I know I’m going to die?
Let’s do a brief recap. This world is unlike yours in all ways you can imagine: dragons are an everyday sight, goats have wings and produce their own light or shadow, coelacanths swim and thrive in lava. Airplanes are ships, and ships are airplanes – well, waterplanes. We have no cars, but most, if not all families have their own personal carriage drawn by huge, lumbering onions. They’re surprisingly fast, despite their bulk.
Did I mention the flying pigs? Yeah, we have flying pigs here. They’re a rare sight, but seriously, airborne swine. How cool is that?
As you can gather, this world is crazily fantastical. It’s every bit as functional as your world, though – even more so, probably. Sure, there are disputes between the larger capitals every once in a while, but there haven’t been any full-blown wars for as long as I can remember. In fact, so far as my memory takes me, there’s only been one serious abnormality in the world. It’s still going on to this date.
There’s been a sudden influx of magic users. You may be thinking, Magic? Hey, that’s pretty cool. Fireballs and freezing spells and pew-pew energy bullets, right? What’s so bad about that? Oh, only the fact that magic users are limited to those who are about to die? I’m not sure why this is – nobody is, actually – but it’s pretty mean, in my opinion. It’s like some sort of deity goes, “Hey, you’re about to die, so I’ll grant you magical powers so you can blow stuff up for the remainder of your lifespan!” It’s like a sort of consolation prize, really. You have to be careful not to use magic in public, though. It’s common knowledge that only people close to death can use magic, and who knows, you might have a highly infectious disease that transfers to any person you touch! Or the virus could be so contagious that it’s constantly leaking out of your pores into the air around you! Anyone who so much as came near you could – bam! – start to use magic right then and there.
Which is why if you use magic in the middle of a crowd, you’ll suddenly find yourself very alone within several moments.
My parents never educated me about magic. When I discovered I could use it, I was amused. For example, when you’re charging a beam of energy, you can feel your palm tingling in a way that’s not unpleasant. There’s a sort of buzzing in the air as the compact orb of energy grows, and when you let it fly, there’s a whoop!
I started practicing whenever I was alone, incinerating random objects around the house. My father was always puzzled by the sudden disappearance of our fifteen apples. When I deemed myself sufficiently trained, I decided to gather my group of friends to show off. Instead of the cheers and applause I was expecting, though, there were gasps and squeaks of horror. I turned around, startled, to find my friends, most of which I knew from childhood, backing away, faces twisted into grotesque masks of fright. I could see their fear written all over their features.
Then, they turned and ran. I was left standing there with a small pile of ashes, the only remainder of a thick, stubby crayon, at my feet. I remember everything about that day: the crayon was around eight centimeters long. It was red. I burned it with green fire until it was nothing more than black dust.
I must’ve stood there for a long time, because I remember seeing my mother silhouetted against the sunset as she called my name, yelling at me to get back to the house before the mosquitoes came out of hiding and ate me alive. By that time, the ground in front of me was very damp – and salty, I’d have wagered. My mom was surprised to see me crying. She was even more startled when I fell into her arms and started sobbing anew. I was never one to cry openly, see, but when my mom asked what was wrong, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I felt the most crushing despair when my friends ran away from me like I had suddenly turned into some slavering monster. I couldn’t bear to have my mother run away, too.
My friends – even after what they did, it feels wrong to call them anything but – must’ve spread the word, though, because within days people were eying me suspiciously. Whenever I tapped someone on the shoulder to gain their attention, I would sometimes catch sight of them brushing at their shoulder vigorously afterwards.
Needless to say, the news soon found its way to the ears of my parents. They were my parents, though, so they’d didn’t scream and wildly wave a broom at me, or anything, though they were wary for the first week or so after they found out. During that time, the tension in our house was incredibly oppressive. It was understandable, though; they were afraid of contracting whatever illness I had – actually, to this day I still don’t know if it’s really a disease or not. Gradually they came to the conclusion that my condition wasn’t infectious.
Henceforth, there was always something colouring our conversations a subtle gray: the somber knowledge that I was, soon, going to die. Someone once told me that the worst thing a parent could imagine was outliving their child. I guess that I now know what they mean.
* * * * *
Two months later…
* * * * *
Well, seems like my time’s nearly up.
Just yesterday my legs suddenly gave way and I collapsed on the streets. It was a split-second thing, so I couldn’t have sat down on a nearby chair even if I wanted to. I can tell you, it sure startled my parents. I must’ve blacked out right after, because the next thing I remember was rolling off of this bed I’m in now. I was so weak, felt so bone-weary, that my parents had to haul me back onto the bed. I couldn’t get back on myself.
I find it strange, in a detached sort of way, that even after all this time I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’d think that after half a year you’d be able to figure it out, but the doctors couldn’t find anything abnormal with my body. Not that it really matters now. I’m dying, and there isn’t any way around it. My health has rapidly decreased in the twelve or so hours since my collapse.
My breath catches in my chest, and I cough and choke in an attempt to regain it. When did it become so hard to inhale? It feels like something’s squeezing my lungs, preventing them from filling with air. A dull pain creeps its way from my lungs to my ribs, to my spine, ripples up and down each vertebra. I wince, wanting so badly to cry out but not having enough air to do so. The best I can manage is a strangled gasp. My mother gives a little whimper and lunges forward from her chair to clasp my hand between both of hers.
I smile at the gesture and whisper that everything’s alright. No, who am I kidding? Nothing’s alright. But the words come out instinctively. My mother nods, causing several tears to leak from her eyes and run down to her chin, and out of the corner of my eye I see my father chew his bottom lip worriedly. I can feel both of their emotions: intense hope that I will survive, and above all, fear that I will not.
My breath hitches again, and when I finish coughing, I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Either I’ve been coughing so much that my throat has been torn raw, or whatever monster that’s running rampant in my body has, somehow, managed to eat a hole in my lung. If my lung is indeed punctured, that gives me mere minutes.
Suddenly, fear courses through me – if fear had a form, it would be like lightning, and I’d have been struck by it at this precise moment. It’s an abrupt thing; one moment I was relatively calm, and the next I’m yelling in my mind: No, no, no! I don’t want to die!
Dimly, I realize that my hands and toes have gone numb.
I don’t want to die!
I can’t feel my mother’s hands around mine. Can’t feel the reassuring warmth of the blanket.
I don’t want to die!
Without any volition on my part, my eyes slip shut.
* * * * *
There’s blackness. I don’t know if it’s only for a split second, or if it stretched on for seasons. I just remember that intense blanket of black. Then, suddenly, I’m aware of my surroundings again.
When did I open my eyes? And hey, I can stand again. I can even move around without anyone helping me. Jubilation tempers my perplexed state as I run about in the small clearing. I can’t feel my legs, really, but I figure it’s just the numbness that gripped my being just before I… died…
That’s right, I died. I gradually slow down to a jog, and then a walk. I died. I really, really died. Instinctively I raise my hand to touch my face, to reassure myself that I’m actually here. Only then do I realize I don’t have hands – or arms, for that matter. Panicked, I glance downwards to find I have no legs, either. Figured – no numbness could be that profound.
Slowly I become conscious of the fact that I can’t feel my hair against the nape of my neck, can’t feel the soft fabric of my t-shirt on my body. I make a frantic sound and begin to ‘run’ about, trying to find a mirror, a pond, perhaps, anything reflective. Only then do I take in my surroundings – really take them in, I mean.
A vast expanse of gently rolling green pasture dotted by patches of pink, blue, yellow, and purple flowers stretches out before me. Strangely, there are scraps of what looked like tar scattered throughout the vista. Off to my far right, there’s a forest, densely wooded with maple and birch and oak, all sorts of deciduous trees. And about a hundred meters away is a rather large puddle. Encouraged, I begin to make my way to the puddle, but I had barely made any progress when a voice sounds behind me.
“Well, well, got a newcomer here, eh?”
I whip around to see a floating blue orb surrounded by wisps of spectral fire. The voice must’ve come from him. By the pitch of his voice, I could tell he was male, but – newcomer? What was he talking about?
“Confused, eh? ‘S only natural, I guess. Especially since you’re one of those who haven’t fully turned back human. Like me, see?”
Turned back human? Like him? …I look like that?
“I can see you’re still confused. Better start from the beginning, eh?”
I nod – well, move up and down several times – and stutter, “P-please do.”
“I assume you know you’ve died? You’d expect Heaven or Hell or something like that, eh? Well, there might be Heaven, there might be Hell, I don’t know. But this place is the limbo between life and your final destination.” If he had arms, he probably would have gestured around him at this point. “See these plains here? And those random voids? Freaky, eh? Well, that’s because this place hasn’t been constructed properly. Figured it’d only be used as a highway, sorta, so I guess not a lot of work was put into it.
“How we managed to stay here – well, before you died, you felt fear, eh? An intense, burning fear? Don’t be so surprised that I guessed; that’s what’s keeping us here. Our fear. There’s a force that pulls us to wherever we’re supposed to go, but fear works against that force. Fear holds ya back. Doesn’t matter what fear it is: fear of dying, fear of the unknown, whatever. If you’ve got enough fear in that body o’ yours, that force can’t drag you far enough, can’t drag you to Heaven or Hell. The force only comes once – ya can’t die a second time – so you get stranded here.”
I gulp and nod again, mutely. My thoughts are churning like the ocean’s froth around tall rocks in a storm – I’ve always thought of fear as a driving force of life, something that’s as essential to your well-being as your liver or your kidneys were. To hear it as an emotion that held you back was – unsettling.
Weakly I croak, “Uh, okay, s-sure. I guess that makes sense.” It’s still a lot to take in, nonetheless. “So can I take a look at my reflection? I –”
The stranger cuts me off. “Ah, realized you ain’t got limbs, eh? It’s pretty strange at first. C’mon.” He begins to float towards the puddle, and I trail after him, half-eager and half-anxious.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I looked at my reflection. Logically I should have expected to see a coloured orb surrounded by flame, but deep down I think I was expecting what I always saw before: a human teenager, clad in a t-shirt, hoodie, and sweatpants. After all, why else would I have reared back in shock when I saw what I really looked like?
The stranger ‘looks’ at me with sympathy. “’S a lot to take in, I know. But you’ll get used to life without arms soon enough. There are some who have to manage on only having legs, or having facial features but nothing else distinctly human. See, the amount of fear you felt affects your appearance here. You turn into a will-o-the-wisp to make the journey to the afterlife quicker, and as you near your destination you morph back into a human. If you just barely managed to get dumped here, you might look completely human. If you came nowhere close, you’ll remain a will-o-the-wisp – just like us two, eh? You’ll get used to it, really.”
His words are only partially registered. If I was still in a human body, my heart would no doubt be racing. Stuck like this, a floating ball of spectral fire? It might be cool for a while, but forever? For eternity? How will I cope? A trickle of fear seeps its way into my fiery form.
Ignoring the stranger’s attempts to snap me out of my stupor, I dash away from the puddle, through a field of flowers, and arrive at the top of a hill. I gaze upon the huge expanse of plains, take in the healthy green of the grass, the hateful black of the patches of empty void. Only then does it hit me: the place is nearly uninhabited. A few dots of blue are scattered here and there, but from a distance, it’s impossible to tell if it’s just a particularly dense patch of blue flowers, or if it’s another cerulean will-o-the-wisp stuck forever in the limbo between life and true death. The trickle turns into a stream, and then a flood of crushing dread. How can I cope?
Fear. It’s a strange thing, you know? It can be perceived as a positive emotion, but it’s also one of the things that can hold you back in life: you let a golden opportunity slip through your fingers because you fear failure; you live an isolated life because you fear the outside world; you sob, plead, beg because you fear death.
Fear is, in a way, one of the most detrimental emotions mankind has ever known.
____________________
Author's note: This one-shot is kinda based off of Eternal Sonata. And uh, not much else to say, really.
There are some times, though, when fear can’t help you any more than food or drink can. Hint: think fatal diseases. It’s not really a disease, not in the truest sense of the word, but there’s not much of a difference. There’s nothing that can be done to reverse the process. There’s nothing that can slow down my inevitable death. I won’t be confined to a wheelchair, God forbid, nor will I randomly vomit blood. No, I look and act perfectly healthy. How, then, do I know I’m going to die?
Let’s do a brief recap. This world is unlike yours in all ways you can imagine: dragons are an everyday sight, goats have wings and produce their own light or shadow, coelacanths swim and thrive in lava. Airplanes are ships, and ships are airplanes – well, waterplanes. We have no cars, but most, if not all families have their own personal carriage drawn by huge, lumbering onions. They’re surprisingly fast, despite their bulk.
Did I mention the flying pigs? Yeah, we have flying pigs here. They’re a rare sight, but seriously, airborne swine. How cool is that?
As you can gather, this world is crazily fantastical. It’s every bit as functional as your world, though – even more so, probably. Sure, there are disputes between the larger capitals every once in a while, but there haven’t been any full-blown wars for as long as I can remember. In fact, so far as my memory takes me, there’s only been one serious abnormality in the world. It’s still going on to this date.
There’s been a sudden influx of magic users. You may be thinking, Magic? Hey, that’s pretty cool. Fireballs and freezing spells and pew-pew energy bullets, right? What’s so bad about that? Oh, only the fact that magic users are limited to those who are about to die? I’m not sure why this is – nobody is, actually – but it’s pretty mean, in my opinion. It’s like some sort of deity goes, “Hey, you’re about to die, so I’ll grant you magical powers so you can blow stuff up for the remainder of your lifespan!” It’s like a sort of consolation prize, really. You have to be careful not to use magic in public, though. It’s common knowledge that only people close to death can use magic, and who knows, you might have a highly infectious disease that transfers to any person you touch! Or the virus could be so contagious that it’s constantly leaking out of your pores into the air around you! Anyone who so much as came near you could – bam! – start to use magic right then and there.
Which is why if you use magic in the middle of a crowd, you’ll suddenly find yourself very alone within several moments.
My parents never educated me about magic. When I discovered I could use it, I was amused. For example, when you’re charging a beam of energy, you can feel your palm tingling in a way that’s not unpleasant. There’s a sort of buzzing in the air as the compact orb of energy grows, and when you let it fly, there’s a whoop!
I started practicing whenever I was alone, incinerating random objects around the house. My father was always puzzled by the sudden disappearance of our fifteen apples. When I deemed myself sufficiently trained, I decided to gather my group of friends to show off. Instead of the cheers and applause I was expecting, though, there were gasps and squeaks of horror. I turned around, startled, to find my friends, most of which I knew from childhood, backing away, faces twisted into grotesque masks of fright. I could see their fear written all over their features.
Then, they turned and ran. I was left standing there with a small pile of ashes, the only remainder of a thick, stubby crayon, at my feet. I remember everything about that day: the crayon was around eight centimeters long. It was red. I burned it with green fire until it was nothing more than black dust.
I must’ve stood there for a long time, because I remember seeing my mother silhouetted against the sunset as she called my name, yelling at me to get back to the house before the mosquitoes came out of hiding and ate me alive. By that time, the ground in front of me was very damp – and salty, I’d have wagered. My mom was surprised to see me crying. She was even more startled when I fell into her arms and started sobbing anew. I was never one to cry openly, see, but when my mom asked what was wrong, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I felt the most crushing despair when my friends ran away from me like I had suddenly turned into some slavering monster. I couldn’t bear to have my mother run away, too.
My friends – even after what they did, it feels wrong to call them anything but – must’ve spread the word, though, because within days people were eying me suspiciously. Whenever I tapped someone on the shoulder to gain their attention, I would sometimes catch sight of them brushing at their shoulder vigorously afterwards.
Needless to say, the news soon found its way to the ears of my parents. They were my parents, though, so they’d didn’t scream and wildly wave a broom at me, or anything, though they were wary for the first week or so after they found out. During that time, the tension in our house was incredibly oppressive. It was understandable, though; they were afraid of contracting whatever illness I had – actually, to this day I still don’t know if it’s really a disease or not. Gradually they came to the conclusion that my condition wasn’t infectious.
Henceforth, there was always something colouring our conversations a subtle gray: the somber knowledge that I was, soon, going to die. Someone once told me that the worst thing a parent could imagine was outliving their child. I guess that I now know what they mean.
* * * * *
Two months later…
* * * * *
Well, seems like my time’s nearly up.
Just yesterday my legs suddenly gave way and I collapsed on the streets. It was a split-second thing, so I couldn’t have sat down on a nearby chair even if I wanted to. I can tell you, it sure startled my parents. I must’ve blacked out right after, because the next thing I remember was rolling off of this bed I’m in now. I was so weak, felt so bone-weary, that my parents had to haul me back onto the bed. I couldn’t get back on myself.
I find it strange, in a detached sort of way, that even after all this time I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’d think that after half a year you’d be able to figure it out, but the doctors couldn’t find anything abnormal with my body. Not that it really matters now. I’m dying, and there isn’t any way around it. My health has rapidly decreased in the twelve or so hours since my collapse.
My breath catches in my chest, and I cough and choke in an attempt to regain it. When did it become so hard to inhale? It feels like something’s squeezing my lungs, preventing them from filling with air. A dull pain creeps its way from my lungs to my ribs, to my spine, ripples up and down each vertebra. I wince, wanting so badly to cry out but not having enough air to do so. The best I can manage is a strangled gasp. My mother gives a little whimper and lunges forward from her chair to clasp my hand between both of hers.
I smile at the gesture and whisper that everything’s alright. No, who am I kidding? Nothing’s alright. But the words come out instinctively. My mother nods, causing several tears to leak from her eyes and run down to her chin, and out of the corner of my eye I see my father chew his bottom lip worriedly. I can feel both of their emotions: intense hope that I will survive, and above all, fear that I will not.
My breath hitches again, and when I finish coughing, I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Either I’ve been coughing so much that my throat has been torn raw, or whatever monster that’s running rampant in my body has, somehow, managed to eat a hole in my lung. If my lung is indeed punctured, that gives me mere minutes.
Suddenly, fear courses through me – if fear had a form, it would be like lightning, and I’d have been struck by it at this precise moment. It’s an abrupt thing; one moment I was relatively calm, and the next I’m yelling in my mind: No, no, no! I don’t want to die!
Dimly, I realize that my hands and toes have gone numb.
I don’t want to die!
I can’t feel my mother’s hands around mine. Can’t feel the reassuring warmth of the blanket.
I don’t want to die!
Without any volition on my part, my eyes slip shut.
* * * * *
There’s blackness. I don’t know if it’s only for a split second, or if it stretched on for seasons. I just remember that intense blanket of black. Then, suddenly, I’m aware of my surroundings again.
When did I open my eyes? And hey, I can stand again. I can even move around without anyone helping me. Jubilation tempers my perplexed state as I run about in the small clearing. I can’t feel my legs, really, but I figure it’s just the numbness that gripped my being just before I… died…
That’s right, I died. I gradually slow down to a jog, and then a walk. I died. I really, really died. Instinctively I raise my hand to touch my face, to reassure myself that I’m actually here. Only then do I realize I don’t have hands – or arms, for that matter. Panicked, I glance downwards to find I have no legs, either. Figured – no numbness could be that profound.
Slowly I become conscious of the fact that I can’t feel my hair against the nape of my neck, can’t feel the soft fabric of my t-shirt on my body. I make a frantic sound and begin to ‘run’ about, trying to find a mirror, a pond, perhaps, anything reflective. Only then do I take in my surroundings – really take them in, I mean.
A vast expanse of gently rolling green pasture dotted by patches of pink, blue, yellow, and purple flowers stretches out before me. Strangely, there are scraps of what looked like tar scattered throughout the vista. Off to my far right, there’s a forest, densely wooded with maple and birch and oak, all sorts of deciduous trees. And about a hundred meters away is a rather large puddle. Encouraged, I begin to make my way to the puddle, but I had barely made any progress when a voice sounds behind me.
“Well, well, got a newcomer here, eh?”
I whip around to see a floating blue orb surrounded by wisps of spectral fire. The voice must’ve come from him. By the pitch of his voice, I could tell he was male, but – newcomer? What was he talking about?
“Confused, eh? ‘S only natural, I guess. Especially since you’re one of those who haven’t fully turned back human. Like me, see?”
Turned back human? Like him? …I look like that?
“I can see you’re still confused. Better start from the beginning, eh?”
I nod – well, move up and down several times – and stutter, “P-please do.”
“I assume you know you’ve died? You’d expect Heaven or Hell or something like that, eh? Well, there might be Heaven, there might be Hell, I don’t know. But this place is the limbo between life and your final destination.” If he had arms, he probably would have gestured around him at this point. “See these plains here? And those random voids? Freaky, eh? Well, that’s because this place hasn’t been constructed properly. Figured it’d only be used as a highway, sorta, so I guess not a lot of work was put into it.
“How we managed to stay here – well, before you died, you felt fear, eh? An intense, burning fear? Don’t be so surprised that I guessed; that’s what’s keeping us here. Our fear. There’s a force that pulls us to wherever we’re supposed to go, but fear works against that force. Fear holds ya back. Doesn’t matter what fear it is: fear of dying, fear of the unknown, whatever. If you’ve got enough fear in that body o’ yours, that force can’t drag you far enough, can’t drag you to Heaven or Hell. The force only comes once – ya can’t die a second time – so you get stranded here.”
I gulp and nod again, mutely. My thoughts are churning like the ocean’s froth around tall rocks in a storm – I’ve always thought of fear as a driving force of life, something that’s as essential to your well-being as your liver or your kidneys were. To hear it as an emotion that held you back was – unsettling.
Weakly I croak, “Uh, okay, s-sure. I guess that makes sense.” It’s still a lot to take in, nonetheless. “So can I take a look at my reflection? I –”
The stranger cuts me off. “Ah, realized you ain’t got limbs, eh? It’s pretty strange at first. C’mon.” He begins to float towards the puddle, and I trail after him, half-eager and half-anxious.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I looked at my reflection. Logically I should have expected to see a coloured orb surrounded by flame, but deep down I think I was expecting what I always saw before: a human teenager, clad in a t-shirt, hoodie, and sweatpants. After all, why else would I have reared back in shock when I saw what I really looked like?
The stranger ‘looks’ at me with sympathy. “’S a lot to take in, I know. But you’ll get used to life without arms soon enough. There are some who have to manage on only having legs, or having facial features but nothing else distinctly human. See, the amount of fear you felt affects your appearance here. You turn into a will-o-the-wisp to make the journey to the afterlife quicker, and as you near your destination you morph back into a human. If you just barely managed to get dumped here, you might look completely human. If you came nowhere close, you’ll remain a will-o-the-wisp – just like us two, eh? You’ll get used to it, really.”
His words are only partially registered. If I was still in a human body, my heart would no doubt be racing. Stuck like this, a floating ball of spectral fire? It might be cool for a while, but forever? For eternity? How will I cope? A trickle of fear seeps its way into my fiery form.
Ignoring the stranger’s attempts to snap me out of my stupor, I dash away from the puddle, through a field of flowers, and arrive at the top of a hill. I gaze upon the huge expanse of plains, take in the healthy green of the grass, the hateful black of the patches of empty void. Only then does it hit me: the place is nearly uninhabited. A few dots of blue are scattered here and there, but from a distance, it’s impossible to tell if it’s just a particularly dense patch of blue flowers, or if it’s another cerulean will-o-the-wisp stuck forever in the limbo between life and true death. The trickle turns into a stream, and then a flood of crushing dread. How can I cope?
Fear. It’s a strange thing, you know? It can be perceived as a positive emotion, but it’s also one of the things that can hold you back in life: you let a golden opportunity slip through your fingers because you fear failure; you live an isolated life because you fear the outside world; you sob, plead, beg because you fear death.
Fear is, in a way, one of the most detrimental emotions mankind has ever known.
____________________
Author's note: This one-shot is kinda based off of Eternal Sonata. And uh, not much else to say, really.