The Lost Soul

I stood there in the ancient, rusted hallway, staring at the darkness that laid before me like an ominous sheet fog where no sailer dared to trek. A dim-lit light dangled from the ceiling like a hanging corpse swaying back and forth, back and forth. How I had got there was beyond mysterious in my eyes. I thought about my next course of action very carefully. My mind scattered, uneased. Agitated by a sharp fear that stuck to the roof of my mouth and burrowed deeply in my heart. A frozen chill ran down my spine like a small, diseased rat. I could faintly sense an evil presence that lurked within shadow, though I did not know its placement in contrast to me. I was aware that there was no escape if I turned back because of the absence of a door or any means of leaving. If I had turned back a wall would be set before myself.
I composed a list of opinions that I could achieve: the first was either wait until the sands of time had laid me to waste, starving would of course cause my finale; the second was to traverse through the darkness in search of an exit, but I would most likely be encountered by the unknown presence; the third, which was probably the most foolish, was to cause as much noise as possible to attract whatever lurked in the dark to tempt luck and fate. I gravitated towards the second option. The third seemed too stupid and the first seemed like I was giving up. I was neither a fool nor a deserter, despite wishing to countless number of times before; but do we not all wish from time to time to lay down and die? It is a part of time, and it occurs more often with some people than others but it does indeed happen. I mustered up as much courage as I could entrap, then I began on my trek down the corridor, slowly, but surely, still with fear niggling on my shoulder.
I soon left the illusion of safety of the light and I began to venture into the darkness of the unknown. My each passing step echoed through the hallway, and soon it was the only sense I had that I was still alive. Blind by shadows, the faint glow of the light transpired from my sight and darkness was my only company. My breathing soon became ragged and the fear grew on my shoulder, soon encumbering the whole of my back. It seeped in through my skin and it grasped at my heart. Still, I tried to remain strong for the chance of survival, to at least escape from the mystery of the rusted hallway. With each passing step I grew more and more anxious. The anxiety and fear started to crawl up my throat in an unpleasant fashion, though when it reached my mouth it did not come up. It simply swelled like a gaseous balloon.
I could still faintly sense the presense with each echoing step, though it neither grew nor contracted as if it stayed in one place. Nevertheless, I was often wrong in the placement of presences. For example, if someone was rooms away from myself I felt as if they were beside me, or vice versa in the extremely odd case. Sometimes there would not even be someone when I sensed a being. I thought that I had gone mad, perhaps I already had? It would indeed be fitting because of my infamous title “The Madwoman.” A clever title that I wore with pride like a priest bear his cross. I was always different in comparison to most, not because of my sixth sense, that I managed to keep a secret to most - save the one I trusted the most - but because of my persona. I was quiet and thoughtful, and I looked at the universe through a different keyhole than most. Some things I dubbed to be tedious, pointless, and others I view them as right, sensible. My views had caused me to lose more friends than I had gained through them. I learned how to blend in akin to a chameleon. I played pretend like a child just to beseech company, although I always felt outcasted among them. I was fine with this fact. I prefered the company of myself, but the company of others aided me to understand what it meant to be human. What happiness in a collective hive meant instead of searching it by yourself. Still, I had a preference to venture on the quest by myself, much like the fearful trek into the unknown which had been laid before myself.
I strided through in darkness for a countless measurement of time. It felt like hours, but it could be the larger or the minor of it. Time is indeed a strange concept without a device to record it. The hallway seemed vast, and I soon found myself to be hopeless. Regardless, I trekked on. The fear began to mellow out, though it was still present in the form of my stomach. I pondered about my soft bed, my books bountiful with life and wonderment, my comforting housecoat, and the dear safety of my apartment. Those thoughts were the light that I kept aglow in my heart, that kept the darkness abay from my mind to seed a paralytic fear. Then I heard the sudden deep groan of scraping metal. My heart lept from my chest and I grew pale with fear. I stood petrified in darkness, trying to distinguish anything out of the darkness. I waited for minutes, and I did not hear another groan.
I continued, shaken, on my voyage once more, into the abyss of the unknown. My footsteps echoed, and my breath was ragged. My mind was fragmented, but it slowly pieced itself back together once more. I still tried to remember those that comforted me; but each time my mind would ease me the metallic cry would erupt once more, abruptly scattering my mind like frightened mice. I still managed to walk forth, though with each moan of metal the claws of insanity would tear down the walls of which I held what little sanity I had left.
Then, as I walked, it all suddenly came to a frightening halt, and silence soon took its dreaded place. Though this silence was not soothing in contrast to the moans of metal that would echo. Instead, it was a silence that I dubbed to be unsettling and fearful, as if there was something lurking behind myself, following my every step. I could not tell whether or not this paranoia was a utility or a handicap; but no scent nor sound came from behind or ahead of myself.
Soon, I came across a white light, faint but indeed a slimmer of hope for salvation. I quickened my pacing and I soon saw a figure cast near the light that had its back to me. I began to slowly approach this figure, occasionally saying hello in a polite attempt to not dismay it by my presence. An awareness that I was there. Regardless, the figure did not move, as if I was not there. I gradually stepped round the figure to entrap a better glance of whom the identity of the person might be. My eyes glued to it as I circled, and the horror that circumferenced it would be indeed clawed through madness onto my mind.
I carried the face of a little girl that was both plump and round; but its skin was an abhorrent pale that seemed rather sickly, and at the fringes of it there were visible stitch marks like that made into a ragged doll. It persed a terrible smile that held a set of yellow-stained teeth that had flecks of brown carelessly dotted across; she held a rotting tongue of black in her decaying mouth and her gums were a diseased red, and I swear that maggots and worms burrow and slithered within them. I painfully cringed at the viewing. Its breath both foul and hot like that of a summer’s day spent with an uncle whose hygiene was lacking.
Stepping back from the abomination and casting my hand forth for defense, I soon felt small hands fondle and brush my thigh and ankle like a lover on a devilish night. I screamed, jumping back from the caressing and I tried to run forth like that of a fearful cat; but I tripped over my feet and I landed on the floor, which strangely did not feel brittle and hard, like that I felt underneath my feet, instead it was the soft, slimy, squishy material akin to an organ of any lively person. I had barely any footing on ground and I tried my best to flee; but my attempts were in vain and little figures began to laugh and dance round me. They came towards me and they began to touch me, brushing up to me venereally. They defiled me like sinners up top a temple, and every moment I dreaded. I felt as if I was being ripped in twain and being stitched back together simultaneously.
Then, though misery and agony, I saw the figure with cringe worthy features unhinge its stitches, snapping them off with ease. It held the facade of a diseased little girl in hand, and beneath I saw a face that I could not believe: it was the face of my own dear love, who perished in fiery flames of a man’s lust for destruction.
Thunder abruptly roared and I woke up, not in the hallway of rust, but instead in the shadowy domain of my apartment. I laid on the rough ground instead of a muscle-like terrain that was indeed foreign and I held a blade in my hand. My wrists and arms were slain with many streaks of crimson up and down, from just below the hand to the elbow pit, both apparent on the left and right. In my other hand, I was looking at the final picture I would have ever possessed of my deceased dear before the tragedy of the fire. I could feel the ashamed presence of her ghost looming down at me, asking me why. Why would I do such a thing? I could also sense the little soul of my late sister who would have been in spectral tears to see her elder sister in such a pathetic state. I am sorry, Frost, my sister, and I am sorry, Amelia, my only love. I am deeply and truly sorry.