Just Get Through This Just Get Through This Just Get Through This

What is THIS, abstract fiction? Let's call it abstract fiction.

[ sounds of a badly tuned violin, of the bow being held by someone who isn't truly here and doesn't notice the shrieks that keep coming out of the instrument ]

When horrible things happen, we tend to shut the door and press our back against it as the memories knock and knock and slam and kick to get inside.

But we don’t let them. Their physical strength is nearly non-existent (still kicking at the door, they’ll use up all their energy and fall down in exhaustion soon), but their body odours will choke you out. If they come inside, their stench will make you dizzy and nearly knock you out, and the dreams will be so empty (a darkness where you see too much, see the universe). 

And that’s when it pounces. Knock you out with stench, send you exactly where you were when the memory itself happened.

[ sounds of pain as the musician experiences sharp bolts of pain, but keeps playing as they're only half-conscious of this. There is more screeching. Whether it's the memories or the violin is unclear, though it does seem the memory prefers to whimper. ]

But no, you keep your back against the door and you wait for the memories to stop. Exhaustion. Exhaustion. They're not going to die just yet, but they will get tired and stop annoying you. Just keep distracting yourself to get through the noise, okay?

There is a friend who keeps you company, but I don't think they're really here. The friend seems to be adding onto more of the noise and appears to be an extension of your flesh. So perhaps that's just you?

[ the musician keeps performing tunelessly. if you try to look into their eyes, you can't. they're not here. I'm not here. you're not here. ]

[ The sound of the memory? That's gone, too. ]

Your back is still against the door, but the thudding has stopped. Not even whimpers. Just silence from the door. Even the extension of your flesh has stopped trying to make 'music' and just keeps making noise, noise and noise and noise, just needs to keep going no matter what.

And you? Well, you're alive. So that means you've also kept going. Congratulations.

I've kept going too. I keep witnessing all of us in order to keep a record of (things which don't matter, we'll all die and none of this will matter) this authentic human struggle which may serve as a reminder that yes, yes, things may happen to you and around you, but you will keep going. You will keep going. There are splinters in that door which have dug into your back and you're bleeding, but you're alive. 

You'll keep going.

[ The musician is playing one note over and over when all of a sudden they become conscious again, and the pain becomes sharper and the noise becomes sharper and every light and sound and touch around them becomes sharper. The musician drops the bow and violin and screeches and stops, just stops. ]

The extension of your flesh gave up but don't worry, all that was just noise. All that was just noise!

[ the sounds of pain were subtle before, because the musician was not conscious of them before. now they're sharper. the pain is sharper so the sounds are sharper. ]

Maybe we can just ignore that. At least the memory shut up, right?

And what was the memory anyway? Who knows, but it certainly won't bother you anymore! It's dead! Yes, I said it simply collapsed of exhaustion, but put your ear to the door.

[ there should be whimpering. there should be heavy breathing and sounds of sadness as the memory is consumed by itself, the knowledge of its own self. a sadness that it seeks to embed into you, as it embeds itself into you, as it seeks to be whole with you and seeks to be the sadness and seeks to be and turn you into the sense of loss for… whatever was destroyed. we don't know what was destroyed. the memory could've spoken to us to tell us the details, but we chose not to listen, so it gave us details without words. just noise. just touch. just visions. just stench. ]

See, not a single sound. It's dead. Nothing bad has ever happened to you, and any evidence of such a thing is dead.

The extension of your flesh that seeks to make music is not dead, and it will wake up soon, but it will be calm this time. I promise. Don't even worry about any noises. You can make new extensions of your flesh if needed, you can extend to cover up the planet and stuff my mouth shut if you need. 

Noise is no longer an issue.

[ and true, even the musician's sounds of pain have stopped now. there's a minute or so as your tendrils tune the violin and replace the musician's body, so next time there will be true music instead of noise. and as of now, it's all a serene quietness. noise is no longer an issue. ]

…

But there's a stench.

It's coming through the door, do we need to check up on the memory's corpse? But then that gives us visual information on the thing-that-didn't-happen, and then what if you inadvertently necromance the memory so it starts to lunge at you again?

Opening the door isn't an option at all. If the living memory's odour could knock you out, what would the corpse's stench do? What will you do? What will you do? 

[ sound of shuffling as the musician's new body turns towards you. sound of flesh as they use your/their tendrils to plug their nose. ]

It gave you a smile, did you see that? The smell from outside the door just won't stop and it's clinging to all of us and it's coating the inside of your mouth nose and stinging your eyes, but that extension of your being just…

[ gentle snoring. the musician is asleep. they will perform later, when things are a little better. ]

It's ignoring it. Meanwhile the cuts from the splinters in your back are infected and (how did I not notice) you're dying too, I didn't see that, but– but are you? What exactly is death here?

Because that memory isn't dead. Its smell is consuming you. It's getting into the cuts in your back. You're remembering what the thing-that-didn't-happen smelled like and the smell is coating your skin, it's so thick, it's polluting you and everything is unclean, everything is so unclean and maybe this really is poison and the corpse will putrefy and crawl inside from underneath the door and crawl into your mouth and you truly will be one with the memory and all that you've lost and–

[ half-peaceful snoring from the musician, indicating that they're getting some good rest. ]

And you'll keep going?

And you'll keep going.

That extension of yourself which seeks to make music, that is you too. Perhaps the you at the door will die trying to keep the corpses at bay. Perhaps not, because maybe the stench will just break you beyond repair without ever actually killing you, and maybe that's worse than death, but it isn't actually death. Maybe the serene resting part will want to scream when it's awake and the you at the door will be broken and battered. But alive.

What is there to do, what is there to do under these circumstances? Maybe they could get better, maybe you can learn to ignore the stench so much better and maybe, you can figure out how to dispose of the corpse someday. Maybe you'll even perform an autopsy on it. Maybe you'll figure out what the memory was without being consumed by it, like you are right now.

Nearly to death, nearly to death, the stench consumes you nearly to death. 

And yet you're still alive, and all that must happen is waiting in the future. And the future itself is waiting behind the end of… whatever this is.

So just get through it. It will end. It will end.

[ the musician sighs in their sleep. sounds fairly content, though they’ll probably ache quite a bit after waking up. that’s fine, because rest is rest, the main thing is they’ll get the energy to keep going and then they’ll wake up. ]

You will get through this.