And The World Will Follow

The world is not the same as it used to be. When I first awoke, I was overcome with completely disorienting confusion. As if I was a speck of dust experiencing full consciousness for the first time. Having complex thoughts for the first time. Autonomously moving for the first time without the aid of a gentle breeze. Although for me, unlike a speck of dust, the experience felt strangely familiar. It wasn’t until I began to wiggle my fingers and toes that I realized I was stuck. I slowly opened my mouth, reluctantly allowing the substance surrounding me to enter my body. It was dirt. My nose remembered the smell, too. Cold, damp dirt. I couldn't open my eyes. They were nearly plastered shut by dirt and small rocks and worms closing in around my head. It took longer than I would’ve preferred to, quite literally, unearth my body from the ground. I twisted and contorted my body in stomach lurching ways until I was able to reach up toward looser soil and break through its surface. With my hand outstretched into new uncharted terrain, I felt a sudden wave of relief and revelation. From that moment, I was returned to the world that created me. As far as I knew, I was home.

This feeling was interrupted by a cold, sharp mist attacking the palm of my hand. After I pulled my close to mangled body from the hole, my mind was changed. That feeling of familiarity that had existed just moments ago had completely dissipated. Everything around me should’ve felt familiar. I should’ve recognized the trees and the sky and the smell of the rain, but I didn’t. Everything I had ever known had died and become dull, tired versions of themselves. The branches on the tall birch trees hung with a certain sadness, almost remorse. The hills and valleys echoed a similar attitude as I pressed my bare and broken feet against their surfaces. It was home, but it was different. Something had changed.

In the days following my resurgence, I had spent hours desperately grasping into the black ether that was my mind for the words to describe it; the lack of brilliance and death of undeniable beauty compared to that of its previous life. But I couldn’t seem to find suitable words to accurately embody the feeling. Like a deep gnawing at my stomach and a hollow tightness in my chest. Almost loss. But of what? I spent days scratching at the back of my empty skull, digging endlessly for what I could’ve lost. I nearly killed myself wondering how I could even know there was something missing in the first place, but in the end it didn’t matter much. I knew this terrible ache would drive me to madness long before I’d ever figure it out. So eventually, I just gave up. My body and mind were hollow; unexplored. The only thing I still had were my clothes– a wrinkled and ripped plain tee and dirty loose-fit jeans. Besides, there were other things to concern myself with outside the mysteries of my mind.

The mysteries of my body, perhaps. The complete absence of physical pain that would normally accompany broken and warped limbs and joints should definitely have been concerning. Or maybe the lack of need for standard bodily functions that I, at that point, had begun to recall. I found my existence had, in my mind, become wrong and awkward– I didn’t eat, I didn’t drink, I didn't sleep, I didn't breathe. I didn’t even blink. Which had led my eyes to slowly coat in dirt and grime until I had to force them shut due to the ineluctable discomfort. But, what may be the most unnerving of it all; I was alone. Not like, there was no one here in this particular place. But rather, there was no one at all. Anywhere. I was completely and utterly alone. So naturally, I chose to search far and wide for any signs of life in a world that reeked solely of death.

Since I don’t sleep, I find I have a lot of time on my hands. I spent the past few days mapping the surrounding area to the best of my ability with my frequently unreliable memory as my only tool. It’s not raining anymore, but the clouds linger deceptively. I’ve set a surprisingly bare willow tree by a dried up creek as my base; this is the spot I will always return to. The pit I emerged from is off to the right of the old willow tree in an unusual collection of similarly shaped stones that all jut out of the ground in a hopeful manner. Like they’re reaching toward any semblance of sunlight they can find in an ocean of gray. In the opposite direction there is a small structure on the horizon; a house. I remember living in a house. I remember resting much more comfortably there than I do now. If there are any people here, that’s where they’ll be.

I place my cracked palm against the jagged gray bark of the tree for a moment, memorizing the surrounding area once again. I press my hand deeper into the sharp wood and push my body away from the bare willow, forcing myself to stumble in the direction of the house. As I stagger through the waist-high grass and patches of bare ground and shriveled wildflowers, the clouds above me begin to rumble a charitable warning. I take the warning graciously and shift into an uneven jog. The ominously secluded building is now just beyond the next valley as the first drop of futile rain pelts me and runs down my forehead. I desperately sludge through the valley as its dirt turns to mud and climb the final. The soles of my feet carefully suction to the wet ground and release with every step. I huff out cold air as I approach the structure that I can now tell is deteriorating. It looks as though it’ll barely outlast the storm. Its white painted paneling is chipped and rotting away. The center of its roof has caved in from stress and is now pooling with rain water. It’s less than unremarkable, really. All except for the front door. Solid wood with no fancy window to peek through and a rusted and uninviting doorknob. But this door was different from anything I’d seen since I crawled out of a hole in the ground just a few days ago. It wasn’t gray, or dull, or empty. It was bright and enticing. Something about this door spoke to me, like it was daring me to push it aside and uncover what’s behind it.

A feeling of curiosity and desire swallows me. I somewhat recklessly make my way up the rickety front steps to the door that has captivated me so intensely. As I reach out and gently press my hand against the door, it inches open with an unsettling squeak. My eyes peer in to find a dark room with bits of light and rain streaming through holes in the walls and roof. The room is rather disappointing after the excitement the door had falsified. The floorboards are split and separating from one another while fresh grass spreads itself across the floor's decaying surface in bold patches. Thin vines decorated with flower buds crawl intently up each of the walls, meeting in a spiral around the empty light fixture. I step inside, carefully examining the life within the home. Something is special about this place. It felt as though life was pouring from every crevice. Like each plant was born to fill every broken hole in this house. As I place my foot on a patch of grassy floor, I hear a faint crunch beneath me. I quickly lift my foot and tilt my head to get a better look at the source of the sound. Something in the grass catches the light shining in through the cracks of the house. I crouch low to the ground and reach for the foreign object. As my fingertips meet with the small metal trinket, I am surprised by its cold, etched surface. I pull it out of the grass and a long chain follows close behind it. I carefully turn the pendant over in the palm of my hand as I return to my feet. I hold it up to eye level to examine the design. It’s heart shaped with swirls etched into its face. It’s a locket. An unexplainable warmth swarms my heart and melts across my chest. I know this locket. I trace my index finger over its surface. There’s a certain charm to its tarnished beauty against my torn dirty fingernails. My finger finds the small clasp on the right side of the pendant. I push against the clasp as it swiftly releases, revealing its contents.

The newly uncovered face of the locket shows a shape; a dull image of two people. I rub the surface with the pad of my thumb. It’s a woman and a younger boy. Mother and child, I imagine. The older woman looks to be in her forties. She has dark hair cut sharply at her shoulder. She wears an endearingly crooked smile and a tattered sweater. Her arm is lovingly swept around the shoulder of the boy beside her. He seems to be in his late teens or early twenties. He looks woefully embarrassed by the circumstance, the large mole on his cheek upturned by an uncomfortable, yet amused grin. He glances sheepishly away from the woman and holds his arms awkwardly across his chest. The image perfectly depicts their relationship, rekindling the warmth in my chest.

Once I felt that there was no detail left unnoticed in this image, I turned the locket in my hand again, this time to its back. The back is mostly smooth and untarnished. All except for the engraving on it. Swirly letters scribing out a meaningful dedication. For Ben.

Ben. That could be the young man’s name. This could be his locket.

I gently slide the necklace into the front pocket of my torn-up jeans. To my right, I notice the soft pattering of what sounds like the rain coming through the roof. I turn toward the sound to be met with an open door leading to another room. The entrance to this room mirrors the liveliness of the room before it. Covered in thriving plants and moss. I step through the doorframe and a drop of cold water drips from the ceiling onto my scalp. Its wetness fades into my damp hair from the storm effortlessly. Past the initial entrance, the walls of the room are covered in square tiles. Some are cracked and crumbling onto the similarly tiled floor, while others look as though they have been fixed and replaced time and time again. On the wall across from me is a loose pile of pieces of a broken toilet. This must be a bathroom. I remember having a bathroom in my house in the previous life. I remember playing in a bathtub as a child. This bathroom didn’t have a bathtub, just the remains of a toilet and sink. The bowl of the sink on the adjacent wall is missing a big piece from the front of it. The faucet is rusted and certainly wouldn’t turn if I had tried. Hanging crooked on the wall above the sink is a mirror. It’s clouded and dirty, you could barely make out fuzzy shapes behind the muck. I scan the room for a cloth or towel to wipe the mirror with, but there is nothing. I look down at my body before pulling my plain shirt over my head. I figured I don't really need it. I ball the worn fabric in my hand and bring it to the surface of the mirror and begin scrubbing the tough stains away. Holding the edge of the sink that’s not broken, I was able to wipe enough of the cloudiness away to reveal a reflection. My reflection.

My skin is dull and my eyes are wide, empty, and bloodshot. I raise my hand to my cheek and feel the rough almost scaly skin that has spread up my neck to my face and begun to make its way down my chest. My left forearm is bent abnormally outward just before my wrist, as are a few of my fingers on each hand. This is something I had noticed before, but it seems much more obvious now. It almost makes me sick to look at. There are small sections of my scalp where my short blonde hair is replaced by raw and scabbed skin. I redirect my eyes back to the snakeskin texture growing on my face, and I notice something. A dark circle on my cheek that is almost completely covered by the rough layer of reptile-like skin. Like a mole. Realization hits as I frantically fumble through my front pocket. I grasp onto the locket and hastily remove it from my jeans, the chain flailing helplessly through the air behind it. I place the pendant in the dried palm of my hand before unclasping it. My eyes flicker between the young man and my own reflection in the mirror. At first, an overwhelming excitement flows from my chest to my fingertips.

That’s me. I’m Ben.

This excitement subsides and is swiftly replaced by a tsunami of confusion, fear, and loss. I can feel myself beginning to enter an inescapable state of panic. All the questions that had entered my mind days ago when I suddenly emerged from the ground returned at an intense speed. Why can’t I remember anything? What happened? Where is everyone?

Despite the resurgence of these questions, my mind betrays me yet again. I can’t remember. For a while, I had made peace with it. I’d convinced myself that there was no before. There was no previous life. That I hadn’t lost anything. But now I know that there was a life before this one. There was a world before this one. I had a previous life and everything from that life is gone. I lock eyes with myself in the mirror. The grayness of my skin sinks solemnly in complete disregard to my emotions. The chaos in my mind begins to numb. It seemed the longer I stared into my eyes, the more I seemed to forget. I look back at the locket as my longing look becomes unwillingly impassive. The mysterious blood around my orifices dries in defeat as I close the locket and drop it onto the cracked tile floor. A ringing echoes through the abandoned bathroom as the metal collides with the flooring. I release a shaky exhale and stare confused at my reflection. I had felt so many emotions just moments ago, but now I just feel relief. Like a revelation. I knew this world had changed. I knew it was different. All that made it beautiful had suffered and died and at some point, it had changed and became decayed, dull, and broken. But as I see myself in this house of life, it seems, so have I. It was then I knew– I was finally home.