Rigor Mortis (Dum Victus)

The world begins in black.1

My subconcious wakes before I do, piecing together my memories and my life like clues in the mystery of why.2

I am dimly aware of the world, hovering between living and nothing. Vague thoughts form in my mind, swirling, smoky wisps behind my closed eyes. Sound begins to reach me, a shrill screeching beyond my comprehension, while light endeavors to illuminate my path to emergence. 3

I shrink from the world, struggling to stay in the warm incubation of this molded womb. 4

My attempts are in vain as I am pulled from my sanctuary by a will greater than my own into harsh, merciless cold...5

The alarm wakes me up. 6

Ritual has taught me how to feel my way over the nightstand to the alarm clock. My fingers fumble over the switch, but succeed in shutting off the mechanical trill.7

My feet instinctively move toward the floor, pushing me up to stand. Within the blink of an eye I am already dressed and fed. My mind is so used to this routine that it has not even begun to rouse from sleep. The Sahara is rubbed from my eyes, the specks joining the other grains in the bottom of my hourglass. Morning sunlight shines through my window shades, strips of light across the room. I open them, seeing every example of natural beauty the world can offer. Outside, the sun is shining bright in a clear sky of blue; green-covered trees sway in a gentle wind, and birds sing cheerfully about life. I smile, taking the moment to remember how important it is to enjoy the little moments of life, that there is so much more depth to them than we realize. Life is so short, I think. I turn away from the window to begin finding stimulation, namely caffeine.8

On my way, on my first step, I pause, my concious sensing a sudden foreboding ripple in the air. Before I can blame it on my common paranoia, another shrill noise rips through the air. It is the phone. Picking it up, I receive a call from the pale horseman. He brings me devastating news. He will come over to console me. 9

I do not hear the proceeding buzzing dial tone or the shattering of plastic as the phone connects with the floor. I do not feel my hands clecn and open of their own determination. All I know is the sound of life coming to an end, crashing with the mountainous weight and thundering, merciless ferocity of the Big Crunch. The world goes silent then, as though I've been stricken deaf; but simultaneously, I hear a distant voice, echoing through my skull, repeating what I had heard to make sure I understood. My glazing eyes stare out of the bedroom window at the world outside. Seeming in solemn mourning, the trees do not sway, the birds no longer sing in their nests, and even the sun hides its grief behind a veil of dark clouds. The Earth is enveloped in black for a long moment...or have I simply closed my eyes at the onset of tears?10

As I continue to reel and cope with this turn of events, this plot twist, a strange sensation begins to overcome me. At my feet, there begins a chilling of my nerves. It is small, but enough of a disturbance to call for observation. The feeling is idle for a minute, followed by a-how can it be described?-growing rigidity. The soft skin becomes more solid, like wood. Before long, the chill turns to absolute numbness; had this not been late spring, I would have assumed that I had somehow been afflicted with frostbite. Staring down at my shoes, I can feel this odd phenomenon works its way quickly up, petrifying my toes until the front halves of my feet are soon like stones. And it continued to climb.11

At once, I remember with sudden clarity the news I had just received. Combined with this condition that somehow made me forget such horrific tragedy, I hear the caller announce his plans for arrival again. Seized by panic and with no plan in mind but to run from the fate my knotted stomach is promising, I make a dash for the door. However, in those few moments, this disease had gripped the entirety of my feet now, rendering escape impossible; and as though a massive gravity spike had occured, I am thrown forward to the floor, landing hard on the cold wood. With groaning effort, I turn onto my back, feeling the stiffening, numbing paralysis reach my shins. I try to move my toes, but this affliction is quickly turning my legs into useless logs. Thinking desperately, I see the door to the entrance hall wide open. Confident in my strength, I began to drag myself forward, slowly and surely. Yet, no sooner had I made five strides toward the threshold, the door, by a mysterious gust of otherwordly wind, shut with a slam. I sit motionless, amazed at my misfortune, for a time, staring at this latest device of entrapment. It is apparent that I am being set up, trapped like an animal in a twisted experiment. 12

The petrification is mid-thigh now, and I can feel my fingertips beginning the same process. Turning away from the door, I crawl back toward the bed. If this is an experiment, and if my fate is being sealed by the will of an unseen hand, then I at least deserve the freedom to perish in comfort. With this mindset firmly in place, I dig my fingers into the boards, dragging my deadened legs ever forward as I feel a shiver pass through me. At the foot of the bed, I pause, focusing inwardly to find my blood running cooler, slower. My heart has noticeably weakened, already beating a half the rate of a moment before. With more determined effort, I pull myself forward by the palms, my fingers already anesthetized beyond control, unyielding to my will and useless. Beside the bed now, I reach up, carefully working into a sitting position for a better advantage. Reaching up, straining my remaining functioning muscles, I manage to place my palms on the sheets, slowly pulling myself up, with difficulty, but well enough. When the top of the mattress is even with my chest, I foolishly smile, believing a mere topple forward will prove that I have some kind of control in this matter, that my mortal will can match against destiny. Of course, it is not meant to be.13

At the climax of my effort, I am struck with an unbearable pain in my chest, exploding through my body, lighting my nerves on fire. It causes me to lose what little grip I had and I fall to the floor, landing hard on my back. My vision almost disappears, milky cataracts fogging my eyes and striking me virtually blind as sound drops away, my ears filling with a droning, muffled hum. What I assumed to be cardiac arrest brought on by the intense stress I was feeling was, unknown to me or any other man, the feeling of my life being ripped away. Years, decades, were gone in an instant as I struggled to survive. Laying there on my back, with my legs as rigid as the boards below me, I find my hands had twisted themselves into gnarled claws fit for a gargoyle. And yet it continued, working upward, inward, determined to destroy me, while I lay helpless, deaf, and blind.14

But not for long. A lightning crack flashes like an atomic bomb, filling my small room with white light. Even with my vision impaired, the luminescence is too much. I throw my arms up to act as a shield, only to find a frightening, jarring sight. My arms, covered in the tight skin of youth, shrivels and contracts before my eyes; in less than second, my body assumes the same wear as that of my grandfather's. The hair on my arms and head whitens and falls away to the floor, amassing in small piles.My lungs shrink, making breathing difficult. I gasp for air, my breaths emerging as sharp, pained wheezes. The plague seeps in my torso now, petrifying my vital organs. In a moment, a sole tears emphasizes, I will be dead. The lightning sustains itself, not done with showing my what has become of my body. I roll my head to the side, too weak to lift it, to see the most tragic sight of all. Although only a weak silohuette, I recognize the position of my flower pot; planted in it is a solitary fern. Another tears steaks down my face, finding refuge in a wrinkle. I know, as can be sadly imagined, that the plant above me, the thing I watered and sheltered so caringly so it could live and grow, does not care that I am dying. It does not care because it will go on to live beyond me, standing green and full of life, in a window where the world may see it prosper, while I cease to exist out of sight, out of mind, on a cold, merciless floor. 15

I clench my eyes shut, feeling the end draw ever closer. I do not see the light withdraw or hear the door open; but suddenly, as the stage-lights dim for my curtain call, I am compelled to open my eyes. What waits for me beyond the darkness is a sight that I knew I could not avoid, in spite of my hopeless attempts. With surprising clarity, perhaps only so the image will be the last I see, my eyes are filled with the visage of the pale horseman, the Grim Reaper, the sandman whose dust comes not from his own source, but from our hourglasses. Aware of our need for sleep, to escape the troubles of the world by fleeing into our own imaginations, he sends us there at the price of our own lives; and the more we sleep, the faster he comes. Now, only too late, do I know that I overslept too often. He stands over me, growing dim and unclear, saying nothing.16

The world fades to black.