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Thread: [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

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    Default [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

    Note: I would appreciate any and all criticism. I have become interested in macabre and horror novels and short stories, so I thought I would give it a try. Since this is something new to me, I would like to improve where I can, so be detailed in your criticism, please.




    December 3, 2005

    My arms were wrapped around my knees, my head curled at the top of my legs. I rocked back and forth, back and forth. I murmured small chants to myself. “Let me out. Let me out. Let me out.” The reciting lasted for several minutes until finally, my neck shot up quickly, as if awakening from a deep slumber. I faltered as I rose to my feet, grasping at my head to steady my nerves. My hands were shaking violently and my head swam terribly, a migraine forming at the back of my head. I am terribly afraid. I cannot distinguish reality anymore. My mind tells me that it has always been this way, though I know deep inside that it has not. My bed lay ridden with the scabs and puss of a decade, all of which originated from my very own person. I am writing to you now not to inform you of my perilous end but to calm my own sense of reality for the time being. My perilous imagination knows no bounds.

    There is a door that undermines the faded, gray walls that surround me. There is only darkness that seeps out of the barred cage at the bottom of the door, but sometimes it will open to dispense food and water, along with paper and a pencil. Whoever is keeping me hostage here has drugged me to wilt my memory of my past, that is certain. Though why I am a prison here exceeds my knowledge. It seems they want me to write—perhaps they are performing tests on me or recording my documentary—for if I do not write, they begin to torture me.

    To save myself the horror, I gave up any thoughts of escape and endeavor. I cast away any and all signs of salvation, however bright they may appear, making do with the putrescent, dark oblivion so easily obtainable to me. Casting away all connections to the outside world, I lay in wait for my treacherous end.


    December 4, 2005

    Today I have a phenomenal headache. I can feel it weaving inside my brain, transforming my thoughts into those of pain. This is my third day here. At least, I think it is. The drugs they feed me are so overwhelming; it takes minutes of stern concentration to remember my name. I do not understand why I belong here. I am only fed once a day, which they offer to me while I am asleep. When I wake up to eat, the food is cold, and hard, usually consisting of bread and uncooked noodles and a small amount of water that is spilled onto the floor for me to sip up if it has not already evaporated.

    My room is boring and nearly unadorned completely. Only a stiff bed and a small drain occupy this room. The drain will absorb my urine and feces after I eat, nothing near as reliable as a toilet.

    My headache is worsening with every passing minute, so I will head to bed now. Hopefully sleep will bestow to me its grace and I will recover swiftly.


    December 6, 2005

    My continuing headache screams inside my head. It has not faded in even the slightest in three full days. I cannot tell if it is light or dark right now, or even what day it is. All I can rely on is my sleeping habits, which will hopefully stay as it is, otherwise my internal calendar will begin to malfunction.

    I did not write yesterday. I couldn’t. My head troubled me so incredibly, I remained stationary in bed all day, getting up only to eat and urinate. I know tomorrow they will torture me. That is the consequence I take when I do not write. I will try my hardest to not miss another day, but for now, I must return to bed once more.


    December 7, 2005

    I am so cold. What happened?


    December 8, 2005

    Where am I? I am losing track of whom I am. I need to wake up. This must be a nightmare.


    December 9, 2005

    When I woke up today, a girl was seated before me. She seemed about my age: sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen. She was dressed in a simple white sundress. Her black hair flowed neatly down her back. She walked towards me and sat down on the bed. “My name is Alice. What is your name?”

    For several hours, we talked to each other, learning about each other. She seemed to know a lot about me, though I knew nothing of her. I’m not sure where she came from or how she knows of me, but I’m not going to lie to myself and say I don’t feel more comfortable here. She stayed with me until my eyes closed for sleep.


    December 10, 2005

    Alice is not here today. I feel like ripping my hair out. Was yesterday all a hallucination? Was it from the drugs? Maybe if I go to sleep, she’ll be there when I wake up.


    December 13, 2005

    Alice still is not here. Because of my lack of writing, they began torturing me again. They put razors in my food the first day, cutting my mouth when I ate the bread. I kept the razors, though, taking them out of my mouth and slipping them under my mattress. Yesterday, I don’t remember what they did to me. I have long rashes across my arms and stomach, almost like rope burns. At times, it burns and itches unimaginably. Scratching at it only makes it hurt more.


    December 14, 2005

    My rashes have worsened. Now it covers my entire torso and shoulders as well. I could not resist scratching it earlier, rubbing it with my skin and digging with my nails. It bled heavily, leaving big drops of blood where it did not make it into the drain. Strangely, the blood feels settling.


    December 15, 2005

    Once more, when I awoke, Alice was there to greet me. She apologized about our absence in seeing each other. She told it was not her fault and that she couldn’t control it. I believed her.

    “What is on your arms?” she asked worriedly. My white shirt concealed the rest of my rashes, but my forearms were still noticeable.

    “They torture me when I don’t write,” I said sadly. I looked down at the rashes, noticing how some were indented further into my skin, others only a layer of skin removed. My scratching must have continued overnight, but, oddly, I don’t remember.

    Her eyes became sorrow. She picked up my hand, her touch cold and ghostly. She examined my rash, concerned.

    For the rest of the night we continued to talk to each other until she watched me somberly as I fell asleep.


    December 16, 2005

    She isn’t here again. Not again. I have another migraine. It feels as though it’s trying to break out of my skull, pushing hard against my head. My rashes still throb; if I leave them alone, they’ll go away quicker. It’s easier said than done though. They itch so irritatingly.


    December 18, 2005

    Last night they sprayed me with hot water. It seemed like my skin was being ripped from my body when the water splashed onto my rashes. Oddly, the pain made me more content.


    December 21, 2005

    Each night they continue with torture. Sometimes they change it, other times it’s the same as the night before. Why are you doing this to me? Why? Just let me die and be in peace! Why can’t you end my sorry life, once and for all?


    December 27, 2005

    The torture that ensues nearly every night is beginning to hurt less. Perhaps my pain tolerance is increasing. Maybe I enjoy it. After I was sprayed with hot water, I took the razors from underneath my bed I had stored a fortnight ago. I cut into my wrists and across the underlying of my arm. The skin is thinner there and cuts easier. I don’t cut myself to bear the pain, but to notice the blood. When I see the blood, it makes me feel as though I really am alive and that this isn’t all a dream. I’m losing track of days now; I’m not sure if I am still accurate. Each day I feel sleep deprived and slow, as if I’m weighted down. I’m beginning to hear voices and harvest hallucinations. I hear people walking in the halls and talking among each other, sometimes to me. Alice still visits me, almost every day now. She showed me her family yesterday. She has only a father and a mother, but they look very happy together. I know Alice is worried for me; she pesters me constantly, encouraging me to write each day so she doesn’t have to see the aftermath of the torture. She was very upset when she realized I began cutting myself. I don’t think she quite understands. At any rate, it only made me want to cut more.


    January 24, 2006

    He’s here again. I can feel him creeping back in. I thought he would leave me alone, I thought I had gotten rid of him. Why does he keep doing this? He can’t win. Not again. Not anymore.


    January 25, 2006

    The man is here. He comes now when I feel myself begin to get drowsy. When my eyelids grow heavy and my head starts to fall, he opens the door and comes at me. He hits me and abuses me. Each night he is sure to beat me as much as possible, keeping me an inch away from death, to prolong my torture.


    January 29, 2006

    I’ve been clawing at the walls for hours now—my nails nonexistent, grinded, and blood-smeared—just trying to keep myself from falling asleep again. Or am I already asleep?


    February 12, 2006

    Alice and I talk every day. She keeps me company and keeps me content while I stay here. I’m beginning to feel emotions for her.


    March 06, 2006

    The torture feels good. I can feel it on my body, the hot liquid dripping down my skin. They increase the temperature sometimes, nearly to boiling level. My skin is burned and scathed. It isn’t enough.


    July 24, 2006

    I am beginning to enjoy it here. In the last few months, I’ve met many people. Alice introduces me to many of her friends. Sometimes we all group together, hanging out in my small room, tossing stories and gossip around. Did you hear? One of the cleaners is having an affair with her husband with one of the guards.


    August 2, 2006

    When do they come? Too long until they arrive.


    August 2, 2006; second entry

    Oh, joy. Oh, joy! They are here! Welcome, guests! Have a seat, have a seat. We have many new people here, please introduce yourself!


    November 18, 2006

    Stop reading, please stop! Stop! You have no idea! They’re—


    April 2, 2007

    One, two. Oh, so few. Three, four. Invite some more. Five, six. Sharpen the picks. Seven, eight. Lock the gate. Nine, ten. Commit thy sin.


    June 22, 2007

    We love it here, you should come too. We are all friends here. But be wary. Be very nice to the master. He will kill you all.


    July 11, 2007

    Where were you? We waited and waited, but you never came! Why not? We want you here, now! We will never stop! We cannot be stopped! We are inside you now, there is no escape! All will tremble to our masking glory and benevolence!


    July 12, 2007

    Feed us your blood.
    Feed us your blood.
    Feed us your blood.
    Feed us your—


    September 30, 2007

    I’m sorry when I got so angry so many months ago. It’s quite nice here, really. You should come. Come! You’ll see. This place is quite nice. Come, now! You don’t have to come right away. We’ll be waiting. We are always waiting.


    October 4, 2007

    We are inside you now. There is no point in resisting.


    December 3, 2007

    Don’t fall asleep. Please! They’ll get a hold of you. Stay awake. They will never stop. Follow the light. It’s the only way.


    May 4, 2009

    My arms were wrapped around my knees, my head curled at the top of my legs. I rocked back and forth, back and forth. I murmured small chants to myself. “Let me out. Let me out. Let me out.”
    Last edited by Earth; 09-22-2011 at 05:45 PM.

  2. #2
    Cute Member Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~ has a reputation beyond repute Uta-chan~'s Avatar
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    Default Re: [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

    Omg, maybe I shouldn't have read this when I was about to go to bed... XD;

    Well it's pretty good, I'm not one to say though because I'm not really a writer. I like how it's mysterious. Like the reader barely knows anything what's going on, we're only left with our imagination. It seems like at the end, the guy has changed his opinions on the place for some reason, whether he was possessed/brainwashed or just out of fear from someone else... the master? And the reader's also left with not knowing who Alice was, if she was just a hallucination or a fragment of the character's imagination. Godammit, I want so many questions answered! >XD; Also, the diary form of writing makes it easier to read and gives it that horror edge. I get scared really easily, but I like reading horror, and I enjoyed reading your story. =3
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    Default Re: [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

    First off, thank you for reading my story and for leaving good criticism. I would like to take my stories far and beyond, so hopefully one day, mere works like this may seem easily accomplished.
    The reason the last several entries seem to be different, or of at least a different personality, is because he's succumbed by the hallucinations around him. It's hinted throughout the short story that he has a peculiar imagination: "My perilous imagination knows no bounds." "Alice introduces me to many of her friends." Even though he is locked, he hallucinates and imagines meeting Alice and her "friends." Since he is "trapped and tortured" in such a small room, only able to fantasize and write, that only takes his imagination to the next tier.
    Since there is no precise ending, it kind of lets the reader concur whatever ending they can think of, but it's presumed that Alice, along with her friends, begin to overwhelm the prisoner. The "master" is actually the prisoner himself, since all of this is his own imagination.
    Also, the overall story was a hallucination as well. In the beginning, the character is sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, murmuring to himself quietly. Suddenly, he stirs, as if awakened from a dream. From this point onward, the story is an imagination. He is conjuring all of this in his mind from fear and loneliness of actually being held captive in this mysterious place. This is why the very last entry is repeated as the beginning of the first.
    I hope I answered your questions and made the story a little more precise. I enjoy writing short stories that leave the reader without a precise ending. It opens up speculation and allows the reader to create his/her own ending for the story. Oh, and don't worry, I get scared easily, too. ^_-

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    Default Re: [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

    @Earth Thanks for clearing that up. I'm not quite good at observing "grey area" writing. I agree with you about no precise endings, I kinda enjoy reading stories like that. You should definitely post more and notify me so I can read them! ^__^
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    Default Re: [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

    I certainly will. I would like to eventually write longer stories, but I'm just beginning to write, so I'll start off small for a while until I get better. Thanks for your help, Uta.

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    Default Re: [Original Fiction] The Walls That Speak to Me

    Sure, no problem. ^w^ And wow, you're only just starting to write? I assumed you had been writing for some time. =O
    XD hehe, good luck with your future writing~
    Set by me.

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