u/Upbeat_Problem_5383

Who knew the devil could be found at the local gym.

I guess being surrounded by pain and equipment that resembles medieval torture devices makes sense. But he had an offer for me. For one week, I would allow him to make better choices for me. Who knew that the devil was allowing for trial runs. It was simple, almost every choice is binary and by that logic there’s always a more correct choice. I had nothing to lose, I was overweight, up to my eyeballs in debt, and he made it clear my soul wasn’t on the line so I really did have nothing to lose.

That week was a real turn around. When I went to the store, where my cart was normally filled with junk food, it was instead filled with greens and lean meats. The gym became the afterwork routine. Oh man, and work became a breeze every choice I made floored my boss and I might even be up for a promotion at the rate I’m going. When it came to my finances, I was able to cut the bloat and significantly change the trajectory of my money woes. Even in my relationship with my wife, I managed to rekindle the spark with the right words and the right moves.

At the end of the week before I left the gym I saw the devil at the front desk.

“So how was the first week?”

“It was great, I really feel like for the first time things are starting to turn around. I think with the start I got I can fix my life.”

“The starting is always easy, starters are a dime a dozen, but finishers are few.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, with fitness and health you need to readjust macros. Finances were smooth sailing, but what if something pops up like an unexpected bill? And don't get me started with marriage."

I paused letting it sink in about all the variables that could potentially derail this fresh start.

He filled the silence, “The contract here will allow me to make sure that every choice you make is the most optimal. When it happens you’ll feel a brief freeze, but to everyone else they won’t miss a beat or even notice.”

I reached out, took the pen with the fake flower taped to the end and signed my name on the mundane paper. I felt like this was the first step to taking my life back.

“I’ll have to process this and you’ll start to notice in a few days.”

Days went by and nothing changed. I maintained the habits and the momentum was steady. I got home after the gym and turned on the stove to start dinner. Feeling thirsty, I reached for a glass to get a drink.

The world stopped.

I couldn’t move, the cupboard was open and I could see the matching glasses sitting right there on the second shelf, but my fingers wouldn’t extend.

My right arm hung in suspension six inches above the counter like a posed action figure. I tried to pull back, blink, yank free, anything, but my body wasn’t responding to my brain. It was waiting for an update.

A second passed. Two. Three. Long enough for panic to creep in. After a moment my arm moved a fraction of an inch.

Click.

My shoulder joint lurched three degrees higher, making a dry, cracking sound deep inside the socket like the snap of balsa wood. My arm didn’t glide, it jumped instantly to the new position, skipping the motion in between like I skipped a frame.

Pause.

I hung in that rigid posture for another four seconds while unseen calculations measured the exact angle to minimize torque on my wrist. Panic surged, screaming against the inside of my ribs, but my diaphragm remained locked to preserve energy.

Click.

The feeling of an hour passed when my hand clamped onto the glass with brutal, artificial precision. Not a millimeter of overreach. Zero wasted kinetic effort.

Pause.

It took nearly three minutes to just get the cup and fill it. Lift, freeze, tilt, freeze, level out, freeze. Every microadjustment demanded a complete halt while the universe recalculated for the best method. I was moving through life at twelve frames per minute.

Pause.

The flame on the burner suddenly blew out with a soft hiss.

The smell hit my nose, and while I was beginning to turn, the calculations stalled.

Click.

My neck jerked fifteen degrees to the left, but my body locked up mid-rotation.

Pause.

The sharp, rotten-egg stench of natural gas poured thick into my nostrils, burning my throat and searing the back of my brain with a thumping, blinding headache. Every second felt like a cruel eternity. Inside my skull, my mind was screaming, while my physical body was locked into a suffocating pose.

A minute passed. Two. The throb in my head built to a sickening pulse as the fumes filled the kitchen.

Click.

The front door unlocked with a sharp, heavy snap.

“Honey?” my wife’s voice drifted down the hallway, tired and heavy. “I had the worst day. I really need you right now.”

Oh god, what was more important: addressing my wife's needs or mitigating a life ending event?

It seemed obvious to me, but my body didn't resolve the conflict. It simply froze harder. The pause extended, stretching into a deadlock while the stove kept hissing, the air grew thick, my brain pounded. She felt miles away going further and further away.

"Honey?" Her footsteps stopped at the kitchen entrance. "Why are you standing like that?"

I could do nothing, but wait for the next frame.

Who knew the devil could be found at the local gym.

I guess being surrounded by pain and equipment that resembles medieval torture devices makes sense. But he had an offer for me. For one week, I would allow him to make better choices for me. Who knew that the devil was allowing for trial runs. It was simple, almost every choice is binary and by that logic there’s always a more correct choice. I had nothing to lose, I was overweight, up to my eyeballs in debt, and he made it clear my soul wasn’t on the line so I really did have nothing to lose.

That week was a real turn around. When I went to the store, where my cart was normally filled with junk food, it was instead filled with greens and lean meats. The gym became the afterwork routine. Oh man, and work became a breeze every choice I made floored my boss and I might even be up for a promotion at the rate I’m going. When it came to my finances, I was able to cut the bloat and significantly change the trajectory of my money woes. Even in my relationship with my wife, I managed to rekindle the spark with the right words and the right moves.

At the end of the week before I left the gym I saw the devil at the front desk.

“So how was the first week?”

“It was great, I really feel like for the first time things are starting to turn around. I think with the start I got I can fix my life.”

“The starting is always easy, starters are a dime a dozen, but finishers are few.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, with fitness and health you need to readjust macros. Finances were smooth sailing, but what if something pops up like an unexpected bill? And don't get me started with marriage."

I paused letting it sink in about all the variables that could potentially derail this fresh start.

He filled the silence, “The contract here will allow me to make sure that every choice you make is the most optimal. When it happens you’ll feel a brief freeze, but to everyone else they won’t miss a beat or even notice.”

I reached out, took the pen with the fake flower taped to the end and signed my name on the mundane paper. I felt like this was the first step to taking my life back.

“I’ll have to process this and you’ll start to notice in a few days.”

Days went by and nothing changed. I maintained the habits and the momentum was steady. I got home after the gym and turned on the stove to start dinner. Feeling thirsty, I reached for a glass to get a drink.

The world stopped.

I couldn’t move, the cupboard was open and I could see the matching glasses sitting right there on the second shelf, but my fingers wouldn’t extend.

My right arm hung in suspension six inches above the counter like a posed action figure. I tried to pull back, blink, yank free, anything, but my body wasn’t responding to my brain. It was waiting for an update.

A second passed. Two. Three. Long enough for panic to creep in. After a moment my arm moved a fraction of an inch.

Click.

My shoulder joint lurched three degrees higher, making a dry, cracking sound deep inside the socket like the snap of balsa wood. My arm didn’t glide, it jumped instantly to the new position, skipping the motion in between like I skipped a frame.

Pause.

I hung in that rigid posture for another four seconds while unseen calculations measured the exact angle to minimize torque on my wrist. Panic surged, screaming against the inside of my ribs, but my diaphragm remained locked to preserve energy.

Click.

The feeling of an hour passed when my hand clamped onto the glass with brutal, artificial precision. Not a millimeter of overreach. Zero wasted kinetic effort.

Pause.

It took nearly three minutes to just get the cup and fill it. Lift, freeze, tilt, freeze, level out, freeze. Every microadjustment demanded a complete halt while the universe recalculated for the best method. I was moving through life at twelve frames per minute.

Pause.

The flame on the burner suddenly blew out with a soft hiss.

The smell hit my nose, and while I was beginning to turn, the calculations stalled.

Click.

My neck jerked fifteen degrees to the left, but my body locked up mid-rotation.

Pause.

The sharp, rotten-egg stench of natural gas poured thick into my nostrils, burning my throat and searing the back of my brain with a thumping, blinding headache. Every second felt like a cruel eternity. Inside my skull, my mind was screaming, while my physical body was locked into a suffocating pose.

A minute passed. Two. The throb in my head built to a sickening pulse as the fumes filled the kitchen.

Click.

The front door unlocked with a sharp, heavy snap.

“Honey?” my wife’s voice drifted down the hallway, tired and heavy. “I had the worst day. I really need you right now.”

Oh god, what was more important: addressing my wife's needs or mitigating a life ending event?

It seemed obvious to me, but my body didn't resolve the conflict. It simply froze harder. The pause extended, stretching into a deadlock while the stove kept hissing, the air grew thick, my brain pounded. She felt miles away going further and further away.

"Honey?" Her footsteps stopped at the kitchen entrance. "Why are you standing like that?"

I could do nothing, but wait for the next frame.

He wants to cherish his daughter forever.

Protect her from being bronzed by time.

The follies fraught with aging and loss run constant with the independent variable of time.

Well, I gave him what he desired.

Transmutation isn't that complicated.

To common people it's just heat and following a recipe.

However, going from carbon to gold is beyond my scope.

But lead to gold is far easier.

So I laced his daughter's food with trace amounts of lead. Her toys, the walls of her room all adorned with lead paint.

She's getting sick now.

I assure the father, my next treatment will be costly.

My silver tongue gives me her weight in gold.

No cost too little.

The gold melted and with an artisan's hands I coat her.

I can't distinguish the screams.

Are they his daughter's or just the moisture released from the molten?

Something must have tipped them off because the guards are at my door.

It's too late.

I gave the king what he wanted.

A daughter he will cherish forever.

He wants to cherish his daughter forever.

Protect her from being bronzed by time.

The follies fraught with aging and loss run constant with the independent variable of time.

Well, I gave him what he desired.

Transmutation isn't that complicated.

To common people it's just heat and following a recipe.

However, going from carbon to gold is beyond my scope.

But lead to gold is far easier.

So I laced his daughter's food with trace amounts of lead. Her toys, the walls of her room all adorned with lead paint.

She's getting sick now.

I assure the father, my next treatment will be costly.

My silver tongue gives me her weight in gold.

No cost too little.

The gold melted and with an artisan's hands I coat her.

I can't distinguish the screams.

Are they his daughter's or just the moisture released from the molten?

Something must have tipped them off because the guards are at my door.

It's too late.

I gave the king what he wanted.

A daughter he will cherish forever.

The threshold was never meant to be crossed, but human curiosity is an incurable sickness.

The first dosage unlocked all the memories.

The hippocampus spilled 23 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, 5 days, 15 hours, 6 minutes, and 32 seconds of memories.

Every experienced feeling, every event recounted, and every decision mapped out my wasted life.

Second dosage allowed all to be learned.

Textbooks, novels, even the internet in its entirety.

All learned in a week's time while consuming nutrients and rewiring my body on a cellular level.

Third dosage probability and knowing the unknown.

Conversations have lost all meaning.

Knowing an individual's IQ is a mundane Mad Lib.

Fruitless

Pointless

Insatiable to my intellect.

I know when loved ones will die and when the Doomsday Clock will actually hit midnight.

I know what our predecessors will be long after humanity has wiped the slate clean.

Fourth Dose.

I've seen the unseeable and there's no returning.

I hear the gears of the universe grinding to a stop.

It is so loud the thoughts.

Silence is golden, but duct tape is silver.

Well so is the icepick.

Behind the eye I need to be precise if I'm to go back.

I hope my hand is steady upon finishing the procedure.

It bad I nede hosptle

It's hard to say when I got here, time is fickle in this place. What I do remember was when I got here. Digging out of the ground and the heat singeing away my hair and nails. The two things I saw were the mountain and the beautiful light. Like a moth to a flame, I wandered toward the light. Was it days or weeks? I couldn't tell.

When I got to the base of the mountain, I realized that this was not a mountain of granite or rock. No, it was people stacked on top of each other. As I gazed at the light it was eclipsed by the mountain. The sliver of light peeked through gaps of hands, feet, and body parts. No one told me why I was here, but I had a pretty good idea. It was clear that I was in hell.

A brittle hand grabbed my foot followed by slow speech. I couldn't understand it; it must have been a different language. I pleaded. "Please let me go, please. Oh God, please let me go."

The cold fingers clamped onto my leg like a vice. I felt the fingers tighten even more. I couldn't take it anymore. "Let go!!!"

I wrenched my foot away from the outstretched hand. The owner let out a scream of pain. A rush of anger and disgust washed over me—anger at this place, at them, at myself for what I had done. I gazed up at the light. God, if I could only bask in that light. If only I could reach it. This yearning was interrupted by snarling in the dark. The sound was guttural, echoing off unseen walls, and I could feel the weight of their eyes bearing down on me from the shadows. In that moment, two things were clear: pain was the universal language in this place, and I needed to climb.

At first I hesitated, the thought of pressing into something so intimate filling me with revulsion. But the snarling made hesitation give way to survival. My fingers found holds anywhere they could find purchase. Disturbingly, I found out that eyes were great for grip.

Each hold was an ordeal. Limbs twisted and shifted under my weight. Some flinched away, while others clung to me, desperate. Hands grabbed at my ankles, nails digging into my skin. I would break free and continue to climb until their screams became a distant wail. Their voices surrounded me—low, guttural sounds I couldn't understand, filled with pain and fury. It wasn't just noise; it was the language of a time I couldn't place, harsh and ancient. As I climbed, the voices began to change. The guttural tones gave way to syllables I almost recognized—fragments of Latin, Greek, languages buried in books and ruins. Higher still, a scream broke through in Old English, and then something closer to my own tongue. Each voice was a reminder of how far I'd come—and how much farther I still had to go.

The bodies were not inert. They moved, groaned, and writhed in the dim light. Some cursed in languages I didn't understand; others whispered prayers, their voices thin and broken. I tried not to listen, but their voices were constant. Their suffering was too much like my own, and the light above seemed to demand my focus.

As I climbed higher, the mountain grew colder. The heat from below no longer reached me, and the chill bit into my exposed skin. The light, though distant, seemed brighter now, its golden rays cutting through the shadows. It promised warmth, safety—something better than this endless climb.

But the higher I climbed, the more the bodies seemed to resist. Arms reached for me, not to help but to hinder. Faces twisted into sneers, their teeth gnashing inches from my fingers. "You won't make it," one snarled—I understood the language now. "No one ever does." The further I got, the better I could understand what the voices were saying. What if they were right?

I ignored them. I had to. The only other option was to stop—and then what? Wait? Become part of the mountain? Fall? No. I had to keep climbing.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder—not grabbing, but resting, almost gently. I froze.

"Help me," a voice rasped, close to my ear. It was a man's voice, cracked and desperate. I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, but there was something familiar about him.

I shook my head. "I can't."

"Please," he begged, his voice cracking. His grip on my shoulder tightened, almost painful. "If you help me, I'll help you. We'll make it together." There was something in his tone—something sharp, something hungry—that made my stomach turn. But I didn't let go.

I pulled him out from the wall, hearing the cracks of atrophy as he wriggled free from the crevice. He looked frail, barely more than bones wrapped in paper-thin skin. He let out a groan, somewhere between relief and agony, as he clung to me. As he slipped loose, the mountain shifted beneath us. It responded with a loud groan, as if a keystone had been removed. The bodies writhed, their movements spreading outward in a ripple that shook the entire structure. Hands clawed at the air, feet slipped, and panicked screams echoed through the space.

I froze, clutching the nearest handhold as the mountain writhed beneath me. Panic clawed at my chest. Had I caused this? Did freeing him undo something vital? The man I'd just pulled free clung to me, his nails digging into my shoulder. "What's happening?" he rasped. I looked up and saw bodies falling from the light.

I couldn't look away. Men and women slipped, arms flailing wildly, but no one reached out to them. None of the mountain's inhabitants tried to help the descending souls. Once they reached the darkness below, their screams cut off like a snuffed flame.

Then it struck me. The bodies that had been so eager to grab and claw at me, to pull me down, didn't lift a finger to help those falling. They watched with empty, unblinking eyes, limbs slack. Why wouldn't they help? Was it fear of the fall, or something deeper—a reflection of this place, where even the idea of kindness had been crushed under the weight of survival? I shivered, not from the cold, but from the thought that I was no different.

The man's grip on my shoulder tightened, almost as if he were checking for something. His eyes were fixed on the light. It was not hope that gleamed in them, but hunger.

"Can you climb?" This broke the trance.

"You'll have to carry me," he rasped, his voice trembling. His nails dug deeper into my shoulder, his weight leaning into me like deadweight.

I didn't respond right away. My fingers clung to a knotted handhold, the cold biting into my exposed skin. The mountain groaned again, sending another ripple through the bodies. Below, the screams of falling souls were swallowed by the dark.

"I can't carry you," I said finally, my voice cracking. "You'll have to climb on your own."

"I can't." His grip tightened, his voice a desperate whisper. "Please. I'll die if you leave me."

I couldn't say no. I hefted him onto my back. He dug in like a tick, limbs wrapped around my torso, nails buried in. We began the ascent slowly and laboriously.

My companion constantly whispered the increments as we got closer. Time was measured by the aches and strain of my muscles. Whenever I swayed, I felt his grip loosen, as if he were preparing to leap at the first sign of a fall.

A ledge of limbs jutted out. I needed a break. "We need to stop here." Each word was punctuated with panting.

"No, you'll keep climbing. I'm so close."

"I'm tired… We'll fall… if I don't stop…"

"I'll throw you if you stop."

I began to sweat, the companion slipping, his toes digging into my sides. Through gritted teeth, my fingers found purchase—not on the ledge but on his wrist, pulling it down around my chest like a brace. "Throw me," I said, "and see what you hold onto."

A catch in his breath. A loosening of his grip. "We'll stop here."

On the ledge, I could feel every fiber of my muscles scream as the lactic acid burned through my limbs. It dissipated as my breath lengthened and grew deep. My companion fidgeted, glancing up, then to me, then up again.

Once the ear-filling sound of my breath and heartbeat had quieted, a new sound filled the void—wet slaps of flesh, the crack of bones, laced with vulgarities. I looked to the companion and put a finger to my lips. He nodded, though his eyes continued to drift upward.

We climbed to the top of the mountain and stopped at the edge. Punching, gouging, kicking—no semblance of civility, just chaos.

We were unnoticed. But what do we do now?

"ENOUGH!!!"

The companion's shout cut through the clambering. All eyes turned to him—faces swollen, bodies cut and bruised. Before anyone could fill the silence:

"I was carried here. By him. We made it. We can all make it. We are close."

One by one, fists unclenched. It spread the way the groaning had spread when I pulled the companion free—outward, slow, inevitable. A man with a caved cheek lowered his arm. A woman stopped mid-kick, foot suspended, then settled. The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was far older than peace. Exhaustion that had finally found a direction.

The man with the caved cheek scoffed. "You think I want this scum to climb on me?"

"Maybe. But you're still here. So is he."

The truth silenced the man.

The companion stepped forward on atrophied legs. The frailness of his body, set against the strength of his voice, might have been what captivated them.

"Look at where we are." He gestured upward. "Look how close."

No one spoke.

"We've been tearing each other apart for—" he paused, searching for a word that no longer applied here, "—long enough. And we're still here. Still no closer." He steadied himself on my shoulder.

"But he carried me." The words came out plainly, without fanfare. "I couldn't climb, and he carried me anyway. We made it. Together."

Silence.

"If we stop fighting. If we work together. Lift each other. We can reach the light. All of us. And when we do—" his voice caught, then steadied, "—we don't leave them behind. We reach back and pull them up. Every last one."

The silence that followed was the longest I had heard in this place.

I don't know who moved first, but I knelt. I was tired, and they would come back for me. We were close. It wouldn't be long, right?

The woman who had been mid-kick knelt beside me. A few more souls gathered and settled next to me. I felt a knee rest on my shoulder; the weight began making ligaments and bones pop. Movement had been confined to just my arms.

At first I counted them. Then I stopped. Hundreds of climbers, and still no hands from heaven. I gave my hand to hurry the process—pulling them up, no compassion, just a means to an end.

That changed with the one who fell.

The sound of a scream approached, closer, closer. My arm shot out and the fallen grabbed hold. I pulled as they scrambled for purchase. They looked at me.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

I lifted them and they continued their ascent. The thank-yous continued until they became faint whispers, then nothing.

Climbers were no longer strangers. I learned to read them by their weight and grip—whether they were hesitant, desperate, or the kind who paused just long enough to steady themselves before moving on. I couldn't have said when that change happened. Somewhere between one hand and the next.

The words I could understand became fewer and fewer. Prayers went first. I recognized those longest, the cadence outlasting the meaning. Then even those dissolved into sounds I felt more than understood. Gratitude stopped sounding like anything I recognized, but I learned to feel it instead—a grip that didn't tear, a foot placed with care, the brief warmth of a body passing over mine.

My left arm broke quietly. Not in a moment of crisis—just weight distributed in the wrong place. The sound was like green wood splitting, and then my arm hung at a new angle. There was nothing else to do.

My right arm lasted longer. When it went, it was almost a relief. I had been bracing for it.

The eyes were worse only because of the dark that followed. Not an act of violence—just pressure, a slip, then nothing on one side. The other went slower, like a candle guttering. The dark came for my eyes eventually. I had known it would.

Some climbers had become inventive. They used my jaw as a foothold. My jaw fell to the abyss.

I don't know how many passed over me after that. I had stopped being able to count long before I lost my sight. Time had become something that happened to other people.

After that I was just there. Warm, I think. Listening and feeling for anything in the dark.

Then I felt it.

A hand, so warm. The warmth spread through my body. My arms straightened, with a sound like a key turning in a lock. Light returned—not gradually, but the way you remember something you thought was gone forever.

Then I saw her.

She was beautiful. She pulled me free.

Rising.

For the first time, I was weightless.

Below me the mountain groaned.

I knew that sound. I had heard it when I pulled the companion free—the keystone shifting, the ripple spreading outward through the bodies. I had heard it again when she pulled me loose. I knew what it meant.

The mountain came apart like the drowned coming up for air. Not violently. Just done. Bodies separating, the architecture of suffering coming undone, souls falling together into the dark below. Their screams were not the screams I had learned to recognize. There was something else in them. Surprise, maybe. The shock of suddenly being singular again.

I heard him before I saw him. His voice cutting through the chaos the way it had at the summit—distinct, unmistakable. He was screaming, arms flailing, finding nothing.

I didn't look away. I thought I owed him that much.

The dark took him the way it always claimed the fallen.

She continued to rise, and I rose with her, and the light, when it finally came, was exactly as warm as I had always believed it would be.

It's hard to say when I got here, time is fickle in this place. What I do remember was when I got here. Digging out of the ground and the heat singeing away my hair and nails. The two things I saw were the mountain and the beautiful light. Like a moth to a flame, I wandered toward the light. Was it days or weeks? I couldn't tell.

When I got to the base of the mountain, I realized that this was not a mountain of granite or rock. No, it was people stacked on top of each other. As I gazed at the light it was eclipsed by the mountain. The sliver of light peeked through gaps of hands, feet, and body parts. No one told me why I was here, but I had a pretty good idea. It was clear that I was in hell.

A brittle hand grabbed my foot followed by slow speech. I couldn't understand it; it must have been a different language. I pleaded. "Please let me go, please. Oh God, please let me go."

The cold fingers clamped onto my leg like a vice. I felt the fingers tighten even more. I couldn't take it anymore. "Let go!!!"

I wrenched my foot away from the outstretched hand. The owner let out a scream of pain. A rush of anger and disgust washed over me—anger at this place, at them, at myself for what I had done. I gazed up at the light. God, if I could only bask in that light. If only I could reach it. This yearning was interrupted by snarling in the dark. The sound was guttural, echoing off unseen walls, and I could feel the weight of their eyes bearing down on me from the shadows. In that moment, two things were clear: pain was the universal language in this place, and I needed to climb.

At first I hesitated, the thought of pressing into something so intimate filling me with revulsion. But the snarling made hesitation give way to survival. My fingers found holds anywhere they could find purchase. Disturbingly, I found out that eyes were great for grip.

Each hold was an ordeal. Limbs twisted and shifted under my weight. Some flinched away, while others clung to me, desperate. Hands grabbed at my ankles, nails digging into my skin. I would break free and continue to climb until their screams became a distant wail. Their voices surrounded me—low, guttural sounds I couldn't understand, filled with pain and fury. It wasn't just noise; it was the language of a time I couldn't place, harsh and ancient. As I climbed, the voices began to change. The guttural tones gave way to syllables I almost recognized—fragments of Latin, Greek, languages buried in books and ruins. Higher still, a scream broke through in Old English, and then something closer to my own tongue. Each voice was a reminder of how far I'd come—and how much farther I still had to go.

The bodies were not inert. They moved, groaned, and writhed in the dim light. Some cursed in languages I didn't understand; others whispered prayers, their voices thin and broken. I tried not to listen, but their voices were constant. Their suffering was too much like my own, and the light above seemed to demand my focus.

As I climbed higher, the mountain grew colder. The heat from below no longer reached me, and the chill bit into my exposed skin. The light, though distant, seemed brighter now, its golden rays cutting through the shadows. It promised warmth, safety—something better than this endless climb.

But the higher I climbed, the more the bodies seemed to resist. Arms reached for me, not to help but to hinder. Faces twisted into sneers, their teeth gnashing inches from my fingers. "You won't make it," one snarled—I understood the language now. "No one ever does." The further I got, the better I could understand what the voices were saying. What if they were right?

I ignored them. I had to. The only other option was to stop—and then what? Wait? Become part of the mountain? Fall? No. I had to keep climbing.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder—not grabbing, but resting, almost gently. I froze.

"Help me," a voice rasped, close to my ear. It was a man's voice, cracked and desperate. I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, but there was something familiar about him.

I shook my head. "I can't."

"Please," he begged, his voice cracking. His grip on my shoulder tightened, almost painful. "If you help me, I'll help you. We'll make it together." There was something in his tone—something sharp, something hungry—that made my stomach turn. But I didn't let go.

I pulled him out from the wall, hearing the cracks of atrophy as he wriggled free from the crevice. He looked frail, barely more than bones wrapped in paper-thin skin. He let out a groan, somewhere between relief and agony, as he clung to me. As he slipped loose, the mountain shifted beneath us. It responded with a loud groan, as if a keystone had been removed. The bodies writhed, their movements spreading outward in a ripple that shook the entire structure. Hands clawed at the air, feet slipped, and panicked screams echoed through the space.

I froze, clutching the nearest handhold as the mountain writhed beneath me. Panic clawed at my chest. Had I caused this? Did freeing him undo something vital? The man I'd just pulled free clung to me, his nails digging into my shoulder. "What's happening?" he rasped. I looked up and saw bodies falling from the light.

I couldn't look away. Men and women slipped, arms flailing wildly, but no one reached out to them. None of the mountain's inhabitants tried to help the descending souls. Once they reached the darkness below, their screams cut off like a snuffed flame.

Then it struck me. The bodies that had been so eager to grab and claw at me, to pull me down, didn't lift a finger to help those falling. They watched with empty, unblinking eyes, limbs slack. Why wouldn't they help? Was it fear of the fall, or something deeper—a reflection of this place, where even the idea of kindness had been crushed under the weight of survival? I shivered, not from the cold, but from the thought that I was no different.

The man's grip on my shoulder tightened, almost as if he were checking for something. His eyes were fixed on the light. It was not hope that gleamed in them, but hunger.

"Can you climb?" This broke the trance.

"You'll have to carry me," he rasped, his voice trembling. His nails dug deeper into my shoulder, his weight leaning into me like deadweight.

I didn't respond right away. My fingers clung to a knotted handhold, the cold biting into my exposed skin. The mountain groaned again, sending another ripple through the bodies. Below, the screams of falling souls were swallowed by the dark.

"I can't carry you," I said finally, my voice cracking. "You'll have to climb on your own."

"I can't." His grip tightened, his voice a desperate whisper. "Please. I'll die if you leave me."

I couldn't say no. I hefted him onto my back. He dug in like a tick, limbs wrapped around my torso, nails buried in. We began the ascent slowly and laboriously.

My companion constantly whispered the increments as we got closer. Time was measured by the aches and strain of my muscles. Whenever I swayed, I felt his grip loosen, as if he were preparing to leap at the first sign of a fall.

A ledge of limbs jutted out. I needed a break. "We need to stop here." Each word was punctuated with panting.

"No, you'll keep climbing. I'm so close."

"I'm tired… We'll fall… if I don't stop…"

"I'll throw you if you stop."

I began to sweat, the companion slipping, his toes digging into my sides. Through gritted teeth, my fingers found purchase—not on the ledge but on his wrist, pulling it down around my chest like a brace. "Throw me," I said, "and see what you hold onto."

A catch in his breath. A loosening of his grip. "We'll stop here."

On the ledge, I could feel every fiber of my muscles scream as the lactic acid burned through my limbs. It dissipated as my breath lengthened and grew deep. My companion fidgeted, glancing up, then to me, then up again.

Once the ear-filling sound of my breath and heartbeat had quieted, a new sound filled the void—wet slaps of flesh, the crack of bones, laced with vulgarities. I looked to the companion and put a finger to my lips. He nodded, though his eyes continued to drift upward.

We climbed to the top of the mountain and stopped at the edge. Punching, gouging, kicking—no semblance of civility, just chaos.

We were unnoticed. But what do we do now?

"ENOUGH!!!"

The companion's shout cut through the clambering. All eyes turned to him—faces swollen, bodies cut and bruised. Before anyone could fill the silence:

"I was carried here. By him. We made it. We can all make it. We are close."

One by one, fists unclenched. It spread the way the groaning had spread when I pulled the companion free—outward, slow, inevitable. A man with a caved cheek lowered his arm. A woman stopped mid-kick, foot suspended, then settled. The silence that followed wasn't peace. It was far older than peace. Exhaustion that had finally found a direction.

The man with the caved cheek scoffed. "You think I want this scum to climb on me?"

"Maybe. But you're still here. So is he."

The truth silenced the man.

The companion stepped forward on atrophied legs. The frailness of his body, set against the strength of his voice, might have been what captivated them.

"Look at where we are." He gestured upward. "Look how close."

No one spoke.

"We've been tearing each other apart for—" he paused, searching for a word that no longer applied here, "—long enough. And we're still here. Still no closer." He steadied himself on my shoulder.

"But he carried me." The words came out plainly, without fanfare. "I couldn't climb, and he carried me anyway. We made it. Together."

Silence.

"If we stop fighting. If we work together. Lift each other. We can reach the light. All of us. And when we do—" his voice caught, then steadied, "—we don't leave them behind. We reach back and pull them up. Every last one."

The silence that followed was the longest I had heard in this place.

I don't know who moved first, but I knelt. I was tired, and they would come back for me. We were close. It wouldn't be long, right?

The woman who had been mid-kick knelt beside me. A few more souls gathered and settled next to me. I felt a knee rest on my shoulder; the weight began making ligaments and bones pop. Movement had been confined to just my arms.

At first I counted them. Then I stopped. Hundreds of climbers, and still no hands from heaven. I gave my hand to hurry the process—pulling them up, no compassion, just a means to an end.

That changed with the one who fell.

The sound of a scream approached, closer, closer. My arm shot out and the fallen grabbed hold. I pulled as they scrambled for purchase. They looked at me.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

I lifted them and they continued their ascent. The thank-yous continued until they became faint whispers, then nothing.

Climbers were no longer strangers. I learned to read them by their weight and grip—whether they were hesitant, desperate, or the kind who paused just long enough to steady themselves before moving on. I couldn't have said when that change happened. Somewhere between one hand and the next.

The words I could understand became fewer and fewer. Prayers went first. I recognized those longest, the cadence outlasting the meaning. Then even those dissolved into sounds I felt more than understood. Gratitude stopped sounding like anything I recognized, but I learned to feel it instead—a grip that didn't tear, a foot placed with care, the brief warmth of a body passing over mine.

My left arm broke quietly. Not in a moment of crisis—just weight distributed in the wrong place. The sound was like green wood splitting, and then my arm hung at a new angle. There was nothing else to do.

My right arm lasted longer. When it went, it was almost a relief. I had been bracing for it.

The eyes were worse only because of the dark that followed. Not an act of violence—just pressure, a slip, then nothing on one side. The other went slower, like a candle guttering. The dark came for my eyes eventually. I had known it would.

Some climbers had become inventive. They used my jaw as a foothold. My jaw fell to the abyss.

I don't know how many passed over me after that. I had stopped being able to count long before I lost my sight. Time had become something that happened to other people.

After that I was just there. Warm, I think. Listening and feeling for anything in the dark.

Then I felt it.

A hand, so warm. The warmth spread through my body. My arms straightened, with a sound like a key turning in a lock. Light returned—not gradually, but the way you remember something you thought was gone forever.

Then I saw her.

She was beautiful. She pulled me free.

Rising.

For the first time, I was weightless.

Below me the mountain groaned.

I knew that sound. I had heard it when I pulled the companion free—the keystone shifting, the ripple spreading outward through the bodies. I had heard it again when she pulled me loose. I knew what it meant.

The mountain came apart like the drowned coming up for air. Not violently. Just done. Bodies separating, the architecture of suffering coming undone, souls falling together into the dark below. Their screams were not the screams I had learned to recognize. There was something else in them. Surprise, maybe. The shock of suddenly being singular again.

I heard him before I saw him. His voice cutting through the chaos the way it had at the summit—distinct, unmistakable. He was screaming, arms flailing, finding nothing.

I didn't look away. I thought I owed him that much.

The dark took him the way it always claimed the fallen.

She continued to rise, and I rose with her, and the light, when it finally came, was exactly as warm as I had always believed it would be.

Who the fuck knew that the little tab on your mattress is actually imbued with runes to keep the Old Ones out of your dreams?

Not me.

Now my wife is speaking backwards and building effigies in the front yard. My cats are surrounding said effigies with crucified rodents. Top it off, I'm not sleeping, because someone named Almcarmedith wants to bestow upon me the knowledge of madness, and his followers are camping in my yard.

I tried calling the cops. They asked if I ripped the tab off my mattress. I told them I had. They just shook their heads and left.

I guess I'm a priest of the cult of Almcarmedith now. My wife is my priestess.

So listen to me.

For the love of Almcarmedith — do not rip the tab off your mattress.

Who the fuck knew that the little tag on your mattress is actually imbued with runes to keep the Old Ones out of your dreams?

Not me.

Now my wife is speaking backwards and building effigies in the front yard. My cats are surrounding said effigies with crucified rodents. Top it off, I'm not sleeping, because someone named Almcarmedith wants to bestow upon me the knowledge of madness, and his followers are camping in my yard.

I tried calling the cops. They asked if I ripped the tag off my mattress. I told them I had. They just shook their heads and left.

I guess I'm a priest of the cult of Almcarmedith now. My wife is my priestess.

So listen to me.

For the love of Almcarmedith. Do not rip the tag off your mattress.

I Died and You Liked It

​This is my last attempt.

​I've no idea how I got here. Either I owed the wrong people money or I pissed someone off. But I've been buried alive.

​They left me my phone and a battery pack. They knew no one was coming for me.

​My first instinct was to call the cops. But no signal. So I went to their site, filled out an online form, and even used their janky AI chatbot. All for no response. The sites are garbage, or they just don't believe me.

​I went to social media, but my post got taken down for violating community guidelines on graphic content. So now I'm posting here.

​At first, my posts were showered with likes, upvotes, and comments. Every notification gave me hope.

​But the comments on what to do were useless. Like use a knife, or just dig out. Requests for pictures as proof didn’t help either. People thought it was just a shitty ARG.

​I even uploaded a picture of my face pressed against the raw wood, my eyes wide with panic. Within minutes, it was a meme. Someone photoshopped me in 'wacky locations'. Someone else posted Scorsese's 'absolute cinema' meme.

​The algorithm loved it. My notifications blew up one final time. A steady dopamine drip of useless upvotes while my lungs screamed for oxygen. I went viral, and I went ignored.

​However, after every repost, the comments became less and less. Each post became like me buried. Buried under a landslide of newer, louder noise.

​Now, even the joke is old. The digital tide has moved on.

​The battery pack died an hour ago. My screen just flashed a red warning: 1%.

​The light is fading, and the air is gone. Nobody is coming. They all watched me die, and they gave it a thumbs up.

I Died and You Liked It

​This is my last attempt.

​I've no idea how I got here. Either I owed the wrong people money or I pissed someone off. But I've been buried alive.

​They left me my phone and a battery pack. They knew no one was coming for me.

​My first instinct was to call the cops. But no signal. So I went to their site, filled out an online form, and even used their janky AI chatbot. All for no response. The sites are garbage, or they just don't believe me.

​I went to social media, but my post got taken down for violating community guidelines on graphic content. So now I'm posting here.

​At first, my posts were showered with likes, upvotes, and comments. Every notification gave me hope.

​But the comments on what to do were useless. Like use a knife, or just dig out. Requests for pictures as proof didn’t help either. People thought it was just a shitty ARG.

​I even uploaded a picture of my face pressed against the raw wood, my eyes wide with panic. Within minutes, it was a meme. Someone photoshopped me in 'wacky locations'. Someone else posted Scorsese's 'absolute cinema' meme.

​The algorithm loved it. My notifications blew up one final time. A steady dopamine drip of useless upvotes while my lungs screamed for oxygen. I went viral, and I went ignored.

​However, after every repost, the comments became less and less. Each post became like me buried. Buried under a landslide of newer, louder noise.

​Now, even the joke is old. The digital tide has moved on.

​The battery pack died an hour ago. My screen just flashed a red warning: 1%.

​The light is fading, and the air is gone. Nobody is coming. They all watched me die, and they gave it a thumbs up.

​This is my last attempt.

​I've no idea how I got here. Either I owed the wrong people money or I pissed someone off. But I've been buried alive.

​They left me my phone and a battery pack. They knew no one was coming for me.

​My first instinct was to call the cops. But no signal. So I went to their site, filled out an online form, and even used their janky AI chatbot. All for no response. The sites are garbage, or they just don't believe me.

​I went to social media, but my post got taken down for violating community guidelines on graphic content. So now I'm posting here.

​At first, my posts were showered with likes, upvotes, and comments. Every notification gave me hope.

​But the comments on what to do were useless. Like use a knife, or just dig out. Requests for pictures as proof didn’t help either. People thought it was just a shitty ARG.

​I even uploaded a picture of my face pressed against the raw wood, my eyes wide with panic. Within minutes, it was a meme. Someone photoshopped me in 'wacky locations'. Someone else posted Scorsese's 'absolute cinema' meme.

​The algorithm loved it. My notifications blew up one final time. A steady dopamine drip of useless upvotes while my lungs screamed for oxygen. I went viral, and I went ignored.

​However, after every repost, the comments became less and less. Each post became like me buried. Buried under a landslide of newer, louder noise.

​Now, even the joke is old. The digital tide has moved on.

​The battery pack died an hour ago. My screen just flashed a red warning: 1%.

​The light is fading, and the air is gone. Nobody is coming. They all watched me die, and they gave it a thumbs up.

Growing up in a rural town, there were a few things that always remained certain: a snowy winter makes for a short fire season, the fair's always the sixth of June and December seventh, and the importance of being safe and aware of wild animals. My parents told me never to go near the crying in the forest. I always thought it was a mountain lion or something, but last night I learned I was wrong.

Yesterday evening I was splitting rounds with my dog Chief and he just froze. He stared at the treeline, his head cocked left then right as if he were picking up a distant frequency. Now you should know that Chief is a seasoned hunting dog. He isn’t gun shy and Chief’s the only dog I’ve owned who has run off a bear. I looked to the treeline, I didn’t see anything, “What is it boy?”

Chief's fur stood up on end and he began to snarl and bark. "What's gotten into you?"

Before I could grab his collar Chief darted to the treeline. I yelled for him to come back. Chief had an amazing recall, and even when he was a pup he knew to come back when I called. I called again, but he wasn’t coming back.

“Damn it.” I cursed.

I wasn't about to run into the woods unprepared, but I didn't have much time. I dashed into the house, grabbed my rifle from the closet, a flashlight, Chief's leash, and I shot a text to the Sheriff James to let him know I was going into the woods to grab Chief.

Rifle slung over my shoulder, I headed into the woods. I began to call for Chief and was only answered by my echo. I must have run two miles when I first saw it. Hanging from the tree were totems made of twin sticks and bones.

“What in the world?”

I felt my heart skip a beat, this was some horror film shit and I just want to find my dog. I kept moving my feet one in front of the other. The woods were silent and all I could hear was the steady beat of my heart and my ragged breath. I had to fill the silence with something,

“Chief! Chief! Where are you boy?!?”

The sun had finally set and that’s when I heard the crying. I turned on my flashlight, I wasn’t about to lose my dog. My heart began pounding, I began shouting Chief's name between each breath. The only thing I could hear were my frantic footsteps and that crying. Then a familiar sound cut through the panic. It was a weak whimper, it had to be Chief. I stopped and tried to zero in where it was coming from. I looked up and there were more of the totems hanging from the trees. I began shouting for Chief and followed the whimpering. The whimpers were getting louder, but so was that crying.
That's when I saw Chief, his tail tucked and trembling.

Relief washed over me as I rushed over to him, “Oh my God, Chief come here.”

I clipped the leash to his collar, he didn't move, he just whimpered and stared straight ahead. I couldn't see anything, but the crying was close. I raised my flashlight, and there it was...

A great sickly tree loomed before me, its gnarled branches twisted like skeletal claws reaching out. Grotesque contorted faces protruded from the bark, their expressions frozen in agony. As my flashlight lingered upon it, I began to notice that the tree was adorned with a mismatch of flesh.

I felt the hairs rise on my neck.

That’s when one of the face's eyes ticked and noticed me. It whispered, "Please don't go."

The other faces eyes jittered and fixed on me and the mouths all began muttering, “Don’t go!”

“Don’t go!”
“Don’t go!”
“Don’t go!”
“Don’t go!”

Frozen with fear, I clutched Chief's leash tightly, my mind reeling. A gust of wind blew through the tree and each mouth of the tree went slack and screamed an ear splitting shriek.

Without a second thought, I yanked on Chief's leash. I was pulling Chief, but he began to get with the program and started running with me.I followed the totems to find my way out. I could still hear the voices growing fainter and fainter “Don’t go!”

As we ran, I saw the dancing of red and blue lights cutting through the darkness. Relief rushed through my veins at the sight of home and the Sheriff. James sat on the porch and greeted us with, "How far did Chief go?"

James bent down and pet Chief.

"I- I don't know three miles or so," my voice was shaky breathing in the night.

Sheriff James' posture shifted and he leaned in and asked. "What did the tree say?"

I'm not a religious guy, but I get it.

The idea that there's a grand plan or even something beyond the mortal plane. While it's not what I'd consider a conversation starter, it could be a cornerstone to identity. At least that's what my CH 202 professor spouts on about.

Personally, I think talking about politics and religion is like showing people your genitals. No one really wants to see except for the chosen few. And people who like sharing that are weird. Sarah was an exception to that rule on both accounts.

We often would walk to and from CH 202 together. Sarah's cute and funny. Outside of the routine we've gone to the movies and grabbed coffee from time to time "friends". The relationship was having an identity crisis. It was clear we liked each other, but a confirmation was needed to cement the status of the relationship.

The idea of making it "official" is always when I fumble the bag. Movie and coffee dates were low stakes. However, wait too long, you stall out in the friend zone, go too fast and you look like a creep.

The train of thought was interrupted when Sarah asked, "So, I'm playing a gig on Friday. Would you want to..."

Damn, she had the same read I had. It was time to shit or get off the pot.

"Yeah I'd love to go. Where are you playing and what time is it?"

"It's at 7:00 and I'll IM you the address."

Friday came with the typical pre-date ritual. Shower, dishevel my hair, Mapquest the address, and clean clothes. Before the date, rehearse greetings and small talk on the car ride there.

I had a lot of time to practice, the venue was an hour and half away from the university. A long drive for a date would be weird, but small artists often take what they can get and Sarah was really cute.

When I pulled up to the address. I had to do a double take, just to make sure the address matched with the printed MapQuest instructions.

"Is this right?"

The address was a small warehouse. I wasn't expecting this, maybe a coffee shop, or a theater, or something. Hesitantly, I killed the engine and got out of the car. I didn't see any cars in the parking lot.

I opened the door and wandered into the warehouse. The lights were off, but the room at the end of the hallway was lit. I made my way to the light and there she was on the stage.

Sarah was focused on tuning her bass. The uncertainty fled when I saw her. Sarah looked like an indie rock goddess. She gestured for me to come over.

"Hey! I'm so glad you made it."

"I wasn't sure if this was the right place."

"Our church moves around a lot."

It dawned on me that this "gig" was church music and a sermon. Not terrible, just different.

"Is it going to be a small service? I didn't see any cars out front."

"Oh they'll come, they're just a little late."

"Sarah," what followed was a fast flow of Spanish, I think.

He was a towering gaunt man with slicked-back hair and invited himself into the conversation. His stare had a weight to it that made me grossly aware of my vital organs.

"Pastor Smith," Sarah spoke Spanish and ended it with "Peter"

Pastor Smith's hand raised up to be shaken. I looked at the hand, the long spider-like fingers splayed out. Social etiquette would say shake his hand, but the primitive part of my brain saw this as a bear trap.

I reached for the spidery appendage. Pastor Smith's fingers coiled around my hand with a vice grip and he wrenched me into an embrace. I was enveloped by the overwhelming figure. He whispered something, but it didn't sound like Spanish or any language I know.

He broke the embrace, his eyes bore into me. "Welcome to the congregation." He looked to Sarah and beckoned her to come with him.

I slumped back into the pew. What the hell? I hadn’t noticed during the exchange, but the congregation had filled the room. Small talk permeated the room, but the unmistakable sound of metallic rattling made my head snap to the doors. They were locking the doors. It was a lock in, churches did that right? This would be an hour and they’d let us out right?

Pastor Smith addressed the congregation and everyone rose from the pews. People to my right and left eagerly shook my hand. The greetings in that language were silenced by the gesture. The congregation then began singing a hymn. Sarah played the bass, I watched her. She would occasionally meet my glance and smile.

Okay this is normal, few hymns, the creepy pastor says his piece, and we leave in peace.

Three hymns later and Pastor Smith motioned for everyone to sit. Sarah came down from the stage and sat with me. She mouthed a small "hey" and held my hand. My heart flooded, the sounds of the sermon became background noise. This was punctuated with "Peter!"

Heads snapped to stare at me. I could feel their eyes weigh heavy on me.

"Pastor Smith's welcoming you, before we thank God."

This did not comfort me.
The congregation began to speak in tongues. The blend of rolling tongues, mumblings and muttering, all culminating into sound with semblance of speech. I looked to Sarah, she spoke in tongues too. Her hand in mine slid down to my ring finger. She was enraptured in prayer. Her grip tightened and she wrenched my finger back. I involuntarily spoke in tongues as the white hot pain pulsed through my hand. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Sarah broke my finger.

"What the f-"

I heard then. The congregation was speaking in unison.

"Our faith shall be witnessed through pain, pain will show our devotion, devotion will fill us like wine, wine that will welcome God and drip from his lips."

The chant repeated. I'm leaving. I started to push my way through the pews. I made it to the doors, the chain didn't give. I began to scream and yank at the door to no avail.

"Peter," the chanting had stopped, "faith requires patience. I promise, you will be able to leave at the end of the service."

"I-I want to leave."

"Peter, please take a seat."

A nod cued the ushers to grab me. I swung and connected to a chin, my shoulder was grabbed turning my wild swings into restrained thrashes and flails. They hauled me back to the pews.

One of the ushers readjusted his grip, a thumb wedged behind my ear while finger nails lodged into my neck. Sarah's fingers weaved with my own. My eyes ticked to meet hers.  I couldn't make out the expression on Sarah's face. Was it regret? Sadness? Or something else?

"It's time for the gift of tears. Let these drops become a tempest of devotion!"

A tear rolled down Sarah's face. Sobs erupted from the congregation. Some fell to their knees and wept in exaltation, some stood with face in hands, but there was a tempest of tears and the howls of the devoted.

"I'm sorry, but trust me," Sarah snapped another finger.

My legs sprawled and my screams joined the storm.

A loud crack. My eyes found the source. One of the devoted’s arms had snapped to an unnatural geometry. Another crack as a leg snapped to reveal the gleam of a white protruding bone. Were they doing this to themselves? My eyes fixed on a member of the congregation, rocking back and forth. An unseen force was twisting his arm like a rag.

Sarah kept snapping my fingers one after another as she sobbed repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

A thunderous crack was in my ear. Christ did they break my neck?

The usher’s grip went slack, his head rolled limply as I dropped to the floor. I ripped my hand away from Sarah with no more fingers to break. I looked at Sarah, her jaw had been broken and hung askew.

“He has come!”

Through stinging tears I scanned the crowd for Pastor Smith. At the pulpit, he stood, eyes were no more than ruined sockets.

“I’ve borne witness with this earthly vessel and soul. Tonight his wine has been poured and he has drunk deeply upon our devotion.”

I struggled to my feet and stumbled over the crumpled congregation members. The door was still locked.

“Peter.”

I looked up and the pastor was behind me, “Go with God.”

The lock and chain fell to the floor and I booked it to my car. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know if Sarah was still breathing. Self-preservation was my only concern.

I made it to the hospital where my fingers were x-rayed, bandaged, and splinted. The police came and asked me about what happened.  I handed them the printed out MapQuest route. The police came back the next morning and said the warehouse was empty. They chalked it up to me being a dumb kid who probably got his hand smashed at a kegger while trespassing. But I knew they wouldn’t find anything.

Faith must be witnessed.

I'm not a religious guy, but I get it.

The idea that there's a grand plan or even something beyond the mortal plane. While it's not what I'd consider a conversation starter, it could be a cornerstone to identity. At least that's what my CH 202 professor spouts on about.

Personally, I think talking about politics and religion is like showing people your genitals. No one really wants to see except for the chosen few. And people who like sharing that are weird. Sarah was an exception to that rule on both accounts.

We often would walk to and from CH 202 together. Sarah's cute and funny. Outside of the routine we've gone to the movies and grabbed coffee from time to time "friends". The relationship was having an identity crisis. It was clear we liked each other, but a confirmation was needed to cement the status of the relationship.

The idea of making it "official" is always when I fumble the bag. Movie and coffee dates were low stakes. However, wait too long, you stall out in the friend zone, go too fast and you look like a creep.

The train of thought was interrupted when Sarah asked, "So, I'm playing a gig on Friday. Would you want to..."

Damn, she had the same read I had. It was time to shit or get off the pot.

"Yeah I'd love to go. Where are you playing and what time is it?"

"It's at 7:00 and I'll IM you the address."

Friday came with the typical pre-date ritual. Shower, dishevel my hair, Mapquest the address, and clean clothes. Before the date, rehearse greetings and small talk on the car ride there.

I had a lot of time to practice, the venue was an hour and half away from the university. A long drive for a date would be weird, but small artists often take what they can get and Sarah was really cute.

When I pulled up to the address. I had to do a double take, just to make sure the address matched with the printed MapQuest instructions.

"Is this right?"

The address was a small warehouse. I wasn't expecting this, maybe a coffee shop, or a theater, or something. Hesitantly, I killed the engine and got out of the car. I didn't see any cars in the parking lot.

I opened the door and wandered into the warehouse. The lights were off, but the room at the end of the hallway was lit. I made my way to the light and there she was on the stage.

Sarah was focused on tuning her bass. The uncertainty fled when I saw her. Sarah looked like an indie rock goddess. She gestured for me to come over.

"Hey! I'm so glad you made it."

"I wasn't sure if this was the right place."

"Our church moves around a lot."

It dawned on me that this "gig" was church music and a sermon. Not terrible, just different.

"Is it going to be a small service? I didn't see any cars out front."

"Oh they'll come, they're just a little late."

"Sarah," what followed was a fast flow of Spanish, I think.

He was a towering gaunt man with slicked-back hair and invited himself into the conversation. His stare had a weight to it that made me grossly aware of my vital organs.

"Pastor Smith," Sarah spoke Spanish and ended it with "Peter"

Pastor Smith's hand raised up to be shaken. I looked at the hand, the long spider-like fingers splayed out. Social etiquette would say shake his hand, but the primitive part of my brain saw this as a bear trap.

I reached for the spidery appendage. Pastor Smith's fingers coiled around my hand with a vice grip and he wrenched me into an embrace. I was enveloped by the overwhelming figure. He whispered something, but it didn't sound like Spanish or any language I know.

He broke the embrace, his eyes bore into me. "Welcome to the congregation." He looked to Sarah and beckoned her to come with him.

I slumped back into the pew. What the hell? I hadn’t noticed during the exchange, but the congregation had filled the room. Small talk permeated the room, but the unmistakable sound of metallic rattling made my head snap to the doors. They were locking the doors. It was a lock in, churches did that right? This would be an hour and they’d let us out right?

Pastor Smith addressed the congregation and everyone rose from the pews. People to my right and left eagerly shook my hand. The greetings in that language were silenced by the gesture. The congregation then began singing a hymn. Sarah played the bass, I watched her. She would occasionally meet my glance and smile.

Okay this is normal, few hymns, the creepy pastor says his piece, and we leave in peace.

Three hymns later and Pastor Smith motioned for everyone to sit. Sarah came down from the stage and sat with me. She mouthed a small "hey" and held my hand. My heart flooded, the sounds of the sermon became background noise. This was punctuated with "Peter!"

Heads snapped to stare at me. I could feel their eyes weigh heavy on me.

"Pastor Smith's welcoming you, before we thank God."

This did not comfort me.
The congregation began to speak in tongues. The blend of rolling tongues, mumblings and muttering, all culminating into sound with semblance of speech. I looked to Sarah, she spoke in tongues too. Her hand in mine slid down to my ring finger. She was enraptured in prayer. Her grip tightened and she wrenched my finger back. I involuntarily spoke in tongues as the white hot pain pulsed through my hand. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Sarah broke my finger.

"What the f-"

I heard then. The congregation was speaking in unison.

"Our faith shall be witnessed through pain, pain will show our devotion, devotion will fill us like wine, wine that will welcome God and drip from his lips."

The chant repeated. I'm leaving. I started to push my way through the pews. I made it to the doors, the chain didn't give. I began to scream and yank at the door to no avail.

"Peter," the chanting had stopped, "faith requires patience. I promise, you will be able to leave at the end of the service."

"I-I want to leave."

"Peter, please take a seat."

A nod cued the ushers to grab me. I swung and connected to a chin, my shoulder was grabbed turning my wild swings into restrained thrashes and flails. They hauled me back to the pews.

One of the ushers readjusted his grip, a thumb wedged behind my ear while finger nails lodged into my neck. Sarah's fingers weaved with my own. My eyes ticked to meet hers.  I couldn't make out the expression on Sarah's face. Was it regret? Sadness? Or something else?

"It's time for the gift of tears. Let these drops become a tempest of devotion!"

A tear rolled down Sarah's face. Sobs erupted from the congregation. Some fell to their knees and wept in exaltation, some stood with face in hands, but there was a tempest of tears and the howls of the devoted.

"I'm sorry, but trust me," Sarah snapped another finger.

My legs sprawled and my screams joined the storm.

A loud crack. My eyes found the source. One of the devoted’s arms had snapped to an unnatural geometry. Another crack as a leg snapped to reveal the gleam of a white protruding bone. Were they doing this to themselves? My eyes fixed on a member of the congregation, rocking back and forth. An unseen force was twisting his arm like a rag.

Sarah kept snapping my fingers one after another as she sobbed repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

A thunderous crack was in my ear. Christ did they break my neck?

The usher’s grip went slack, his head rolled limply as I dropped to the floor. I ripped my hand away from Sarah with no more fingers to break. I looked at Sarah, her jaw had been broken and hung askew.

“He has come!”

Through stinging tears I scanned the crowd for Pastor Smith. At the pulpit, he stood, eyes were no more than ruined sockets.

“I’ve borne witness with this earthly vessel and soul. Tonight his wine has been poured and he has drunk deeply upon our devotion.”

I struggled to my feet and stumbled over the crumpled congregation members. The door was still locked.

“Peter.”

I looked up and the pastor was behind me, “Go with God.”

The lock and chain fell to the floor and I booked it to my car. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know if Sarah was still breathing. Self-preservation was my only concern.

I made it to the hospital where my fingers were x-rayed, bandaged, and splinted. The police came and asked me about what happened.  I handed them the printed out MapQuest route. The police came back the next morning and said the warehouse was empty. They chalked it up to me being a dumb kid who probably got his hand smashed at a kegger while trespassing. But I knew they wouldn’t find anything.

Faith must be witnessed.

I'm not a religious guy, but I get it.

The idea that there's a grand plan or even something beyond the mortal plane. While it's not what I'd consider a conversation starter, it could be a cornerstone to identity. At least that's what my CH 202 professor spouts on about.

Personally, I think talking about politics and religion is like showing people your genitals. No one really wants to see except for the chosen few. And people who like sharing that are weird. Sarah was an exception to that rule on both accounts.

We often would walk to and from CH 202 together. Sarah's cute and funny. Outside of the routine we've gone to the movies and grabbed coffee from time to time "friends". The relationship was having an identity crisis. It was clear we liked each other, but a confirmation was needed to cement the status of the relationship.

The idea of making it "official" is always when I fumble the bag. Movie and coffee dates were low stakes. However, wait too long, you stall out in the friend zone, go too fast and you look like a creep.

The train of thought was interrupted when Sarah asked, "So, I'm playing a gig on Friday. Would you want to..."

Damn, she had the same read I had. It was time to shit or get off the pot.

"Yeah I'd love to go. Where are you playing and what time is it?"

"It's at 7:00 and I'll IM you the address."

Friday came with the typical pre-date ritual. Shower, dishevel my hair, Mapquest the address, and clean clothes. Before the date, rehearse greetings and small talk on the car ride there.

I had a lot of time to practice, the venue was an hour and half away from the university. A long drive for a date would be weird, but small artists often take what they can get and Sarah was really cute.

When I pulled up to the address. I had to do a double take, just to make sure the address matched with the printed MapQuest instructions.

"Is this right?"

The address was a small warehouse. I wasn't expecting this, maybe a coffee shop, or a theater, or something. Hesitantly, I killed the engine and got out of the car. I didn't see any cars in the parking lot.

I opened the door and wandered into the warehouse. The lights were off, but the room at the end of the hallway was lit. I made my way to the light and there she was on the stage.

Sarah was focused on tuning her bass. The uncertainty fled when I saw her. Sarah looked like an indie rock goddess. She gestured for me to come over.

"Hey! I'm so glad you made it."

"I wasn't sure if this was the right place."

"Our church moves around a lot."

It dawned on me that this "gig" was church music and a sermon. Not terrible, just different.

"Is it going to be a small service? I didn't see any cars out front."

"Oh they'll come, they're just a little late."

"Sarah," what followed was a fast flow of Spanish, I think.

He was a towering gaunt man with slicked-back hair and invited himself into the conversation. His stare had a weight to it that made me grossly aware of my vital organs.

"Pastor Smith," Sarah spoke Spanish and ended it with "Peter"

Pastor Smith's hand raised up to be shaken. I looked at the hand, the long spider-like fingers splayed out. Social etiquette would say shake his hand, but the primitive part of my brain saw this as a bear trap.

I reached for the spidery appendage. Pastor Smith's fingers coiled around my hand with a vice grip and he wrenched me into an embrace. I was enveloped by the overwhelming figure. He whispered something, but it didn't sound like Spanish or any language I know.

He broke the embrace, his eyes bore into me. "Welcome to the congregation." He looked to Sarah and beckoned her to come with him.

I slumped back into the pew. What the hell? I hadn’t noticed during the exchange, but the congregation had filled the room. Small talk permeated the room, but the unmistakable sound of metallic rattling made my head snap to the doors. They were locking the doors. It was a lock in, churches did that right? This would be an hour and they’d let us out right?

Pastor Smith addressed the congregation and everyone rose from the pews. People to my right and left eagerly shook my hand. The greetings in that language were silenced by the gesture. The congregation then began singing a hymn. Sarah played the bass, I watched her. She would occasionally meet my glance and smile.

Okay this is normal, few hymns, the creepy pastor says his piece, and we leave in peace.

Three hymns later and Pastor Smith motioned for everyone to sit. Sarah came down from the stage and sat with me. She mouthed a small "hey" and held my hand. My heart flooded, the sounds of the sermon became background noise. This was punctuated with "Peter!"

Heads snapped to stare at me. I could feel their eyes weigh heavy on me.

"Pastor Smith's welcoming you, before we thank God."

This did not comfort me.

The congregation began to speak in tongues. The blend of rolling tongues, mumblings and muttering, all culminating into sound with semblance of speech. I looked to Sarah, she spoke in tongues too. Her hand in mine slid down to my ring finger. She was enraptured in prayer. Her grip tightened and she wrenched my finger back. I involuntarily spoke in tongues as the white hot pain pulsed through my hand. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Sarah broke my finger.

"What the f-"

I heard then. The congregation was speaking in unison.

"Our faith shall be witnessed through pain, pain will show our devotion, devotion will fill us like wine, wine that will welcome God and drip from his lips."

The chant repeated. I'm leaving. I started to push my way through the pews. I made it to the doors, the chain didn't give. I began to scream and yank at the door to no avail.

"Peter," the chanting had stopped, "faith requires patience. I promise, you will be able to leave at the end of the service."

"I-I want to leave."

"Peter, please take a seat."

A nod cued the ushers to grab me. I swung and connected to a chin, my shoulder was grabbed turning my wild swings into restrained thrashes and flails. They hauled me back to the pews.

One of the ushers readjusted his grip, a thumb wedged behind my ear while finger nails lodged into my neck. Sarah's fingers weaved with my own. My eyes ticked to meet hers. I couldn't make out the expression on Sarah's face. Was it regret? Sadness? Or something else?

"It's time for the gift of tears. Let these drops become a tempest of devotion!"

A tear rolled down Sarah's face. Sobs erupted from the congregation. Some fell to their knees and wept in exaltation, some stood with face in hands, but there was a tempest of tears and the howls of the devoted.

"I'm sorry, but trust me," Sarah snapped another finger.

My legs sprawled and my screams joined the storm.

A loud crack. My eyes found the source. One of the devoted’s arms had snapped to an unnatural geometry. Another crack as a leg snapped to reveal the gleam of a white protruding bone. Were they doing this to themselves? My eyes fixed on a member of the congregation, rocking back and forth. An unseen force was twisting his arm like a rag.

Sarah kept snapping my fingers one after another as she sobbed repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

A thunderous crack was in my ear. Christ did they break my neck?

The usher’s grip went slack, his head rolled limply as I dropped to the floor. I ripped my hand away from Sarah with no more fingers to break. I looked at Sarah, her jaw had been broken and hung askew.

“He has come!”

Through stinging tears I scanned the crowd for Pastor Smith. At the pulpit, he stood, eyes were no more than ruined sockets.

“I’ve borne witness with this earthly vessel and soul. Tonight his wine has been poured and he has drunk deeply upon our devotion.”

I struggled to my feet and stumbled over the crumpled congregation members. The door was still locked.

“Peter.”

I looked up and the pastor was behind me, “Go with God.”

The lock and chain fell to the floor and I booked it to my car. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know if Sarah was still breathing. Self-preservation was my only concern.

I made it to the hospital where my fingers were x-rayed, bandaged, and splinted. The police came and asked me about what happened. I handed them the printed out MapQuest route.The police came back the next morning and said the warehouse was empty. They chalked it up to me being a dumb kid who probably got his hand smashed at a kegger while trespassing. But I knew they wouldn’t find anything.

Faith must be witnessed.

You came home early.

It almost ruined the surprise.

You didn't even notice me when you hung up your coat.

I was right there, and you didn't even see me.

You went through your whole evening routine

Watched TV, talked with your mom.

I couldn't hear the complete conversation, but I didn't want to interrupt.

You turned the lights off, and you didn't see me walk into your room.

I see you scrolling on your phone.

The only light emanating from your screen.

You look tired.

I can wait, because it was so easy getting in your house.

You left the door unlocked.

I move silently, a shadow in the corner.

Watching your every move as you scroll.

The only sound is the hushed breathing between us.

A floorboard creaks under my weight, that you think it's just the settling of an old house.

I'm close now.

You slip under the covers, and I linger a little longer.

The room becomes a symphony of soft breaths.

As you drift to sleep, another step, and I am at the foot of your bed.

I cannot wait to break the silence, and be in this empty house again.

You came home early.

It almost ruined the surprise.

You didn't even notice me when you hung up your coat.

I was right there, and you didn't even see me.

You went through your whole evening routine

Watched TV, talked with your mom.

I couldn't hear the complete conversation, but I didn't want to interrupt.

You turned the lights off, and you didn't see me walk into your room.

I see you scrolling on your phone.

The only light emanating from your screen.

You look tired.

I can wait, because it was so easy getting in your house.

You left the door unlocked.

I move silently, a shadow in the corner.

Watching your every move as you scroll.

The only sound is the hushed breathing between us.

A floorboard creaks under my weight, that you think it's just the settling of an old house.

I'm close now.

You slip under the covers, and I linger a little longer.

The room becomes a symphony of soft breaths.

As you drift to sleep, another step, and I am at the foot of your bed.

I cannot wait to break the silence, and be in this empty house again.

​I'm a passenger princess.

I don't drive, parallel park, or follow the rules of the road.

I control the stereo, temperature, and the destination.

My man picks me up every day.

Same spot, same time.

​So like any day after work, I clock out and go to his car.

A white Civic in the third stall.

I pop the door and plop onto my throne.

Normally, my baby knows better than to talk to me right after my shift.

​At first, nothing seemed off, but that changed when a foul smell began to tickle my nose.

My face scrunched at the sour odor.

Then I noticed the lack of music or dull audiobooks.

Normally, I'm serenaded by some indie alt-rock or a sci-fi audiobook.

But nothing. With that, I looked over and my stomach lurched.

​In the driver's seat was a large, greasy man with his damp hair plastered to his head. He gazed out the window; he didn't seem to notice me.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry. I thought this was my boyfriend's car."

​I reached for the handle, but his deep voice made me freeze.

"No, this is your boyfriend's car. He's in the trunk."

​The lock clicked and the car began to go into reverse, pulling out of the parking lot.

"If you scream, I'll slit your throat like your boyfriend."

​The knife glinted as we merged onto the empty highway. As the mile markers became less frequent, I realized I’d finally lost control of the stereo, the temperature, and the destination.

​We pulled into a deserted rest stop.

He killed the engine. The handle was right there, the same one I'd reached for an hour ago. I didn't move. Some part of me was still waiting to be told where we were going. His door opened. Gravel crunched as he came around the back.

Now I'm trunk trash.