There is nothing beautiful about madness. It sends you questioning everything in your mind and unraveling the very fabric of who or what I consider myself to be. And for someone whose mind has been her only constant for centuries? Millennia? Oh hell I don’t know anymore.
Well, my point is, madness is damn infuriating.
Thus when the door cracked and my prison flooded with new air… I understandably thought that my own little brand of insanity had devised a new fantasy to torture itself, or me, whichever, with.
Madness pits the mind against its bearer, creates conflict and partitions where there should be cohesion and united rule. Thus, when he walked in I knew with almost complete certainty that my mind had outdone itself. Tan, golden almost, with cheekbones a woman could cut herself on. His probably impressive silhouette was ruined a little by the strange clunky equipment he wore. Climbing ropes by the look of them. He held an infernally bright lantern with long fingers.
Just the right amount of strange, annoying and tempting to make me want to believe it. That and it would mean the doors had opened. Let us not forget the important part of the hell I put myself through. The man was just a nice touch.
I watched him for a little. Madness is not always unkind; he was pleasant on the eyes, or to the mind’s eye, or to the mind. Again I had possessed much time to come to conclusions as to which and what is reality only to throw them out in favor of another; it was far easier to simply let the distinctions pass in a flurry.
But inevitably the novelty passed. I became bored with his little enthusiastic discoveries around my prison. You’d think the man had never seen a divining alter before, or that I had never seen …really the entire practice of my mind is beyond me at times.
The golden man with the strange lantern continued to poke around my little abode. More so, the sweet smells of unstale air continued to fill the prison and my mind’s… nose? I sighed. Really, maybe I was finally dying if I couldn’t come up with anything different than a pretty boy and the concept of freedom to entice me into belief and then disappointment.
“Anything else? At all?” I questioned aloud. I did that sometimes, it made me feel more insane than I am, or perhaps as insane as I was. But it paid to use the vocal chords, as dry and brittle as they are.
The man blinked and froze; I could almost hear his heart skip its rhythmic drum. Well that was odd. As absolutely brilliant as I am, my war with my traitorous mind has never been much of a stalemate. It tries its ploys, I entertain them…but time makes one a skeptic and I’ve had more time than most. “I get it, move on please.” I voiced again. As much as the man was acting as if he’d heard me, wouldn’t I, my mind, know that and act accordingly?
His eyes widened in the dark, head swiveling around. He said something, a question of gibberish. It was a word I didn’t understand, something foreign …. My mouth opened wider, I felt the dry sinews of my lips crack. It was nothing I had ever heard before, not an amalgamation or the dozen languages and dialects I’d memorized… nothing my mind could make up, unless it had truly bested me this time.
I was willing to take the risk, after all, I had to mess up sometime…. The man retreated the way he’d come, his steps quieter and the smile gone from his face. I slipped from my perch and padded after him.