“The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” – Hunter S. Thompson
A chill washed over him, like icy fingers dancing their way up and down his spine, followed by a sudden emptiness. It was like the world had just left him, like his spirit had just vacated his body. He felt dead. Numb. He could have said he wasn’t feeling any emotions, but despair, utter, hopeless despair is definitely an emotion. If he was dead, then he probably shouldn’t be feeling anything. And he was feeling something. Though he wished he wasn’t.
All that remained now were memories. Cold, distant memories that hung on to him, leaving their marks on his soul even as he tried to push them out.
The candles on the altar flickered and went out. No breeze, no gust of wind, no outside interference of any kind. Just like that, out. A heavy darkness blanketed the chapel, leaving the praying priest clutching his rosary in what now seemed like a stagnant void. Instead of turning to look to see what could have doused the softly flickering flames, he closed his eyes and took a slow deep breath while making the sign of the cross. As he exhaled, his breath crystallized in the now near-freezing temperatures that had settled in the space around the altar; he could feel the chill gripping him like icy hands dancing on his skin. Struggling to maintain his focus and remain calm, a nagging fear crept over him, keeping him from remembering where he was at in the liturgy.
It was among the first stirrings of wakefulness that I heard it, felt it, a resonance within my being, and at its utterance I came to be. I was awakened then, before I was, from a dreamless eternal slumber by a whisper, a voice in the swirlings of Chaos, a pure and perfect melody upon which the lyric of my name was carried. That was then, before my becoming, before I returned to my slumber many ages later, only to be awakened again. This time was different: I was taken from my rest by a hum – a dull roar that in its persistence crept into my dreams and slowly, relentlessly pried me from them. But there was no name to be heard, save the word lost in a world-song that had forgotten it and drowned out its melody.
He pulled skin and muscle aside, his fingers finding the bone beneath as they tore their way through flesh. Working his fingers between the tight spaces, tendons and cartilage popped and snapped as it released from the ribs, which in turn creaked and groaned before finally breaking. He could feel the bone bend and fracture, and each snap and crunch was satisfying to him. He clawed his way through them, the slow beating of the heart they protected taunting him, luring him ever deeper. This was his prize and his torment, and he was so very close. So very, very close….