Humans cherish life. They praise it. They call it a miracle.
But in the end, it always leads to the same thing: an inevitable death.
We dress that truth in layers of illusion.
We invent ideologies, craft societies, glorify kindness, justify war, cling to revenge, and romanticize love.
All in an effort to distract ourselves from the silence that waits at the end of it all.
Humans are creatures of contradiction. We create pain to cope with pain. We create meaning where none inherently exists.
And maybe that is why I do not fear death.
Not because I am brave, but because I have always known it was coming.
My life has always been finite, fragile. I was sick, bedridden for as long as I can remember.
I never truly experienced love or hate, not in the way others do.
I lived on the sidelines of life, observing the illusion from behind the curtain.
And now, dying alone, quietly, choking on blood, it feels almost poetic.
This is the death I expected. The death of something that tried to matter.
But here is the absurd part.
Even knowing all of this, I kept going. I fought, even when there was no meaning in the fight.
I kept walking forward, even when there was no destination.
And now I ask myself, what is the point of continuing?
Maybe there is none.
Maybe there never was.
And maybe that is the point.
The end caused me to see. It gave me freedom from the delusion of life. I have accepted my death.
And still. Still I continue to hear that voice, lingering in the back of my head.
[To break free, he must realize his actuality. Will he live? Will he die? A duality which binds him]
The voice narrated, it spoke to me, not as a being, but as an observer.
[The taste of death holds him like chains. Shall he be free]
The darkness seemed to fade away, and I came to a realization.
I was alive.
This hospital was supposed to be my final resting place. I was supposed to live out my entire life here.
In this cacophony of darkness, this cradle of finality, I was breathing.
The dense, heavy absence of everything surrounded me.
I could see myself floating in the expanse of nothing.
I was dangling in the eclipse, haunting the edge.
The significance of me, my will and worth.
It is not something I can truly perceive. It seems too small to grasp.
The bugs on the ground, do they love, do they hate?
Do they feel the same unworthiness I feel in living?
Are they in conflict with their own existence, as I am with mine?
I feel insignificant, like I mean nothing to the world.
But in the end, it always leads to the same thing: an inevitable death.
My life has always been finite, fragile. I was sick, bedridden for as long as I can remember.
I never truly experienced love or hate, not in the way others do.
I lived on the sidelines of life, observing the illusion from behind the curtain.
And now, dying alone, quietly, choking on blood, it feels almost poetic.
This is the death I expected. The death of something that tried to matter.
But here is the absurd part.
Even knowing all of this, I kept going. I fought, even when there was no meaning in the fight.
I kept walking forward, even when there was no destination.
And now I ask myself, what is the point of continuing?
Maybe there is none.
Maybe there never was.
And maybe that is the point.
The end caused me to see. It gave me freedom from the delusion of life. I have accepted my death.
And still.
Still, I continue to hear that voice, lingering in the back of my head.
[To break free, he must realize his actuality. Will he live? Will he die? A duality which binds him]
The voice narrated. It spoke to me, not as a being, but as an observer.
[The taste of death holds him like chains. Shall he be free]
The darkness seemed to fade away, and I came to a realization.
I was alive.
This hospital was supposed to be my final resting place. I was supposed to live out my entire life here.
In this cacophony of darkness, this cradle of finality, I was breathing.
The dense, heavy absence of everything surrounded me.
I could see myself floating in the expanse of nothing.
I was dangling at the edge, just beyond the eclipse.
The significance of me, my will and worth,
It is not something I can truly perceive. It seems too small to grasp.
The bugs on the ground, do they love, do they hate?
Do they feel the same unworthiness I feel in living?
Are they in conflict with their own existence, as I am with mine?
I feel insignificant, like I mean nothing to the world.
Like I am just here to live and then die.
The cycle is endless, constant, like the beat of a heart.
But my heart has no sound.
Only the rhythm that echoes with everything else.
And in my experience, everyone has a sound.
The evil and the just. The kind and the cruel.
The truth lovers and the truth breakers.
Yet nothing matters to me.
It was this sense of pointlessness that led me to believe it was all absurd.
And still, I was there,
Looking upon my figure dangling in the expanse of nothing, the absence of all, I smiled.
I was curled into a ball, my long flowing black hair streaked with white from stress.
My skin looked tan, touched only slightly by the harsh sun.
My body was fragile, weak.
Looking down, gazing upon the end of my being, I saw my entire life play out.
Laid in a pattern, like a movie I could only admire from afar.
Then I was pulled away. I reached out, trying to grab onto myself, to hold onto my end and change it.
I flew out, past time, past space, past all the confines of everything.
And then, light.
[The light was shining upon the damned. He was being reborn, remade. He was becoming everything he embodied.]
The voice screamed. It was loud, overbearing, like it was everywhere.
Like it was everything.
Light as bright as all the stars shone, and for a moment. I was basking in its glory.
[Your nightmare is over, wake.]
Next, I sat up, cold sweat running down my face as I fell off a bed.
I looked down at my hands. They touched the black carpet over the dark wood.
I looked up at my surroundings and realized I was no longer in the hospital.
Swords hung from the wall. Black banners carrying a strange sigil.
It looked like a sword surrounded by strings, wrapped around a skull hanging over it.
I felt like I had been asleep for eons. My head pounded, and my body felt both heavy and light.
For a moment, I sat on the ground, trying to wrap my head around whatever this was.
Then, a voice called out my name.
"Nicholas?"
I looked up to see a girl.
She had long, flowing silver hair and dark red eyes that shimmered with quiet intensity.
Her beige skin and sharply defined features gave her the look of someone descended from noble Russian lineage.
She wore silver armor under black garments and looked every bit the warrior.
Judging by the sword strapped to her side, which looked all too real, she definitely was.
But swords? They had been obsolete for ages. Why would she be carrying one?
I had no answer.
She stepped closer, kneeling down before me, her eyes locking onto mine.
"You're really awake? You told me it would be longer than this."
My tongue felt heavy, but I managed to speak.
"Who are you?"
Her expression turned cold, and just before she could answer, that achingly loud voice returned.
[Wrath sits at your side, damaged, pained, lounging. Tame it]
"I am Mirabel," she said. "The first of your followers, and now the last."
That is when I noticed the mark on her upper right chest.
A bright red lion.
Suddenly, memories of a world unknown to me flooded my mind.
Stories of rage, pain, regret, and desperation.
But they did not feel like mine.
They felt like observers. Something watching from beyond.
That was when I came to a realization.
I was not on Earth.
I was in an entirely new world.
[A cold chill befell Nicholas. He came to a realization. He was about to die]
My eye twitched, and against my will, my head moved.
At the same moment, she drew her sword and plunged it into the bed behind me.
My eyes tracked the motion with ease, as if she moved in slow motion, yet it all happened before even a second could pass.
"So it's really you, huh?" she said. "Only someone of your power could dodge that. So why don't you remember me?"
Her voice sounded pained, worried, and annoyed.
But for a brief second, I could have sworn it also held anger.
Before I could reply, the voice screamed out again.
This time, my ears began to bleed.
[A finality. An error in the narrative. A hole in the story. To rewrite is to live on]
That was when I finally spoke.
Words emerged from me, as if not mine.
Guided by something beyond thought.
"I am Nicholas Anstalionah. I am alive."