"True sight is not granted to those who stare—but to those who surrender their eye. For the world deceives the watchful, yet unveils itself to the willingly blind."
It is said that the world is drawn of ink and blood, and its sightless populace are condemned in eternal darkness, but its creator, the Author/s granted them discriminative gift, separating THE WITNESS those who "peeked", and the BLINDS the ones who failed to grasp sight.
Hargh... hargh....hargh?!,
My throat clenched tight, as I relieve my heavy breath
"where am I?, what was that I felt like I was drowning or falling from air?"
....
utter silence radiates from every section of where I am.
My eyes dilates letting any light, as if to heighten the vision, as I peeked into a room filled with such darkness, as if space is non-existent, with nothingness, where voice echoes not.
-Is this dream or reality or a confusion an abomination of both
I muttered.
*Huh I can't hear myself, not a voice nor a weep just the thoughts lofty in my head
"it seems that you're finally asleep..."
A word had roared breaking the bounds of silence, words that brings confusion.
there in the ethereal plane, invisible, emerged a figure.
a.. a Man suddenly appeared in front of me, his face so close to mine, I can feel his breath, and almost hear his pulse rumble like a mortar, what does he mean by asleep?
In a blink of eye, time unfroze, the Man in front of me who was just a few inches away, drifting, something... faster as if beaming in lightspeed, No! it wasn't him but the space between us is Expanding, not akin to any principles of reality, yet it did.
As I stood—adrift in a place where direction meant nothing and distance was a lie—I questioned both my reality and the figure before me. Where am I? Who is he?
Beneath my feet, the void trembled. Not gently—violently—as if some slumbering god beneath the veil of darkness had turned in its sleep. I staggered.
"An earthquake?" I whispered, though the word felt absurd here, in a world that defied nature's rules.
Then, from the nothingness, it rose.
A colossal round table, impossibly ornate, emerged as if summoned from memory or myth. Its surface gleamed with intricate etchings—porcelain inlays dancing along the edges like frost on glass. Every curve, every embellishment, whispered of an age long gone, when artistry rivaled divinity. The craftsmanship spoke of the Renaissance, or perhaps something far older—an era not recorded in any book, but etched in the bones of forgotten gods.
Five towering chairs accompanied it—each one carved of the same impossible design, regal and foreboding. Four were already occupied.
The figures who sat in them were...unknowable. Cloaked in shadow, draped in silence. And then—there was him. The man from before. Closer now.
He appeared young—mid-twenties perhaps—but wore the presence of someone mature. His figure was lean yet deceptively strong, the kind of frame that hides its power until it strikes. He wore a mask—white, featureless, but has long pointed ears.
A rabbit, I thought.
There was something wrong about it. Not in shape, but in suggestion—like a childhood story retold in the dark, where the rabbit isn't the prey... but the predator.
Then, across from him, the final chair shifted—empty, waiting, inviting. Positioned just before me.
As if the entire stage had been set for this moment.
As if I was meant to sit.
and so I did, I sat
My wishful thought came to fruition, in the form of a question "So could you tell me where am I?"
fufufufufu, the Man-Figure laughed mockingly.
"The right question is why have you brought us here"
why—
*Snap,
A static akin to an Old television turning off, the same ones with long broad back, several buttons and one that twist to adjust the volume, one that we hit on the head when it stopped to work.
Harghh!,.. I see, it was just a dream... I guess my mind wondered off too much from all that studying (I wasn't really studying anything important, just some random things that catches my mind, aliens, time-travel, the sort of stuff that would bore a typical person in a conversation)
its because of this dreams and hobbies that people kept calling me, a psycho;
They just don't understand I suppose, how could people not dream? I mean since we were children, we dream of things that makes us happy right? we even dream even when we are awake, of happy moments, some dream of friends, Love, and more.
It's Just I was a little different, I dream and think more vividly, the Doctors said I have a condition called Hyperphantasia, a condition where I have a strong and vivid mental Imagery, I thought at first it was something everybody simply had, turns out some people when asked to imagine, they either see words, or a glimpse of an object, some only see color, and some see shapes, but people like me,
See it all.
we see it as if it was reality.
In this time and age people couldn't understand and comprehend mental and psychological issues yet and people always deem it as if it was some abnormality, some brand it as being crazy or attention seeker, if only the world could understand that, it is a real problem that needs solution not discrimination.
Pshuhhhh, I sighed
"I have doze off again on my own thoughts, I should get going"
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9:44 AM — December 14, 21st Century Whinslow College of Medicine
"Rylee... Rylee!"
My name cracked through the lecture hall like a whip.
"Sir!" I jolted upright, breath catching in my throat. "I—I was just—"
"Dozing off again during my lecture?" His voice dripped with venomous pride. "How tragic. I asked you a question, Mr. Caldwell. Let's try this again: what allows us to think for ourselves? What separates us from beasts that live and die by instinct alone?"
The room pulsed with stillness. A few snickers echoed behind me, sharp as knives. I swallowed hard and pushed the words past the fog in my mind.
"The brain," I began, my voice steadier than I felt. "More precisely, the cerebrum. It's the front part of the brain—it governs conscious thought, speech, voluntary motion... memory. It's what gives us... sentience, sir."
He paused, lips curling.
"Hmph. Very well, Rylee. Next time, stay awake. You might actually prove to be useful."
Such a stingy guy, my professor, sometimes I think it's because unlike other students, He couldn't really catch me off guard with his questions, well I can't blame myself for unconsciously hurting his ego, I love to study, that's how I am, I like doing things that other's think are mundane: Art, Music, Science, Literature, Philosophy... while others play video games, or sports, I play Chess, Checkers, Sudoku, or Scrabble; "Some Nerd" I thought.
Or maybe He hates me because I can just wander everywhere in my University, well what do can I do, My family Founded it: (Whinslow College of Medicine: Winslow University)...
8:14 AM
"People aren't like animals, We're not bound by instinct—we're sentient. We think. We feel. It's what makes you... you." The professor quoted.
7:32 AM
To see is to thin—
7:32...
...and time collapsed.
The hands of the clock stopped, and the world with it.
The bead of sweat rolling down my temple froze in place. The rustle of paper halted mid-whisper.
The wind outside—gone.
My classmates sat like statues carved in breathless stillness, and even the professor, mid-scowl, remained unmoving—lips parted, finger raised, caught in the very act of condescension.
A deathly silence swept the room, not empty but pressurized—as if the air itself were holding its breath.
Then I heard it.
A voice—or the memory of one—echoing through the stillness, fractured like static from a dying radio.
"R#$SFae..."
"Ray1!#$%@"
Rylee Caldwell.
It wasn't heard. It was known.
And then, louder—closer—clearer:
RYLEE CALDWELL.
In some ethereal places unbeknownst to me,
Ink began to fall.
Thick and black, each drop like the sound of a pen dragged violently across parchment. It echoed in every corner, resonating, as if it were scripting time itself. Writing the world. Writing me.
"Who are you?" I whispered, turning toward the soundless hall. "Where are you?" "What is happening?"
No answer. Just that infernal scratching of ink. And a presence, just out of sight—watching.
"I choose you, my pawn in this trivial matter — of my boredom, my indispensable pawn"
The voice, shifted back and fort as if fighting it's own
"what do you me-, WHO ARE YOU?" I asked,
An Author.
"Rejoice, thy mortal one, you my chosen, the unsighted, seeker of knowledge, cursed with wisdom, the witness in search of light SHALL SEE IN CLAIRVOYANCE...."
As his words resonated — not just in the air, but in the marrow of the world itself — each syllable struck with the weight of prophecy. Every molecule trembled. The very fabric of reality began to twist.
The world around me shuddered, like brittle parchment caught in a gale, folding and tearing at the seams of perception. Time cracked. Space groaned. And I — I was unmoored.
It pulled me in, a monstrous void of endless depth — not a darkness, but an absence. It devoured all sound, all light, all sense, turning the world into fluttering pages soaked in ink that bled like veins, dripping language I could not read but could feel.
Then came the light. No, the loss of it.
Colors fled — not faded, but peeled away— each spectrum unraveling from my eyes like threads from an old tapestry. And then, in a breathless instant, I was somewhere else:
The Room of Eternal Darkness.
I stood — or floated — in nothing, and it stared back.
Then: pain, fast and total.
From every direction, strings of crimson erupted like the bursting of a heart, lashing through the void. They struck me — pierced me — and bound me in the air like a marionette of meat and memory. They were alive, writhing with intention, soaked in blood not my own.
And from the pitch below, sigils ignited.
Symbols —impossible shapes that screamed when I looked at them — blazed to life in cold flame. Their light was warm and freezing, ancient and unborn, holy and blasphemous.
I tried to scream. but only dust i exhaled,
Then I saw — not with eyes, but with something deeper, older. My sight was no longer mine. I saw not the world, but its meaning, its bones, its lies.
"Do not speak the shape of things," said a voice that split my name in half, "and expect them to remain unchanged."
The shackles pulled tighter. I was descending. No — I was becoming.
And standing at the heart of it all — half-shadow, half-light — was a figure. Watching. Waiting. Weeping.
And smiling.-
*Then a Thud from my fall of loftiest highest, was somehow as near as a bed from the floor
Argh, My back... is Wet?...
What.... then there as the dim of light reached my hand, a crimson of death, a remembrance of life,
BLOOD?!
I was in shock and awe, BLOOD? there is a blood everywhere not a corner not an inch not stained in this horror.. Am I dead? Killed?
then I realized* No it wasn't mine, I wasn't hurt either,
*A gulp of saliva and heavy breathing echoes across the hall of blood and death
"Hurgh hurgh hurgh, They were right, the Lord was Right, WE SHOULDN'T HAVE TOUCHED THE HOUSE OF KHOLER"
Those are words of a bloodied man, in terror, in confusion and agony
Before words even began to croak from my dried throat, his voice again regain its volume, a hint of dreaded despair and anger.
"Stay away, I beg you mercy please, you, worse than the putrid horrors, I beg your-"
Horrors,? before I could ask,
my eyes have shifted, as I saw all of the dead dismembered bodies of men wearing what appears to be clothing from medieval age mixed with industrial revolution. I remembered the Anatomy lessons of my professor back in Whinslow, how they showed us pictures of human body in a cross-section
there struck me with that thought as I looked at the cowering man I remember those images of how the human body was sliced in different parts in a sagittal manner divided into sections...
*In a flash a burst of blood and splatter drenched the Man before me, divided into parts as if carefully and precisely butchered, the same way those anatomy books have depicted
...he didn't scream.
There was no time.
His body collapsed into symmetrical heaps — arms severed at the mid-humerus, thorax split perfectly through the sternum, the halves falling like wet paper to the stone floor. His head rolled once before resting upright, eyes wide, mouth still shaped in the syllables of mercy.
But I had not touched him.
I had only remembered.
The silence after was suffocating. Even the shadows recoiled.
I stared at my hands. Steady. Clean. Yet something deeper than blood coated me — in my conscience a knowing, ancient and wrong. My breath stilled. The scent of iron curled into my nose, and the dim glow of gaslight flickered across the polished bones.
"Impossible," I whispered.
But I knew.
It was the first time.
My thoughts have killed the man before me, not metaphorically but literally.
The first time thinking had made it to reality.