A Story

I run. I run and run and run until I cannot possibly run any longer and collapse on the ground, curl up in a ball, and cry. And I cry and cry and cry until I cannot possibly cry any longer. I try to scream, to call out for help, weeping and wailing with all that is in me for comfort, but that same utter void that has engulfed me for so long now simply destroys my cries of pure agony before they are even formed in my throat. I am trapped. I've been trapped for...

for.....

Was there really even ever a time when I was not lost in this abyss of emptiness and solitude? It is like a tunnel with no light at the end, where the walls seem to just keep closing in...even though there really are no walls. There isn't even really a tunnel. Just black. Nothing but endless black. So I lay there, wanting to scream but being unable to draw a sound, longing to cry but having no tears left to shed, yearning to run but being inescapably overwhelmed by the knowledge that I have nowhere to run to.

There is no way out of this tunnel that does not exist.

Suddenly, I feel the anguish, the bitterness, the solitude, the rage, the helplessness, the hopelessness, the darkness seem to compound all together with full force in the very pit of my stomach.

I want to die.

I want to die but know that even death will provide no escape from the black. So I just lay there, on the floor of the tunnel that does not exist. I bring my hands to my head and begin to rock myself back and forth.
Unable to run...
Unable to cry...
Unable to scream...
Unable to die.
I feel the sweat on my forehead mix with that on my hands. My entire body is saturated with sweat. But, then, I realize, in that moment of utter hopelessness, that it isn't sweat.

It's blood.

It's blood.

But I feel no pain.

Wait...
I feel no pain.
I feel no pain because I have no wounds. No wounds that would allow this cascade of blood.
Then I look down at my hands and see complete mutilation, right in the center of each palm.
But I feel no pain because I have no wounds.
I have no wounds.
So I peer down at the deformations in my hands that do not exist, and I see wounds that are not my own.

Wait...
I see the defacement of my hands.
I can see in the endless black that is the tunnel that does not exist.
I see what is not mine, but there nonetheless. So I peer frantically around this tunnel that does not exist.
Then in the direction I think is up, if there truly is an “up” in this tunnel that does not exist, there I see it. A crack. A crack in the wall that does not exist of the tunnel that does not exist.
And coming through the crack...
is light.

And coming down on that light, floating through the air, piercing the darkness of the tunnel that does not exist, is a small, almost impossible to notice piece of paper.
But also impossible not to notice.
The paper continues its descent until it lands directly on my hands, shrouding the maiming that is not my own. A flawlessly white sheet, but obviously nothing special... and at the same time the most awe-inspiring object that could be beheld. And on the sheet...is writing.
My eyes begin to slide across the page and see a message in ink.
Three simple ink words.

“I love you.”

Instantly, something else begins to come flowing down on the light: the most terrifyingly extraordinary sound that could ever be heard.
It is the sound of someone screaming.
And not just screaming; this is the sound of a man in the most complete of agonies.
...but I am still unable to scream.
Besides, this sound makes the screams I had so desperately longed to cascade from my chest seem like peals of thunderous laughter.
It is the most horrifically terrifying sound, going beyond any possibly coherent word, explicable only by the most utter of anguishes.
A living hell.
No.
Worse.
Much worse.

…But why am I laughing so?

…But why am I laughing so?

I can do nothing but lay on the ground, holding my sides which seem are going to burst because of the joy that is surging through my body because of the agony of the owner of the affliction in my hands that does not exist. And as I laugh, I begin to cry, cries of ecstasy and bliss because of the agony of the one whose agony pierced through the walls that do not exist of the tunnel that does not exist, the agony of the one I know sent that flawlessly white piece of paper down on the light that now carries his agony.
So I continue to laugh and cry, the sounds of overflowing and overwhelming emotions rebounding around the walls of the tunnel that does not exist, laughter and agony merging and reverberating all around me, all around the tunnel that does not exist.
After an eternity over, I notice something.

I still cannot make a sound. I cannot pierce the darkness of the tunnel.

Mystified, I sit up and anxiously search the darkness of the tunnel for the one who is able to penetrate this void.

Who is still laughing in pure joy, and yet still crying in utter agony?

But as I listen further, I notice that there is no scream of agony. Only those cries of ecstasy and bliss, ricocheting from wall to wall. The walls do not exist. The tunnel does not exist.

But the laugh. There is no doubt that the laugh exists. The laugh is real. So the owner of the laugh, the author of the note, he is real.

And I know. I know that he is the only one that can get me out of this tunnel that does not exist. Inexplicably, I know.

The laughing still encompassing me, the light coming through the crack in the tunnel still slicing through the darkness and covering me, I allow this recognition to spread throughout my body, engulfing my heart and mind.
And just as suddenly as they had come, the cries were gone.
And in its place, another sound came. The sound of a cascading waterfall. I once again frantically search the tunnel, then my eyes fall upon the crack. Light is still pouring through it.

But something else as well.
And this thing does not hinder the light in any way.
In fact, it only magnifies it.

The sound I hear is like that of rushing water, but just as I knew it was not sweat that covered my body, I know that it is not water flowing through the crack.

It is blood

It is blood.

My first reflex is to run, for I know that inside this tunnel I will be crushed underneath the power of this red river.

A River of Death.
Pure Death.

But even as I begin to attempt to flee, the current of surging blood that is rapidly filling this tunnel that does not exist overpowers me and takes me under, and the further down I find myself, the darker it seems to become, until even the darkness I had always known in the tunnel that does not exist sees warm and comforting. I strive for the surface, for air, for my mind screams that even the blackness of the tunnel will save me from the flood.
So I struggle and struggle and struggle, fighting to hold on, even if it is only to survive and stay in the tunnel. I am frantic, heart and mind racing.
I struggle and I struggle and I struggle until I cannot possibly struggle any longer, and just as I begin to lose all hope and succumb to the darkness the blood seems to be bringing...

I hear a sound.

The laugh.

It is the laugh of the one who had created that crack, who had authored that paper. It is coursing through this river of death, more vehemently and thunderous than ever, crashing through the crash of blood against the walls of the tunnel and that which is still pouring through the crack until everything seems to be saturated by the laugh, every molecule vibrating with the joyous glee.
I forget my struggle for a moment, intently focused on the laugh. And I notice something.
Something I had never noticed before.

The laugh.
It isn’t just a laugh.

It’s words, a message. Three words. The same words I had seen flawlessly scribed on the white piece of paper. That simple phrase:

“I love you.”

Over and over, that message is echoed in the laugh. Over and over and over. I float, suspended, for a few moments in the pool of blood, mesmerized by the laugh, unaware of all else.

Then my lungs begin to burn, like the very fires of hell were clawing at them, trying to pull me down from the inside into the abyss. But the laughter only grows more intense, almost to a point of pleading, and that’s when I finally realize it.

This blood.

This River of Death.
No.

This River of Life.
Pure Life.

It is his.

It is the same blood that had covered me as I had lain in hopelessness in the darkness of the tunnel, the same blood that had flowed from the wounds that were not mine, from the lacerations to my hands that did not exist. As I allow this recognition to once again spread throughout my body, engulfing my heart and mind, I also recognize something else...

I must drown.

I must drown.

Without giving even a chance to a whisper of a second thought to enter my mind, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with this death-bringing flood from the one who had broken through the tunnel that does not exist.

I inhale, and inhale, until my lungs become saturated with blood and begin to burn once more. I gag and sputter and writhe in pain, but I know that I must drown.

Above all else, I must die.

Then I drown.
Then I die.

My corpse lies there as, all around it, the blood rushes away, leaving the lump of flesh that once housed my soul lying on its back, limp.

Dead. Very much dead.

Then I lurch forward, sitting up and spurting and hacking the life-bringing blood from my lungs. Alive. Very much alive.
Then I notice something. Two somethings actually.

One: the laughing is still very much filling the tunnel, though the blood is completely receded.
Two: I am no longer in a tunnel.

The tunnel that does not exist truly no longer exists. There are no walls, no void, no tunnel.
Just white.
Just light.
And just laughter.
And so, I sit in the light, allowing the light to cascade over my body and the laughing to warm my heart and soothe my mind. And I begin to laugh.
And I really laugh.
And I laugh and I laugh and I laugh, for there is no end to the laughter where there are no walls, no void, no tunnel.

There is just white.
And just light.
And just laughter.
And my laughter merges and mixes with the laughter of the one whose wounds I had held in my hands, whose light had pierced my tunnel of anguish, bitterness, solitude, rage, helplessness, hopelessness, and darkness, whose blood had brought me death and set me free to life. Life.
Just White.
Just Light.
Just Laughter.
And in that laughter, there is just love