A Story (Part IV)

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, 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, rushing through the crash of blood against the walls, floor, and ceiling of the tunnel and that which is still gushing 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 tear 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.