Do you know that cold, gloomy place in between sleep and awake? Where the rats guard the passing souls, singing them to peace?
I do. I visit there every night. Most people will only witness it once in a lifetime – the mountain peaks covered in snow, the Fall of Souls where human waste is pulled to the bottom, entering an eternal maelstrom. Those whose thoughts weigh too heavily will sink with them. Those who float may pass on. I’m not one of them.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing scares me anymore – not even a life at the bottom of the river, weighed down by childish hopes and dreams. This is my cradle. This is where I rest.
But every time the Rat King has sunk my body into the water and I’m drifting towards the graceful dunes of decomposition I feel a hitch in my mind. Like something doesn’t want to let go of me.
And each time I wake up, wrapped in sterile white sheets, with the sound of the monitor like a wrathful roar in my head.
“Welcome back, sir. Your heart stopped again. Please hold still while we finish the surgery.”
This is a short piece I wrote for class. Apologies if it seems somewhat “stuttering” since it’s translated directly from Swedish (and I’m not a professional translator).