Staring down the barrel of a Zeiss Super nettel 1
viewfinder, Spectre searched for the slightest imperfection that his bedroom
wall contained. But all the groves, dents, and stains seemed to form a perfect
shot – they didn’t seem quite as imperfect as he wanted.
With a sigh Spectre got up from the position he’d been lying
in, smoothing down the crease’s that appeared on his bed sheets as he did so.
Things were not going according to plan. He rubbed his left eye in a tired
manner as the ocean in his eyes became surrounded by vicious red sand; he
hadn’t slept in days.
It was hard to sleep with the voices and each day was
getting progressively harder. Camera always in hand Spectre avoided sleep. This
made the ringing in his ears louder and louder and louder. The voices would
scream at him to let them out; the voices were sad.
With each passing day Spectre's will to live progressively
deteriorated and the fish knife in the sink looked like a promising option, as
did the curtain draws. However, with a satisfying click and a bright flash a
voice would be repelled.
Drained of all his energy and exhausted, Spectre didn’t
bother developing the film anymore. He knew what would appear on it – the owner
of whichever voice he’d now snuffed out in some horrifyingly contorted position. Even the viewfinder scared him of what
he might see. But still he would continue to stare through it. Trying to find
any imperfection to prove that this world can’t be all that’s left for him. To
prove that his 17 years on this earth had not been a painful build up to this.
Left with nothing else to do, Spectre lazily pulled himself
up from his bed and let his clothes almost fall off as he made his way to the
bathroom. Steam filled the room as water gushed from the shower head and
drowned out some of the white noise that attacked his eardrum. Ferocious
droplets of water trailed down his abdomen and glided past his thigh – all in
an attempt to be rid of his presence.
Standing there Spectre looked almost like
a corpse; his body felt numb. The voices had started singing the lullabies,
ushering him to go to sleep.
Slowly a faded orange towel grazed over the delicate parts
of his body, and his eyes drooped to the base of a full body mirror that
resided in the corner of the bathroom. Mirrors had become an object of terror
for Spectre, every unfortunate gaze into one would provide him with a revelation
of what was there, what was causing the voice and whispering into his ear. He’d
need his camera just to silence it, and that meant facing the grotesque image
that awaited him at the other side of the lens. Putting up with the voices just
seemed like a better option.
Time had become distorted for him, and since this
everlasting nightmare had begun the onslaught of rain had refused to withdraw
from the battle grounds around his small house. Whether or not the rest of the
world was like this he didn’t know; whether time had ceased altogether he
didn’t know.
With no courage to snap his neck with tightened rope, or to
attempt a self-disembowelment – all he had was his camera. Asphyxiated with
constant fear and a dripping sense of self-hatred he awaited the day that the
voices physical form would tighten their hands around his heart and close the
rift between his residence in the world of living, and place him in the miasma of
the other side.
Left in an agonising state of hesitation Spectre went back
to his lying on his bed, and let the lullabies rock him gently to sleep. He
hoped tonight would be the last nightmare – he’d lost the will to fend it off
anymore.
A chiming bell filled his ears and - no longer on his bed - he
slowly fluttered his eyes open. New markings had etched themselves around the
lens of Spectre’s camera and schizophrenic crackling filled the decrepit room
of sliding screens and burnt china dolls. Despite everything being warped with
age and painted with mould, a blue tinge of glistening frost burst from the
trespassing moonlight. The voices were louder here and floorboards creaked from
the pressure of false footsteps.
Clasping onto the one possible chance at surviving this
ephemeral place that he’d spent forever exploring each time his mind shut down - his camera - Spectre placed the viewfinder up to his eye and slowly took a shaky breath in, closed his eyes, exhaled, opened them again and let the sight of
multiple blood stained hands charging towards him fill his sight.
Police arrived at Spectre’s small house after reports that
nobody had seen him in over a month, and complaints from neighbours due to
strange noises. Limbs twisted like a child’s toy that had been tossed aside in
the heat of happiness, and a calm face lay awkwardly on Spectre's bed, a black outline covering the sheets. Bending down an inspector examined his
camera and asked some underling to get the film developed and see what was
going on, for a brief moment he swore he saw Spectre smiling at him through the
reflection of the lens. But Spectre’s body would never move again.
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