Isolated Territory

"HARRY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

These were the last words I heard before I died. Driving down that motorway at a hundred and twenty. It felt right. It felt motivated. But motivated by what? What was I doing? I've never so much as received a parking ticket in my life, let alone raced at fifty over the limit. Something isn't adding up here. Wait... How- How am I thinking if I'm dead? Let me open my eyes...

Parting my eyelids, I can feel a chill down my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck on edge. A sickening feeling in my stomach of the helplessness that comes with anxiety, like a knot that wants to force its way out of your gut and up your oesophagus. All of these feelings do not even begin to cover the horror that stands before my eyes. I am in the midst of a baron ditch. The remnants of a rib cage to my right, completely dry. I can't even smell the rotting flesh that once covered it. How long has it been here? How long have I been here?

Getting to my feet and looking ahead, a deep shaky inhalation almost winds me at the landscape that greets my vision. Through the thick, black, fog I can make out rows of what seem like pit houses. Or, at least, were pit houses. The state of decay wouldn't make them habitable for anyone. I take a few steps forward, my gaze fixed on an attempt to see anything else beyond my current visual limits. I can feel each crack of the ground beneath my feet with every movement. Pieces breaking apart with each step. These could be rocks or calcified bones for all I know.

Looking back, across to my right, I notice the absence of the rib cage I had spotted not one minute ago. But the ground is not vacant. Instead, there lies a man. Maybe whom the rib cage had once belonged to? He's crying. Not a cry of upset, but the kind of crying where your body is in total shut down. I can hear him dry heaving at every exhalation, as if the tears are being pushed out with such desperation that he might retch up the pain with the bile within. I've never heard a sound like it. Piercing. Viewing the injuries that cover his body, he can't have long left. But then, I don't know how long he has been there.

"Excuse me?"

No response. Just another agonising scream.

"How long have you been here?"

But this time, after some heavy breathing and wiping away the stretch of saliva dribbling down his chin to the ground. He forces out the words in a hoarse cry.

"P-p-please ---- K-k-k-kill ----- M-me!"

If he had any functioning limbs remaining, I'm sure he would have tried to have done this himself a while ago. Then again, who's to say these injuries were not sustained in an attempt to do this?

Without hesitation, I search the fog-stricken ground beneath me for any remaining large rocks or boulders. I spot it. In the corner of my eye. It is perfect. A boulder about the size of a small dog, but much heavier. It even has a pointed edge to it for precision. Picking the rock up, I step towards the remnants of the man on the floor beneath me. Raising it above my head, I make one final moment of eye contact with him. His blood shot eyes, soaked around the edges from the endless tears he has expelled. I've never seen such fear in any pair of eyes before. He finally closes them. With his eyelids drooping, my hands drop. Lowering this boulder at speed with intent, it finally makes contact with the base of his skull. The fracture is piercing. Then the sputtering that follows only makes this noise more difficult to bear. The point made direct contact, impaling the head like a butcher's knife in a carcass. I'm actually distracted from the haunting landscape ahead, as I instead stare in disbelief at this horror before me. A horror I caused. Should I feel any remorse? Any sorrow or regret? I hope not. Because I don't. It is a terror, do not get me wrong. But a terror can also be beautiful, right? This luscious art that faces me with its vacant cold eyes. I am the artist. This is my paragon.