The Unswallowing Place


Sometimes I search for the unswallowing place.

I think maybe if I can find it everything will go back to how it was. The darkness and I will be back in Midnight Hollow. It will be wearing the shadowskin and I will still be wearing my humanskin, and everything will be all right.

I look down at the skin I am wearing now. It still looks human, on the surface. But underneath the skin the black pulses.

I don’t know what the unswallowing place will be like. I have to find it, though. I have to. I have to go home. I want the darkness back and not mad at me and I want my easel and my rug and the dust motes drifting down and I want my bare cupboards and I want to look at my skin and know myself.

I see an arch ahead. It looks like a lower jaw. I imagine a tongue lolling between the sides.

I think the black has many mouths. Maybe the arch is one of its mouths, and if I walk into it I’ll go home.

I wonder what being unswallowed is like. I imagine it’s a great sucking upward and then a whoosh and your stomach drops, like a roller coaster, but then it’s over, and you are yourself again.

I walk through the arch, slowly. I raise my right arm up in front of my eyes, and I watch as the shadow of the arch passes over it. The black rolls under the skin in waves. When it intersects with the shadow my arm goes white.

I never wanted to be a container for the void.

I take one more step, and I’m through the arch. I wait for the great sucking.

It doesn’t come.

I take one more step and one more and then one more. The black rolls down my arms and across my hands and through my fingers.

Sometimes I search for the unswallowing place.

i am so tired

Sometimes the darkness is inside me.

I sit on a roof by the HVAC units. They whirr and whirr. The silver spinning things over to the side spin. I’m not sure what they do. But I guess they have a purpose to their spinning, and they probably feel like it means something.

The building I’m sitting on has power. Otherwise the HVAC units wouldn’t be whirring. But I don’t think there’s anyone inside. I didn’t see them on my way up here. I don’t hear them.

But maybe they are there, really. Maybe they’re ghosts, and they’re invisible and silent. They go about their days, doing the things they’ve always done, and they don’t know that I can’t see them or hear them. I wonder if they saw and heard me and if they tried to talk to me? I hope I didn’t hurt their feelings by ignoring them.

I find myself thinking about the chain, but then I stop. The darkness would just leave again.

It’s so quiet up here though.

Whirr whirr whirr.

The shadows of the clouds pass over the roof, and I watch as my skin goes white where the shadows meet the rolling black.

I wonder if maybe eventually the black will consume all my skin. Then I won’t be a container for the void. I will be the void.

Maybe that’s how the darkness got the shadowskin. I wonder if it was like me, once. Maybe it was human too, and then the black got inside it.

I could imagine the chain, and then it would come and I could ask it.

And then it would just stare at me with those red red eyes and then it would disappear, and I’d still be here and I’d still be alone and I’d still be going white.

Whirr whirr whirr.

so tired

Sometimes the unending whiteness resolves itself into a maze made up of green leafy hedges, floored with soft green grass.

I cannot tell if the human imagined this universe or if it found it or if the human is even here. I look for its thoughts, but all I hear is a night breeze blowing through the hedges.

There are lights placed among the grass, to help show the way. They make me nervous. I retreat into the shadows.

The human would like this maze. We would walk through the green corridors and I would whisper to it of ghosts and of gaping hedgemouths ringed with sharp spiked leaves, waiting to swallow unaware passersby.

It is not here, though. So I whisper to myself.

Maybe this is a task that the void has set before me. If I make it through the maze, I will find the human and it will forgive me and it will let me walk with it and whisper things to it again.

I listen, but still all I hear is the rustling leaves. If there are ghosts here, they are not speaking.

I flatten myself against the hedge and I slide through the sliver of shadow, trying to skirt the light as best I can, but there is no escaping it.

I go through the light, even though it burns, and I set out to walk the maze.

the ulcer pain came back for a bit which is why I took a break

Sometimes I realize that there is no unswallowing place. I still search for it, because I don’t really have anything else to do, but I know that I won’t find it. It’s not there to be found.

Other times I think maybe it is there to be found, if I try hard enough. If I matter enough.

If I am me enough.

But the black is growing, and I do not know how much longer I will be me.

Off in the distance I see a bridge. Its columns are square and solid. It does not glitter with death lights. There is no spray from a waterfall glinting across it. This bridge is sensible and real, and perhaps it is the road to the unswallowing place.

I know that really when I cross the bridge what I will see is more of the same, the same streetlights and the same road and the same trees and clouds. There will still be the same bands of black rolling across my skin.

But maybe not. Maybe the bridge itself will be the unswallowing place. Maybe as I walk across it the black will roll through my skin and out of my fingers and toes, and I will drench the bridge in whiteness. Then the bridge will be something other, something white and eternal and outside, and in return I will be filled with its sensibility and its realness. Maybe we will switch places, the bridge and I.

I keep walking towards it.

ulcer pain sucks, dude

Sometimes I arrive at a bridge, and I consider taking its skin.

I don’t know how the darkness does it. I know there’s that sound, the sound like the heart of the universe being ripped apart from deep inside a black hole. I hear that, and then the darkness is wearing a new skin.

I don’t know how to make that sound.

I look down at my arms, at the rolling black.

I remember the first bridge, the one with the blue sparkly death lights. The deathbridge.

I wonder what it would be like to wear the skin of the deathbridge. Would it be sad, to see all the crawling people reaching out for your lights and then they fall off into the blue? And you know that they won’t ever come back, that they’re gone forever and ever.

I wonder what the deathbridge thought when I came back, when the darkness picked me up. I wonder if it knew that really I was gone forever and ever, just like all the others it’d watched fall. I wonder if that made it sad.

Then there was the green bridge by the waterfall. I think that bridge was happy. It could be friends with the waterfall and everyone who walked across it got pleasantly damp and they felt like they were surrounded by beauty and sometimes they ate rainbows. The green bridge probably liked watching the people on it.

I don’t know about this bridge. It is very plain. No death lights, no waterfall spray, no delicious rainbows.

Maybe people just walk across it on their way to where they’re going. And it sees them and it knows where they’re going, and it likes providing them with a safe and dry way to get over the little stream underneath it. It probably wishes them a nice day and good luck on their journey, but they don’t hear it.

Or maybe it feels empty and sad and like its existence is meaningless. I haven’t seen any other people in this universe. Maybe no one ever walks across it, and it just hangs there over the little stream, and the sun and the moon roll over it and sometimes there’s wind or rain or snow, and sometimes it’s warm and sometimes it’s cold but always, always, it’s the same. There’s always the stream and the trees and the grass and the nearby column, and nothing ever changes.

I wish I could ask the darkness how it makes that sound like the heart of the universe being ripped apart from deep inside a black hole.

I take a step on to the plain bridge. I watch the black roll in waves down my arm, across my hand, through my fingers. And then out on to the stones of the plain bridge.

I take a few more steps, leaving a trail of white behind me.

marriage rocks, though

Sometimes I whisper into the maze.

I tell the hedges many things. I tell them about the human, about the walks we took together. I tell them about fishing the human out of the deep blue, and what that took from me. I tell them about the human’s one skin, and all the universes it holds inside itself.

I slip through the shadows of the hedgemouths, but they do not move. The maze does not answer.

I arrive at an end of the hedges. The leaves rustle as a breeze blows through.

I thought the human would be here, at the end. I thought that if I made it through the maze I would see the human again, but there’s only a tree and a rock and high stone walls.

I step out of the shadows and into the light, and the light burns and burns, and I scream for the human. I scream and scream and it burns and I run the burning into the tree, over and over, and finally the tree is burning too and it is screaming and I am screaming and we are at an edge, but this is not the end.

The breeze picks up embers from our burning. It carries them to the hedges. The teethleaves begin to blacken and curl in on themselves.

I scream, “Where is the human? Where is it?!”

The blackened hedgemouths open and close, open and close, but only smoke comes out.

The maze does not answer.

I keep getting different songs stuck in my head

Sometimes the black rolls out of me and on to the bridge. It pools on the stones of the bridge, making them notstone.

The bridge is not turning white, though. It is still itself.

I stop walking. The black seeps out of my fingers and toes. I wait for it to splash up and over the sides and make the bridge a notbridge, but it doesn’t.

I turn around.

The far side of the bridge is solid stone.

I walked there. I know I did. I remember the black rolling out of me and on to the stones. But the stone there is still stone.

I take a step backwards. The white pool moves with me, but still it does not grow. The notstone on the far edge of the pool becomes stone again.

The bridge is swallowing the black.

I lift my right arm and look at it. The bands of black rolling down it are slower now, and smaller.

The black is leaving me and going into the bridge, and the bridge is absorbing it and remaining itself.

I have arrived at the unswallowing place.

yay I think only one more pic!!!

Sometimes I am being unswallowed.

It’s not like how I thought it would be. There is no great sucking upward. There is no whoosh. There is only the black, dripping out of my fingers and toes and into the bridge.

I look down at the pool of notstone. Notbridge. It used to be notme.

The pool is smaller now, and all the time there’s more and more stone. More and more bridge. More and more me.

I look at my arms. The black rolls down them in very thin rings.

It’s almost gone.

When it’s gone, will I be me again? Will I be able to go home?

I stand on the bridge for a long time, watching the black drip. It drips slower and slower, until it stops.

When it stops, I look at my skin. There is no black pulsing beneath it. It is clear and real and only human now.

I look at the pool of what used to be notme. It draws into itself, revealing more and more stone. When the last bit of notstone disappears, I think I hear a sucking sound. Maybe the black was what got sucked upward.

The black is gone and the bridge is itself and I think maybe I am me again, maybe, but then the dizziness and the cold and the sweating comes, and it’s like the blue deathbridge, and I think maybe I needed the black but now it’s gone and I can’t breathe and I feel like I’m going to throw up and then I fall down and the bridge is spinning and I’m scared. I think about the darkness, about how it picked me up, and I imagine the chain.

I imagine the chain.

it is an edge but it is not the end

Sometimes I hear the human calling for me.

I am still burning but I do not care. The human is here and it needs me and I am running, I am on fire and sparks are flying off into the hedges and I hear the hedges crackling but I do not care, the human is here and I hear its thoughts and it needs me, and I run and I run.

I follow its thoughts to the center of the maze. I burn through the hedges, ignoring the twists and turns. The hedgemouths gape at me but their teethleaves are turning into ash and they cannot hurt me and I am running, and then it is there.

It is on a bench, bent over with its head held in its hands, and I remember this. I remember these thoughts, the spinning and the bright sharp blurry colors and the deathlights.

There are no deathlights here.

I slow down, so that I don’t startle it, and I slap at this skin, trying to put out the fire. I don’t want to hurt it, but there’s no time to find a skin that isn’t burning.

It hears me. It hears me and it lifts its head and it looks at me.

I see the universes in its eyes disappearing.

There is no time. I run to the bench, this skin still smoldering, and I grab its wrist.

It winces, but it doesn’t pull away, and I see in its thoughts that I am forgiven.

I say, “I am sorry,” and I give it everything I have.

This entry was posted in Extras and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to The Unswallowing Place

  1. RipuAncestor says:

    Aah, nothing like drudging through a tiresome day while being tired and hungry and then finally getting some food and settling down to read this with a cup of tea in my hand. Pretty much a perfect moment.

    Reading this makes me feel happy and nice with an undercurrent of sadness. And there’s also this kind of warm, melancholic, calm feeling that I get, but I can’t really describe it properly. All I know is that I like that feeling.

    I’m happy that the narrator and the darkness found each other, but it seems like it’s not going to be just hugs and smiles (not that it probably could ever have been and I’m okay with that). I feel sad for the lonely darkness, and the narrator, and even the plain bridge even though it seems to be taking this all really well. 🙂

    I really liked the sense of longing throughout this chapter, too. And again the words kept painting these vivid, creepily beautiful pictures into my head.

    Liked by 1 person

    • medleymisty says:

      Awwww, thank you! *hugs*

      I like those feelings! I feel them too, and I think they are a good description of the general feel of this story.

      I’m glad they’re together again too. Won’t know how it works out until I start writing the next pic. I’m excited to find out!

      I think “vivid, creepily beautiful” is one of the best reactions to my work that I could ever ask for, so thank you for that.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Beth says:

    This is stunning! What wonderfully odd and disturbing images you created as illustrations, a cross between incomprehensible mechanics and the road to Medusa. Your writing and visual creativity never cease to amaze me.

    Liked by 1 person

    • medleymisty says:

      *hugs you a lot*

      Thank you! Your comments never cease to amaze me! I shall have to think about “a cross between incomprehensible mechanics and the road to Medusa” for a while. It’s a very interesting image and idea.


  3. The narrator really wants to go back to MH. I can understand someone wanting to return to the safe place they call home. I left home at 17 and I haven’t looked back. I don’t want to move back. I do miss a few things like my family obviously and the beach. Living on a coast was nice. But I love so many things about all the places I’ve lived and I like living where I’m at now and wouldn’t want to move.

    The narrator, however, has been through some traumatic and complex and lifechanging things with the darkness and that’s understandable that the narrator wants to go back to the way things were. Seems like a coping mechanism.

    However, I think the narrator can accept that things will never be the same. When I return home to the place I grew up, I realize it’s not home anymore. I can’t come back the same because of my life experiences. I think the narrator might know this deep down, but may not be willing to admit it. Perhaps the narrator just needs a reprieve, a moment of peace, but the narrator won’t ever really find peace in this existential wandering. No one ever really does.

    The line about being unswallowed feeling like a roller coaster and “you are yourself again” almost feels untrue.Perhaps what the narrator doesn’t realize is that he/she/it has changed and he/she/it is his/her/its true self. The unswallowing place seems mythical and unattainable to me, and the narrator even realizes this later, I think. The search is still symbolic in a way, which is why I think the narrator continues, a symbol of the narrator’s longing. This is, of course, my assumptions and my bias and my experiences attached to my thoughts here. You could’ve been going for a completely different angle and I understand that.

    Then later the narrator does arrive at the unswallowing place. So I begin to ponder – does the “unswallowing” refer to the removal of the darkness inside of the narrator that has consumed his/her/its soul? The mark the darkness has left on the narrator? The bridge begins absorbing the black and I wonder why the bridge? Why not some other object? I don’t have anything against the bridge, but I wonder, is the bridge swallowing the darkness because it is symbolic of traveling from one place to another like the narrator and the darkness have traveled from one place to another?

    However, I can understand the narrator not wanting to be a container for the void. That sounds like a dreadful thing. I can imagine the narrator doesn’t fully know who he/she/it is and doesn’t like this unknowing place. Everyone wants to fill the void spaces, the black in their lives. No one likes feeling pieces of emptiness encroaching on one’s identity. I can sympathize with the narrator and at the same time not understand, if that makes sense.

    I thought the line about the humans imagining the universe was interesting. Is the narrator talking about all the universes or worlds the story has traveled through or merely the world he/she/it currently finds him/her/itself in?

    I also find it interesting that the narrator is nervous about the lights on the lawn. There’s saftey and comfort in the darkness as the narrator has grown accustomed to in a way. I feel that way often too.

    I remember the deathbridge. I remember how beautiful it was and yet how deadly. I think a lot of things in life can be like this too.

    Is the part about the whispering into the maze and screaming into the light and screaming for the human still the narrator or is this the darkness speaking? It seems like the darkness, but I can’t tell. I am convinced by the end that is the darkness talking as it takes on a new skin. I find it interesting that the darkness apologizes. I do not think the darkness has apologized before to anyone or anything, though perhaps the narrator. I may have forgotten.

    Great story as always!


    • medleymisty says:

      I love my home. I love where I live now too, but I’m just 100 miles away from where I grew up.

      Hmm, yeah. That could fit. The whole idea of growing for a bit and then needing to rest for a while, and wanting to go back to how it was before.

      Yep! Gotta keep going on, and there’s always more to experience and learn.

      I don’t know what angle I was going for. I was just writing what my fingers wanted to write. But yeah, I think that a lot of it is the narrator wanting to go back home and wanting to find safety and to go back before the black, but of course there is no going back.

      The honest answer is that I thought the bridge was pretty and I liked the pics I took of it and I just decided to use them for that part because I wanted to. 🙂

      Oh, the darkness and the universes it sees in the human! That is how it describes the human’s ability to imagine and to empathize and to create. The human has many universes inside itself because it thinks and dreams and wonders and empathizes with others and creates many worlds in its mind.

      Yeah, that’s the darkness. And yep, it’s learning to empathize from the human. 🙂


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.