The Battle Within

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Everyone has a battle that they are fighting in their life. It's the decisions made and the results at the end of the battle that matters.

Submitted: March 18, 2016

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Submitted: March 18, 2016

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The room is dim, as the blinds from the windows were only half closed. Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, a dark figure in the room. A slight trickling sound is heard, tap...tap...tap.... His face is barely seen by the dimness of the room. A shiny razor tipped with blood rests in his left hand, while the right one is slumped to the side, having been defeated by the left warrior.  The trickling gets louder. Tiny trails and bloated dots of crimson stain the bed sheets. A tiny puddle swells onto the hardwood floor. Johnny has been at it again.

Johnny slumps into the bathroom. He leans over the sink as he looks at himself in the mirror. He is a teen. Slight facial hair present. His hair and shaggy and dirty. He was skinny and malnourished. Thinner than a weak tree branch from the youngest tree sprouted upon earth. He has bags under his eyes. Eyes which have become pink as a sign of aftermath of gunned down blood vessels, massacred by the brain’s army of depressants which have restricted him from slumber many a night. Johnny blinks once…twice…a third time…a fourth time…a fifth time…a sixth time…he becomes drowsy in the absence of thought and imagination, unable to bring himself of any so-called “happy” thoughts. He slumps more onto the sink, not giving a single care that his arm strength had now been reduced to that of balsa wood. He slips, he falls. Blood gushes from the wound like a waterfall inside of another. Air escapes his body as if they were imprisoned for centuries and longed to be free. The oxygen had joined forces with the brain and his army, plotting the slaying of our hero, killing him. The air continues to leave the body, showing no inhibition in the effort of process.

Johnny blinks for a thirtieth time. He had dreamt. The kind of dream only the sun would recognize. He shakes his head to get rid of the awful thought. The thought of his own body turning against him. The ultimate betrayal. He had been fighting the battle for some period of length, and he wasn’t about to lose. If so, he wouldn’t care. Death was no matter of worry for him. However, he wasn't sure if he wanted it to happen. A low rumbling interrupted his mind waste, echoing through the small room. However, it was not the room he was standing in.

The kitchen, the dimness even blacker than the bedroom, was by none far from anything a dystopia. Cracks within cracks, rust and dirt upon rust and dirt. Mice had settled into the toxic wasteland as the early settlers did once the New World was discovered.  The rodents had feasted off the chipping walls and dirt stained floor tiles, finding any source of food as anything edible. The scavengers showed no signs of sojourn, not even the slightest at the disgusting hovel of a home. It´s as if though they were…used to living in these conditions. May Johnny have felt the same these months of forlorn and isolation? Walking into the contaminated hovel, Johnny dragged himself along the floor and the walls, the counter, trying not to fall. The wound from his earlier battle seemed to have stopped running blood from his wrist, and had now walked cold air against the wrist. His bloody hand reached for the refrigerator handle, seeming as though he were reaching for the stars in front of him. No. Not yet. He wasn’t quite there. Not yet.

Opening the metal hunk of an edibles carrier, he leaned into it to see what was on today’s menu. The cool air from the inside smacked him in the face, overwhelming him with the pleasure of feel. He looks inside. Dairy products, spoiled, meat products, rotten, some vegetables, dry and out of nutrient, looking more like dull colored chipotle that has spent it’s Hispanic life on the hood of an old rusty truck engine, just waiting for the end. Johnny stared blankly at the sight of food that could make a venereal disease seem like medicine for preschoolers and pregnant teenagers. A sharp pain made this teen screech. Nearby mice scurry away in fear. First came a THUMP, then came a CLATTER, then finally, a loud groan...he was on the floor, holding his gut as if the insides were split open and he had to keep them together. The poisoned contents of the refrigerator spilled onto the floor, glass shattered, and slushy liquids soaking into the floor cracks, instantly creating a moldy substance beyond recognition. Like puss from a bloated stab wound to the neck. An infection. Blurred vision with colorful candy dots floating in the air, as what Johnny could see. He wanted to eat them, but knew he couldn’t. Hunger ate at him as if it were out for revenge. It had. The monster within his stomach roared and ached for freedom. Hunger wanted food, Hunger needed food. What Hunger wanted, Hunger got. The battle raged on. The brain’s army had been built to eliminate, to obliterate the very fabric of this teen’s being. Oxygen had taken a break from the battle, waiting for the opportunity to strike when the prey was at his weakest level, his breaking point, the moment he finally decides to let go, to let loose the inner demons within him upon thy self, to dominate his betraying body and ending the war himself. A Colonel Kurtz led from inside the brain, leading the renegade of bodily organs to either impending doom or glorious victory. Only the mind, a renegade himself from the renegade, could set the timer that would end the war, defeated or victorious.

Darkness. Low rumbling. More trickling. Johnny was in his room. The razor had been replaced with a pocketknife, the puddle had gotten bigger, and the blinds were now fully shut. The war had been fought, the battle had been lost. The mind had won, the timer had run out. No words were said, traded, shouted or even muttered, as the sounds of war had drowned out everything in an ocean of despair, misery…and most of all, madness. No flowers were given to the fallen, they weren’t for anyone’s use. Innocence and purity were far from what used to be.

With the mind taking the incentive, forcing the decision for the end, you could say that he won yet failed at the same time. Johnny had a new life now. If only he could see it.


© Copyright 2017 M. L. Tereno. All rights reserved.

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