Someone Who's Within

(Phy Report #0004: 21st April 1934)

A new phenomenon has been discovered. Unlike the last few phenomena, this is a person. He came to report himself. His name is Alyosha Burkhaven. Alyosha claims that he was alive ever since approximately 8 AD. The phenomenon is that it is close to impossible for them to die: their body seems to undergo a regeneration of cells at an inhuman speed. It is so fast that the pain doesn't travel through the nervous system to reach the brain, since the wound would have already healed. We assessed the claims with the consent and knowledge of Alyosha, who was very confident even though the experiments may be deadly.

The claims are true! All attempts resulted in no death and no injury. Alyosha seems to have little to no reaction to the attempts made on him. They also claim they feel no pain. Respectively, these were the attempts made on them: a punch to the face (by the strongest subject from our pragmatic department); multiple punches to the face; a gunshot; multiple gunshots; a stab; multiple stabs; a slash through the chest; running them over using a car, five times; running them over using a small van, six times.

An important piece of information will require more experiments to be conducted. This is Alyosha’s testimony on it. “Though, after like 200 or 300 years, this power seems to get a bit weaker, and I actually started to feel pain again. However, the only reason I managed to live another two thousand is because of a… weird coincidence. Around the Norwegian Invasion, in like, 800 or something, I was still in the capital of this country, which was stable because that whole debacle was happening down there with those British lads. Anyway, I got drunk on that good ol’ beor and knocked myself out in some alleyway. I woke up sometime later, and a man, was pissing on me! Most of it was in the belly button. I couldn’t stand up to get him away from me; one reason was that I probably was really hung over, but another was because there was pain. A sharp pain. It erupted in my bones, in my neurons, and just everywhere. Absolutely unbearable. But, after they finished their urination, I was still laying there. And when that pain slowly went away, I tested myself and It’s like I regained it back… Yeah. I have no explanation for you either.”

More experiments will be conducted.

(Phy Maintenance #0004, 17th June 1999)

Second general check-up, complete. Liquid at, correct concentration. Beginning, urine insertion, into the navel…

19th June 1999

I woke up today and my back was aching per usual. Somehow my mind keeps convincing itself that I don’t need to buy a new mattress, even though the pain started around its welcome. Anyway, the lab visit the other day was one of the worst ones. My belly button was much more sensitive than the last few visits. I felt every molecule of it landing there. That single minute felt like thirty. Usually, I don’t think about it, but that day my brain decided to. And considering what it is… A small shiver gradually grew, travelling across my entire body. Every single hair in me stood up. It was much more vivid than it needed to be, and I don’t particularly want it to happen again. But what can I do.

Anyway, as I’m writing this, I’m thinking about… this. Damn! I said it many, many times, and still, I cannot emphasise it enough. The love that I developed with the process. Writing anything and everything now. Like, often I ponder, ‘How many journals will I stack if I continue at the rate that I’m in?’. I’ve already filled 28 of them! Yes, yes, the commitment wasn’t consistent throughout, but that doesn’t matter. I jotted down so many thoughts and insights and happenings and stories and lives. This fascination I developed; I cannot stop it! It is amazing what I have for myself through all these decades.

Jeez. Decades. Time. A wave swimming by without anyone's consent. In an unreachable background. In its natural silence, towards… towards… towards…

I gotta stop with this. Oh, that tap is still-

————

The bathtub has overflowed again; It must be a world record to forget it three times in a row. I lumber towards the bathroom, but a guitar attacks me. Everything I've done flashes for a moment, and I regain balance after the trip. It stands there now. Menace is pent up in its leers, which then turns into a gaze of yearning. Yearning for me to use it again. Reassure its existence, and mine, for a moment.

A waterfall opens. Art and expression. It is the best thing that has been ever conceived and it's why I'm still here. My grin couldn’t contain itself as I sat down to lean my back against the wall next to the guitar — luckily the wood of this brittle confine didn't break again. Putting it on my lap, I strum... And strum... As I’m strumming away, I take a deep breath.

"Ancient holy wars

Dead religions, holocausts

New regimes, old ideas

That's now myth, that's now real

Original sin, genetic fate

Revolutions, spinning plates

It's important to stay informed

The commentary to comment on

Oh, and no one ever really knows you and life is brief

So I've heard, but what's that gotta do with this black hole in me?"

After taking a deep breath, I sit there, staring at the wall. Is this my creation? It feels too good to be coming from me. No no. Another mind, far more inspired than I could begin to imagine. My wits are far too insipid to conjure such moving poetry… Oh, and my voice sounded nasally and a bit annoying… And fuck I was a bit slow at playing too, wasn’t I... A weight seems to have dissolved during my transcendence, but I added another one when I came back to the wall I now stare at. I put down the guitar next to me at an angle. It falls, and I don't pick it up. I stand up again to walk to the bathroom, taking in the creaks of wood on the way as punishment.

Before me, the water is dying, and organs are withering in tiny, silent pops. A rush of neurons fire around, conceptualising a trifling “no…” in my head as I process this tragedy...

Taking off the robe, I step on the recently formed puddle like it’s not there. I jump into what’s left in the tub; it covered my body. I proceed to drink an opened bottle of... something nearby, savouring the microplastics, feeling the warm water on my calf, which is still running from the tap.

The elevator reaches the ground floor and I loiter out. I pretend to not hear the receptionist’s friendly greeting and continue towards the door. I know for sure that smile is for herself and not for me.

How forgetful could I be to even hope the aroma of the streets will change. A stench that I began to not only get used to but also find amusement in: in the insanity of how it’s still there. A decayed mix of oranges and whites washes all over this area, of which its power does not discriminate; it brushes on people, on bodies, on buildings, on skies, on anything unfortunate enough to live here. A shade of faceless people I will never see again is present in my painted lens. Ones who will only contribute to the world I’m in as reminders of suffering I can do nothing about. It always hurts, but everything does already. So why should I begin to care? I notice the graffiti I just passed by. It wishes for death. Death of many things. Not for nothingness, but towards a rebirth of… many things… My want to continue walking outweighed my desire to entertain it. And even though I could, I didn’t. I carried on walking.

I have yet another interview with the EIO, and it was 10 minutes ago. I’m on my way to it, about six minutes away give or take. I had to attend even earlier for preparation, but my team will manage it like always. All I need to do is prepare the script I’ll say for when my mortal manager gives me his one.

I slow my walking, then come to a stop. Right before the broken glass of a local shop, I stare at my reflection, pondering to myself “How did I think this was ‘just okay’?” Man! My wide-leg, dark-grey trousers hover over my white trainers in such elegance; my black shirt perfectly complements my beige coat. “I should wear this coat again with…”

The grey cloud made its visit again, and the joy from before confirmed itself to be ephemeral. I continued walking.

I went to the interview today, and I performed well. Ever since that first one, my hatred started to grow. But I continued my masquerade, and my contempt jaded. My soul contaminates with every day I choose to entangle myself. Still there, but indifferent. The immovable clod in me often doesn’t take effect during what I put myself through; I learned to hide it well. My ocean of misanthropy and self-loathing has now become my place of solace. When I drown further down and the pressure presses on my head, I kindle a fire inside me. And, it burns. But, well, what do I have.

If I thought more about this, all It’ll cause is more thoughts, and even more of it; a descent into an infinite regression, only to end up yearning for the nearest bottle to me. If I have hope in anything, I’ve already lost. One of the many reasons I do what I do.

In face of this universal predicament, death seems like the most viable choice. So why does the idea of it make me quiver?

I put myself in a conundrum, one of them is the comfortable one, even though I’m slowly killed by it too. There seems to be no other choice for me.

Alas, I’m okay with that.

I’m okay with myself…

I need to visit Tote.