Just a Little Writing

enjoy.

The language of Agony torments my mind and anguish flows like blood throughout my body. Echoes of deep dark dimensions still penetrate my skull. Those dark dimensions formed by the sounds of the weeping primeval, created by the viol, Erich Zann’s viol.

I still believe this fact; that night, the way he violently tormented his viol as the protruding waves of thick sounds poured out of his garret window, high above the Rue d’ Auseil and over the wall calling on something to haunt. It was a haunting night.

The wall the music flowed over is what contains society, defining its boundaries, keeping it where it is, not allowing it to question. His music had fulfilled my curiosities while in deep study of Metaphysics. But, it was more than his music, the wall or society that was contained by it that provoked me. My horrors lie beyond, in deep sleep till Erich Zann calls upon it; it caused my obsessions.

Shortly after this experience I was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and Mr. Blandot evicted me from the Rue d’ Auseil. If only I could hear the sounds of Zann’s viol again, if I could only find the Rue d’ Auseil and find Zann’s room; his garret window, find the note he scribbled for me in German while in his madness; I could prove the doctors wrong, I could live on the Rue d’ Auseil again and stop this insanity.

No map of the city has the Rue d’ Auseil or the wall that lies just beyond, neither has anyone ever heard of it. There is no proof that an Erich Zann ever existed or Mr. Blandot for that matter. But, it’s all real to me, it still echoes. The echoes became fainter and farther apart; all hope of sanity is escaping me and then came the night, the night that I do not fully remember, the night where pink and orange obscenities disturbed my rest flooding in through my tiny window into my bedroom with shadows of bright light.

The fluorescents grabbed every inch of my body and no matter how hard I fought to resist it pulled on me harder thrusting me up an endless spiral of stairs that are choked on both sides by walls of black stone and pictures of primeval. I had never seen these stairs before and I do not know where I’m going, or where I’m being taken. The stairs came to a sudden end and I was spat out into a familiar room. A room composed of bare walls and a floor almost completely covered with piles of music. Then I saw the garret window, it was his room, Erich Zann’s.

As I glanced around the neglected room I came realize all his possessions where gone; no steal frame bed, no bookcase, no music stand, no viol, just piles of music laying in disorder. He had obviously gone, where I don’t know. The garret window was my only hope of sanity and just as this thought fell into my head so did the faint music, the music of Erich Zann.

I ran towards the window, he must be there, somewhere out there. I grasped the edges of the walls and threw my head straight out over the streets below. The Rue d’ Auseil; it was all there, the wall, everything just as I had remembered it. I could hear Zann better now, I could hear his viol. I could picture him now; in a trance viscously playing. I needed to dive, dive out of the garret window over the wall into the deep thick pits of other dimensions where Zann was hiding. I needed to prove to everyone that he was not just a manifestation of my mind. I am not insane, I could hear the viol, and I could see Zann playing, dancing in tune with his viol, with his music wrapping around me. I needed to leap, I needed to jump but I didn’t, I couldn’t; I was already here.