The tired old man - with exhausted body and broken mind - drifted off to sleep, and was slowly beckoned into the realm of dreams.
The beauty which first surrounded him was overwhelming. Soft sunshine and gentle temperatures made him feel light and free, as film clips from his youth - of family dinners and backyard games - unfolded before his eyes, and a pure joy saturated his spirit.
He found himself in the car with his dad, they both happily singing together to a song playing on the radio, with him acting up from the back seat as he always did. He jumped forward between the front seats to shout a favorite line from the song, and his laughing dad was distracted for just a moment as an oncoming vehicle drifted into their lane.
He survived; his dad did not. Clouds formed, and a slight mugginess gripped his slumber.
Teenage years manifested. His mom, once a vivacious and doting parent, was now lost in a black hole of grief. She drank, she danced, she bedded whatever man wanted her, always trying to fill the chasm with actions that only served to broaden the void inside her. And he felt the guilt, because - though she never gave voice to it - he could tell by how she looked at him; the accident was his fault.
While he vacillated between accepting this judgment and rebelling against it, one thing remained constant; he hated her for it until the day she died. And a foggy dankness descended.
Young adulthood revealed itself, and he felt the strength of body and surge of energy he had once possessed. The carnal pursuit of money and frivolity and women replayed out, as a variety of shady dealings and drunken escapades and manipulative relationships jolted through his subconscious state. Even while engaged in these actions he had hated himself for behaving as such, yet he always felt powerless to change.
Indeed, the dueling emotions of prideful conquest and unbearable shame locked onto him, to the point of oppression. Suddenly the sun violently fractured the fog and assaulted his senses, with its rays sharp and blinding and unforgiving.
Middle-age forced its way in, and with it a deluge of regret and fatigue. Three marriages, all felled by sins committed by himself and by the wives taken (in rapid succession), dropped on him with the force of a sledgehammer. The children he had sired - then treated as inconveniences, even burdens - ran through this dream-which-had-become-a-nightmare, all seeking his attention… in futility.
Thunder sounded, lightning crackled, and as the temperatures dropped the sun was vanquished by the darkness of an approaching storm.
And then he found himself where he began: elderly, worn, and lost in the debilitating grip of remorse. The friendships he once enjoyed had finally been worn away by his persistent negativity, while his children were impatiently loitering on the periphery… waiting on an inheritance they didn’t know he had already drained.
In truth, he was alone… and he was miserable.
The dream began to close in on him, and the stormy dusk gave way to an icy darkness. Darkness became black, and the blackness became so thick he suddenly realized he could see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Wait,” he uttered to himself, as a cascade of questions reached his lips. “Am I still dreaming… did my life just flash before my eyes… AM I DEAD?” He then heard a voice, one which was not his own…
Not yet, you’re not.
Before the words reached his ears he had felt her presence. Though he could not actually see her in the blackness, he was able to visualize her in his slumbering state; beautiful, winged, yet also terrifying. A voice that was familiar but not, dripping in a malicious yet sultry tone.
“Not yet?” he repeated, with just a hint of annoyance.
He sensed her action a split-second before he felt it, though not in enough time to brace himself; the razor-sharp tip of a sword, slicing across his thighs.
“What the fuck,” he screamed in anguish, while struggling to get to his feet. He was answered with the hilt of the sword smashing into his jaw, knocking him back to the ground.
How DARE you speak to me that way?
He noticed that, while the wound he received was real, he was not bleeding. A hell-of-a-lot of pain, yes, but no actual blood. In that moment it suddenly dawned on him he may not escape this dream, and the chill of fear which passed through his heart matched the iciness of his surroundings.
In the most respectful tone he could conjure, he asked, “Are you ‘Death?’”
He heard her laugh with such cruelty that the chill spread throughout his entire being.
No… YOU are.
In spite of his situation, irritation rose. “Oh great,” he muttered sarcastically, “I’m about to die, and get stuck with a cryptic Grim Reaper.”
He was rewarded with the sword impaling his left shoulder.
He screamed again despite himself, and after a second to gather his senses said bitterly, “Okay, I may not have lead a perfect life, but I know damned-well I don’t deserve THIS!”
That remark cost him his right hand. Literally.
As he collapsed into a ball on the floor, he shed tears for the first time since his father’s funeral. Holding his bloodless stump of right arm with what strength he could muster from his left, he surrendered… silently waiting for the final thrust. Time passed silently, then at the moment where he began to think the worst was behind him? He heard her voice again.
We are not done yet, you asshole; you have taken a lot, from a lot of people, and the bill has to be paid.
He was then subjected to an assault so barbaric he was certain this winged whatever-she-is was possessed by a vindictive rage. One attack after another, with various appendages - tender and otherwise - being violently removed with every slash, gapping holes being opened in his body with every thrust.
Despite the unrelenting torment (maybe it was due to his ‘dream state’), he was aware enough to notice that there was still no blood - not even one drop shed. This somehow made the whole experience worse, as if the gravity of what was occurring wasn’t even worthy of the natural result of it. It was empty, hollow… utterly meaningless.
Like he was starting to see himself.
And then, when he thought he could handle no more anguish… it stopped. His body was magically - and immediately - made whole again… and she was gone.
While still locked in the blackness and the dream, he couldn’t believe he had survived this. He was not certain if he had been trapped there for minutes or hours or even days, but he - had - survived! He felt a swell of conquering pride, and with the rebellious spirit of his youth rising up from the depths of his tattered soul, he cried out, “You couldn’t break me, you bitch! You failed!”
And then… she returned.
But now it was different. The atmosphere shifted, and suddenly the room was flooded with spring daylight, with her transforming into the most beautiful creature he had ever seen… almost like a prototypical ‘angel.’ She looked at him, briefly smiled an almost-delicate smile, then raised the sword above her head.
You had one last opportunity to choose a different path, to humble yourself… to learn and grow… and you instead chose arrogance.
“Wait… what?” The terror returned, a bolt of savage karma. Her face hardened, and her tone mutated into the more sinister vibration of earlier - a tone which did not match her now-beatific appearance.
Look at the bright side - at least your children can comfort themselves with the notion that, “He died peacefully in his sleep.”
As the sword came toward his head, he was jolted by the mindless banali--
The End.
Thank you so much for reading, and for the subscriptions, ‘likes,’ comments, and restacks. It all plays a vital role in sustaining and growing The Stone Age, thus I value each of you.
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Notes…
-- Cover image was initially generated by the author using Grok 2 (on X), then artistically altered using the CapCut app.
-- Unless otherwise credited, all other images were generated by the author, using Grok 2 (on X) or Substack’s AI Image Tool.
Wow I haven't read a story that I could visualize in my mind like that for some time!
That was a story that absorbed my full attention. Thanks for sharing