Abyss Gaze

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. – Friedrich Nietzsche

I stood at the edge of reality, two LeMat revolvers in hand, staring at the most beautiful phenomenon since the Northern Lights died. My family had watched this abyss for generations, though that was a story for another time.

The spheric perimeter, known as the Sphere had been erected over a thousand years ago. As noted in the records we kept, for as long as there had been the Sphere, there were the sentinels. Duty-bound to stand guard at the empty precipice. It provided a protective layer from the wilds of the uninhabitable Earth with the section that was the home to a large community of survivors.

My watchtower was based within a few kilometres of what we called the "Abyss" - a large section of space that didn't make sense. The constellations of millions of stars and daily meteorite showers felt empty and full at the same time. My job was sto stand watch, to wait and just... wait. In case trouble came to Earth.

The kaleidoscopic lights were enough to bring even the most hardened man to tears. I admit to being one of those men. There were many times that the stunning dance of shade, shadow, cosmic energy, and wonder seemed to lean towards me, as if beckoning me to become part of it. I resisted, as one would in this situation. But it was nice to be wanted, desired. Sometimes the lights shifted, and I swore I saw a storm gathering behind my own eyes, as if the abyss had found a mirror.

Alabaster and ivory merge, snow shimmies into bone and chalk. The jet and obsidian backdrop is punctuated by vibrant vermilion, crimson, celadon, emerald, sapphic sapphire, amethyst, and slivers of saffron.

My post was at the farthest point of the known world. Far from the inhabited cities and towns, it was a desolate wasteland. Too close to the edge of nothing for anyone or anything to prosper there. Up close, the view was anything but just breathtaking; it was draining and disorienting.

As the lone watchman at my tower, it was my sole responsibility. Less about my skills as a marksman or sniper, more about being the sorry bastard with no life to speak of who signed up for the gig. It brought with it the kind of solitude that could make even the most hermit-like person curl up into the foetal position. Shania, my ex and childhood sweetheart, had always said I’d die alone. Guess she was right.

The mirror told me I was still myself, though my eyes looked… wrong, like clouds gathering behind glass. My life back in civilisation had been overshadowed by poor decision-making, hard-hearted cynicism, and the belief that while not all people were bad, I did not wish to sift the good from the bad. Given that I was one of the worst of all, and I had a hard time being friends with myself, why would I want anyone else in my life?

Every day was the same. What would be monotony to others was regimented bliss to me. No surprises. My mind was an abyss, and things ran like clockwork. Even if the onboarding documentation for this position went into a play-by-play of what could go wrong, in my next twenty years on the job, the worst that happened was a few bad dietary choices that led to toilet-related incidents I don’t wish to go into here.

No intruders, no breachers, no strange disturbances or ruptures. Though I often felt uneasy looking at it, I had gotten used to it. Just the same stunning, ethereal vista that Van Gogh would have drooled over before removing his other ear.

I thought it was important to document my time in this role, trying to achieve the same level as Bukowski, Kerouac, Hemingway, or even Dr. Thompson. Burroughs was a master, but while I had time to write and re-edit this into something maddening, I’d stick to a more linear narrative. Which is just as well, because this is the part in the story where things get a little… I can’t think of a word.

About a week ago, at around 1800 hours, on Tuesday, I thought I saw a flicker of… well, that’s just it. I don’t know what. It looked as if the world flickered, like time or the dimensional place ruptured for the briefest of seconds. The cameras I had focused on the abyss registered nothing. I told myself it was screen fatigue. Too much sci-fi. Still, nothing in the abyss.

We would never dare travel out to space, create robots, or consider AI without the forefathers of science fiction paving the way with their ingenious thoughts, and those ideas fermenting in minds capable of bringing them to life. But, no. Still no invasion. No green little men, or greys, or Cylons, or whatever H.G. Wells called the aliens in War of the Worlds.

Just us in a lonely universe.

I’ve never encountered a chest burster or any aliens that look like oversized salt shakers.

As the world has been reduced to a smaller section of the inhabitable Earth, it’s even lonelier. Not for the people back there (for anyone reading this, I’m pointing back to the towns and cities—the inhabited parts of our restrictive Earth). The human disgrace survives, against all odds.

It’s now the following week, and, well, it may be a bit of something and nothing. But there was something else: a magazine, a back issue of The Fortean Times, featuring HP Lovecraft on the cover. I’ve never read an issue, let alone bought one. So why would I have ordered one from the suppliers? Not my type of crackpot nonsense.

Lovecraft: New England’s Dreamer Of The Dark and Other Weird Tales… It featured a striking image of Cthulhu behind a sketch of the hack himself. Still, they had forgotten to send me The Silmarillion again. So I needed something to read.

I popped it on the shelf next to my purpose-made, cushioned, and reclining toilet cubicle pod along with my other reading materials: a thesaurus, a thoroughly chewed-out copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by R.L. Stevenson, and a few outdated manuals about sphere mechanics and maintenance. I didn’t dare open the trash fest of The Fortean Times until Wednesday, when I was having a minor infraction on the toilet and needed something to take my mind off, but not concentrate too much.

The first touch was weird. I had to grab for it twice before my fingers slid it into my palms. Then there was just a dullness. It almost felt like nothing. If that were possible, reading through some of the titles left me empty. All idealised fantasy and no real heart behind it. It felt like a message, but for whom I wasn’t sure.

Looking up at the silver rips through the kaleidoscopic abyss that happened every Wednesday night, I was transfixed, wondering why more time wasn’t spent actually looking at the wonder and spectacle of the unknown instead of listening to the latest and barmiest UFO spotting in Bonnybridge, Scotland. Even a cynical old sod like me appreciated the majesty: the crimson sun, the brilliance of the sparkling white and golden specs, and those swirling cloud-like shimmies. I still did not know what it meant, but accepted it as was.

~

Checking the barrels and shots in my LeMat firearms, as I always did at the start and end of the day, I found a shot missing from that doozy of a shotgun chamber. They had 9 barrels and an additional shotgun round. I would never have emptied it without replacing it, and I would remember if I shot the damn thing. Still, it’s not really an issue. Okay, it is. But let’s face it: the government sent me out here as a scapegoat, a “cover their own asses” for their low-cost protection plan. Never mind.

Anyway, for anyone reading this who’s interested, it’s lunchtime. Nothing special. A burger, some fries, and a Coca-Cola. The old recipe, before it all went “healthy” in the latter half of the 2020s. I had always found something special in the mundanity of life: a simple meal, a simple beer, a simple life. I had never wanted to reach for anything more than what was in front of me.

However, over the last week, I found myself considering the possibility of finally jacking this job in and trying to enjoy a more humdrum, normal life. I wanted to be where the people were. As I write those words down, I can scarcely say I understand my motivation or when it changed to become a people person in a busy city. I know deep down that’s not what I want. But, as the world spins, I feel. Nothing.

~

Clearly that was a bad dream. Maybe the Coke was off or something was wrong with the water yesterday. The water supply for my outpost needs to be regularly checked, re-cleaned, and sanitised, as they found no fresh water supply to build a plumbing setup from.

~

Want to know something funny? I’ve never passed out, even when I was a hardened cigar and Jägermeister drinker. Funny drunk, poetic like Joyce with the nuances of Emily Dickinson. So, how do you think I reacted when I found myself awake last night (or what I believe was last night) after a bit of sleep, clutching a flare gun, a little cliché? How about the fact that… nvm.

It was time again to check in with civilisation. Not that I was particularly offended or pissed not to be included. Why did I think that? Regardless, the call felt strained, more so than usual. I am not the best with phones, but it was worth it. There was a lot of background information and a slight commotion. No one on the other side would admit to anything serious, so I guessed it was the usual petty disputes causing a minor ruckus. Makes me glad I’m out here. Watching.

~

I still looked the same dishevelled character I always have. Found the shotgun shell, empty. Was. Not. Expecting. That. Still, it wasn't like I could really push forward with a full investigation. It could have been the result of a bender. I had my moments. Inside the shotgun shell was some sand. As I tried to focus, something was off with my eyes, and it felt like dark clouds forming across glass. Odd.

A lot of odd things had happened recently. I guess I hadn’t really considered them more than coincidental. I deal in facts and tangible reasoning; it’s what makes me sleep at night. Especially since… well, I shouldn’t say. There is an uncomfortable silence in my mind at times. My brain is very overactive, and before I took up this post, I was a vivid and immersive thinker and daydreamer. Now, parts of my brain felt locked, memories leaking into voids I couldn’t reach. There are great swathes of void-like nothingness. Maybe I’m just tired and weary from fifteen years of this gig. Still, for once in my life, I feel out of my depth.

I could contact back home, of course. “You just need to sleep more,” would be the likely response, along with, “Have you been taking your vitamins and supplements?”

~

My appearance didn’t look different, but our outward appearance is our mask. I’m sure someone smarter than me said that. Everything moved so slowly, but time passed quickly. Disorientation had been warned when I first took the post: “Don’t let the solitude destroy you!” my commanding officer told me before I took a pilot-less pod to my new home.

The shot. The shell. The shell was shot. I forgot.

~

“This is watchman Willis to base command, do you read?” I frantically called down the line on the darkest day since my arrival. A virtual debriefing, counselling session that benefitted no one later; my fears were dismissed as lack of sleep and poor eating habits. “Nothing has changed. The bloods you sent, the X-rays we took, all came back normal.” Maybe they’re right.

~

I woke sharply this morning, before logging in my journal, in the middle of a sandy dune at the closest point to the edge of nowhere, the great beyond. Two shells fired. Sand spilled. Words scrawled: Salvation for none. A flash of light, the portal glittering, and the dark storm behind my eyes—I felt a compulsion I could no longer resist. I felt sad. A sadness that came from nowhere, from nothing.

Then I found myself plotting a trip back to civilisation. I could reprogram a drone when the next delivery arrives tomorrow. They are designed to carry an adult body, if necessary.

Looking in the mirror, I felt the same sadness. There was a dark storm behind my eyes I had never noticed until today. A dark storm that flashed red, briefly, with a look of calm peace I didn’t recognise as my own feelings. I had to get home. Had to make peace with the family, the friends, and the people I left behind. Had to do it sooner rather than later. A strong compulsion pumped through my body.

~

“This is watchman Willis to base command, do you read me? I am leaving one final message before I head home. Tell my mother I love her and can’t wait to eat her pot roast again. Tell Shania we will have that dance… then she can tell me who she is. Tell everyone. Sorry.” The message was clear.

Standing in front of the mirror, I drew my trusty LeMat revolvers to my head, one beside my ear and the other pressed firmly into my right temple. I had emptied the chambers so that the single shot remained in both. One shot would cut me, while the other would kill me.

I win, abyss.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This is my third entry into the Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge. Funnily enough, though, it was the first one I started writing a few weeks ago. It's...very different.

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