The Dim (short story)

The Dim

   My name is Sam and I died one minute ago.

   The middle of my shirt is still warm and tacky. Surely there's a hole there, in the middle of my shirt. In my chest, there should be the bullet. The bullet that killed me. Then there should be a hole in my chest too, but I can't see it. Almost like how I can barely see the hole in my shirt or the blood soiling it. Because it is black. Not black like it would be on the night of a new moon. No. As black as the depths of a cave. Untouched by the light from torches. Untouched by light itself.

   There is no horizon. No upside down. If I tried hard enough, I'm sure I could raise my feet above me and hit a surface as solid as the one I stand on now and be pulled by some other gravity. It would feel no different from how it feels right now, I bet.

   It is dark, but it is not empty. The air is full of them, the minute particles. But I can barely even see them, until they nearly brush against my eyes. I can feel them on my skin. I can feel them wafting past me, going every which way. Perhaps that is also why this place feels like there is no up and down. The particles don't go in just one direction.

   Up.

    Down.

     Sideways.

      They do not care.

   They remind me of ash. As if there had been a forest fire here recently. But there is no forest here. Not from what I can see. I feel no heat either. In fact, it's rather chilly here. Not so cold where I would freeze, but I can still feel the goosebumps on my bare arms. I'm not sure where the ash comes from.

   I stand there.

   "Hello…?" I eventually say. My voice sounds muffled, as if by the ash. No answer comes.

   I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.

   I begin to walk.

~

   My name is Sam and I died a few hours ago.

   I can't tell if I've made any progress. Everything looks the same. Black. Thick with the ash.

   My shirt is still wet. My wound still feels fresh when I touch it.

   I forgot to say that it doesn't hurt, my wound. My wound doesn't hurt. I can feel it though. The bullet in my chest.

   My memory is becoming foggy. I know that I died. I know that there's a bullet in my chest. I know there's a hole in the middle of my shirt. I know my shirt is soiled with blood.

   Did I die from it? From the bullet in my chest? I can't remember, but I think I did. That's the only thing wrong with me, I think.

   "Hello…?" I say again. Perhaps if I can find someone, they can tell me where I am. Why I'm here.

   Silence.

   I continue to walk. I begin to feel tired. I decide to lie down. It's chilly here, so I fold my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and I close my eyes.

   And then I'm crouching. Squatted down with my knees against my chest, my arms wrapped around them. My eyes open in confusion. I was lying down just now, wasn't I? I think I was. I can't remember crouching, yet here I am.

   I stand upright again. I can continue on for a while longer, I suppose.

~

   My name is Sam and I died a few days ago.

   My memory is fading, I think. I know I'm dead. I know there's a hole in the middle of my shirt. I know my shirt's soiled with blood. Why is there a hole in the middle of my shirt? Why is blood soiling it? Is it my blood? I can't remember.

   I wade through the ash. If I stick my arm straight out, my hand disappears. It's dark here.

   I walk. I try to sleep, but I always somehow end up on my feet again. I don't do this myself. I can't remember getting back on my feet. It just happens. So I walk some more. I don't think I'm allowed to sleep. That's all I know.

   It must've been a while, though I'm not completely sure, but suddenly a faint glow manifests in front of me. Only a few yards ahead, but it's the only new thing I've seen since I came here. At least, I'm pretty sure…

   I rush towards it. It has a dull orange for its color. I kneel down beside it, peering through the ash. FIRE. That's what it is. Finally! Something to ward away this chill!

   I bend closer to it, shoving my clammy hands forward to soak in its heat.

   Except…

   It doesn't come.

   Perplexed, I move my hand closer until the flames are nearly licking my palm. Nothing.

   In fact… Perhaps it's just a trick of my mind, but because I don't feel the expected warmth, the fire makes me even colder. Still, I stay there for a while, staring through the ash into the fire. Waiting doesn't make it any warmer, but I stay there. I stay there because it's something different from what I've seen so far. I stay there for a long time.

   I wander away eventually. Into the black again. The fire didn't illuminate anything around it anyway. Not even the ash I can't see until it nearly brushes against my eyes.

   I walk. Try to sleep. Find myself on my feet a moment later… I walk…

~

   My name is Sam and I died.

   I don't know how long ago, or from what. I don't know why there's a hole in the middle of my shirt, or why it's soiled with something wet and tacky.

   I know that everything is black, and there's nothing here except the ash, and me, and some heatless fire that doesn't illuminate anything. At least I'm pretty sure. I know I can't sleep, because whenever I lie down, I somehow end up on my feet again.

   Occasionally, I try calling for someone. Anyone. But my voice is muffled, as if by the ash, and no reply comes. I've given up on calling for someone, for anyone. I don't think there's anyone else here, except for me, and the ash, and the heatless fire.

   I find the fire again, every once in a while. Or it finds me, rather, since I have no way of finding my bearings. Perhaps there are multiple fires. I don't know. But they're all the same size and shape, so I consider it one fire. I don't know its purpose. Why its here. Sometimes I wait by it for a long time. Much longer than usual, to see if it might attract someone. Anyone. But I am the only one who arrives, so I leave.

~

   My name is Sam.

   I don't know how I got here, or how long it's been. There's a hole in the middle of my shirt and it's soiled with something wet and tacky, but I don't know how this came to be.

   I know that everything is black, and there's nothing here except the ash, and me, and some heatless fire that doesn't illuminate anything. There's possibly numerous fires, but it may only be one since it's only one size and shape. I don't know the fire's purpose, because it isn't warm and no one comes when I wait there. I wait there for a long, long time. Then I leave. I know I can't sleep, because whenever I lie down, I somehow end up on my feet again.

~

   I don't know my name, or how I got here, or how long it's been. I think there's a hole in the middle of my shirt and that it's soiled with something wet and tacky, but I'm not sure.

   All I know is that it's black here, filled with nothing but something that reminds me of ash, and a fire without a purpose, and…. Me.

   No matter how hard I try, all I can remember is the Dim.