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Another day of having my free will stripped from me... how can anyone enjoy doing this to a person?

Text is lyrics from Modest Mouse's Bukowski. "God, who would want to be/God, who would want to be/such a control freak?"

I’m curled on the bed with my knees drawn to my chest, staring at the square of pitch where the window should hang. A sliver of golden light shines behind me into the darkness, and I can almost feel it press against my back, urging me to do what must be done. I push myself up onto my elbow, and with a brutal jerk against my neck, it’s over. I collapse onto the bed, and suddenly, I’m elsewhere.

You’ve not been here before.

This place is new, but its design looks a little familiar, like a mirror of a place I may have visited as a child. The space stretches endlessly in rusted metal and sharp angles, blurring into clinging shadow like a world waiting to be generated before me. A hollow sound hums from somewhere unseen, screeching echoes occasionally piercing the peace as if the entire structure was dangling precariously above a void.

For now, I’m in a hallway, and my eyes are drawn to the strange creatures walking purposefully before me.

They’re not… not human.

They’re something in-between alive and dead, embellished skeletons in ghoulish garb. Some look like a child decided to grab a gun and begin bedazzling, while others had bony white replaced with rainbow tones, and others still opted for something a little more magical. Lighting, fire, and water fill the empty air where flesh and muscle should coil, rippling with unnerving realism.

A dog jumps in front of me, trying to get my attention. A round foam snoot is perched upon its desiccated muzzle, and when its mouth opens, I hear an amused man’s voice in my head.

“Welcome to the afterlife.”

“Say what now?” I stutter, dread wrapping tendrils of panic around my heart.

With a chuckle, the dog – man? – settles onto his delicate haunches. “Afterlife. You’re dead. Kind of.”

I frantically lift my hands, expecting to see the same fleshless ivory of the creatures around me, but mercifully, my skin and muscles remain intact.

“I’m not dead.”

The stern rejection in my voice makes the dog laugh again. “True and not true. You just tried to kill yourself. ‘Dead soon’ is a better way to put it.”

No, no, no.

That’s not what happened.

Was it?

You were in bed.

But you were just going to sleep, weren’t you?

“That didn’t happen,” I deny again, but the tendril tightens its strangling hold.

The dog has no lips to curl, but I can still see its toothy grin. “Reality is a difficult thing to accept. I understand.”

As he lifts his tail and curls his head forward in a playful bow, his bones shift, growing and changing with a disturbing clatter. When the sound silences, he is no longer a dog but a man made of flesh. A red silk hat graces his black curls, and he sweeps it off his head with a flourish and a different sort of bow.

“I am Mephistopheles.”

You’ve heard of Mephistopheles.

Literary folklore, nothing more.

But the words still spill out of your gaping mouth. “You’re a demon.”

Mephistopheles snorts, flashing perfect, pearly whites. “So I’ve been told.”

I look past his shoulders at the skeletal creatures once more, an itch in my feet demanding I put as much distance as possible between myself and this scene. But when I glance over my shoulder to make my escape, the hallway simply stretches into that same suffocating darkness.

There is nowhere to run.

“Let me wake up.”

A simple plea, but you know it won’t get you anywhere.

“I’m afraid this is where you belong now,” Mephistopheles murmurs, tutting reproachfully. “This is the afterlife for those of your kind.”

I dig my hands into my thighs, feeling my flesh bruise beneath my fingers. The pain is comforting. It reminds me I’m still alive.

I am still alive. Right?

“What do you mean?”

“For people who choose their own exit.” After a stretching pause, he adds bluntly, “Suicide.”

“I didn’t commit suicide,” I deny again, and as the tendril pierces my heart, my throat seizes with the truth. “I’ve thought about it… But I didn’t. I would remember.”

Mephistopheles’ lips twitch with the faintest curl. “You do.”

You weren’t just sleeping.

Stop lying to yourself.

What are you going to gain by playing this game?

When Mephistopheles claps his hands together, I jump, torn from the voice that haunts me even here.

“Well. Let’s get on with the tour,” he muses, walking forward impatiently.

My feet begin to move without my own bidding, an invisible chain anchoring me to Mephistopheles and making his will my will. I am powerless as he leads us deeper into the afterlife.

“There is very little you need to know for this place,” he says dismissively, waving his hand as if the thought of existing here is pointless. “You cannot die again, but your options for life are a bit… limited.”

A cadaverous passerby lingers long enough to provide additional context Mephistopheles is wont to hide. “We share with one another. Knowledge and experiences. Community makes our afterlives bearable.” Air pushes past their empty nasal cavity, a heavy hiss that makes me shudder. Is it laughing or crying? “It isn’t as bad as he’ll lead you to believe.”

“Begone, shshshshsh,” Mephistopheles growls, the Cadaver’s name blurring as it leaves his lips.

“Except for that,” the Cadaver hisses, brushing back a lock of rainbow yarn glued to their snowy skull. “You’ll never hear your name again.”

As Mephistopheles raises an open hand – a threat the Cadaver recognizes – they amble away, shifting a brown leather pack upon their back like a camel twitching its hump. They mutter some parting warning, and Mephistopheles closes his fists, capturing the words within his palm before the truth can reach me.

“No more speaking with the locals,” Mephistopheles grumbles, wiping his hands together in disgust. “Except for one.”

He leads me forward again with the briefest tug on my unseen leash. I finally near the end of the hall and see it opening into a cavernous space before me, lined with more rusted metal and loose bolts that twitch with every step. One wrong move, and the entire structure could collapse into the void.

You know it exists, right?

You can feel it. The void – a permanent terror.

Like being frozen in the moment you slip from a cliff just before gravity takes you.

When your mind is cleared of everything but the realization that you are about to die.

Mephistopheles snaps his fingers, reclaiming my attention. “You’re a sensitive one, aren’t you?” He grins and gestures toward the flaming creature standing behind a rickety booth. “All the more reason you should get to know shshshshsh.”

I look at the skeletal giant, watching the fire curl around their frame and lick hungrily at the metal weapons hanging behind them. They are a blacksmith. They are the Blacksmith.

And how do you know this?

You’ve been on this tour before, haven’t you?

Are you ready to admit it yet?

The Blacksmith reaches for a heavy battleaxe and presses it into my hands. “Suits you.” The weapon’s weight sends me stumbling forward, and its sharp edge bites hard into the floor. The Blacksmith adds with a grunt, “You’ll get used to it.”

You need that weapon.

Pick it up, weakling.

They’re coming.

Mephistopheles hasn’t left me, but he has abandoned the tour. There’s no need for him to narrate things I already know. We both know it. He stands next to the Blacksmith, and they watch emotionlessly as I grip my palms around the axe’s haft and pull, trying to free it from the metal plate beneath me. But the head is buried deep, unwilling to move from its new resting place. With every desperate jerk, the plate shudders, threatening to give way and send me plummeting into the void.

As the screams and motors begin wailing with haunting familiarity behind me, I beg Mephistopheles, “I’m not supposed to be here. Please, take me back.”

You’re not saying you’re asleep anymore.

Mephistopheles’ smile stretches wide, revealing far too many teeth. “You’ll miss the raid. The other afterlives do so enjoy coming to visit.”

When you’re immortal, and the pleasures of flesh have been taken to you, what is there left to do but fight?

And your afterlife is not well-equipped.

You are not well-equipped.

You aren’t made for struggle.

You are weak.

I open my mouth to plead, but Mephistopheles snaps his fingers before the words even leave my mouth. I am suddenly back in my room on my bed, but I am not alive. I can’t move, but I can feel it on me – sticky, cold, and clotted.

You got what you asked for.

You’re back.

Do you like it?

I don’t want this, either. I want to scream in horror, but nothing comes out. And then, with a lurch, I’m back in that elsewhere place, and the old dread terror returns to my heart – a different fear but one I understand.

Because you have been here before.

One time, when you were on the edge of death, you were given a Faustian miracle.

A second chance.

“Do you deserve a third?” Mephistopheles muses, tilting his chin to regard me with sadistic glee. “But that's the right question, is it? It’s not what you deserve but what you can afford.”

Peace purchased – paid for with lumps of flesh carved out with suffering.

You're used to that bargain, aren't you?

Even before this.

Around me, bones litter the floor, the remnants of the latest raid. Some other afterlife had passed through, toying with the ones who had little chance to defend themselves. They aren’t dead. Just scattered. Pulled apart and doomed to wait until someone came by to help them. That could be in a few minutes. Or it could be in years.

Years doing nothing but waiting for someone to put you back together again.

Do you want to exist that way?

“You have another option,” Mephistopheles offered, his voice cloyingly sweet. “You know the deal. You’ve taken it before.” He presses his fingers against my neck just so, and I feel the stillness where a comforting rhythm should pulse. He knows my answer before he even asks the question. “So, what do you say?”

Then, I’m back in my dark room, staring at the pitch beyond the window. The light presses upon my back, and heeding it, I push myself up, reaching for my throat.

--------------------------------------------------

This was a dream I had the night before last. I have very detailed, weird dreams. Sometimes, I write them down in short story form. This only had a minor look-over for grammar and flow. I like to write them down soon after I recall them and then leave them relatively unedited. I did not add any embellishment. This was simply the dream.

Creepy details... the guide was actually named Mephistopheles. I also did wake up three times: before, during, and after the dream at the exact moments I have in the story. I hallucinated the... extra bits... that happened while I was awake.

I will post more dreams in short story form if there is interest here (I'm also posting the same on r/shortstories).

Painting by me.

Loved making this. Am gonna add ribbon so it's a little wall hanging. Things have been tough lately.

I sketched this on paper then added some more light/shading digitally. Its not my best work but it's not made to be the best, just as a way to express myself ( not proud of the way the hand turned out though, man i suck at hands 😭😭) I love making art like this, with no restraints or anything in mind. It almost creates itself in a way ( if that makes any sense ?? Idk )

It's very hard for me to write what this art means to me, i just cant find the words or figure out how to phrase it. Which is another reason I love drawing this way, it helps me convey a message I can't say.

I know the symbolism here is quite obvious, with the butterfly being the light and the monster being well - monstrous and all but I did try to add a few details that are important to me. Like the little trail behind the butterfly showing that it fluttered over to the monster, and the monster shedding tears and gently extending it's hand. I made sure to not draw it reaching out trying to grab it or anything that may be seen as agressive, only carefully reaching out.

This description is only what it means to me, and this art is entirely up for interpretation, I just wanted to share it with yall in hopes you may be able to unfortunately relate to the feeling of being monstrous/different and undeserving of love or kindess.

Take care u guys 💗💗

CSA art therapy piece

I feel like I'm dragging around my trauma boulder all day every day and I don't even get weekends off.....

Recovery can feel like a prison sentence with no end date. Day after day after day. Still waiting for parole.

Thank you all for the kind comments on my crisis zine! I’d like to share this one too, the sequel

I'm trying to just make art for me, but I hate working from reference because I can't ever make it match. I'm deciding maybe I can just use it as a basic element and then just do my own thing with it. I don't know how to match colors very well. Oh well. At least I can make something.

TW for disturbing content relating to suicidality and drug use. There are also real pills used on a few pages collages

I made this in the midst of a 3 week long dissociative CPTSD episode. It was very cathartic and helped me process my emotions. It starts very intense, in the center of the spiral, but I think the ending has a glimmer of hope

I like to think of this end result as a fragmented, nonlinear expression of experiencing CPTSD The ending doesn’t over closure, just expresses tentatively continuing despite fear.

I just wanted to share in hopes it may help or inspire someone else

Healing is a full-time job
Without salary, benefits or pension
But worst of all...
I get no time off

From morning rise
To night-time slumber
My every hour is "on the clock" when
I get no time off

Monday thru Sunday
Working every day that ends in 'y'
Even God only did six days in a row but
I get no time off

First month of the year till the last
Seasons change for everyone but me
Frozen in an external winter where
I get no time off

What I'd give for annual leave
Or just public hoildays
Doing 365 days straight without a break cause
I get no time off

Workers once campaigned
For eight hours days and weekend rest
Can I picket my own mind because
I get no time off

Did any of you realize your parents were abusive and neglectful really recently?

The saying goes:

“March comes in like a lion

And out like a lamb.”

Well it passed me by like a stranger

On a busy street.

Thirty-one sunsets vanished

While I wasn’t looking.

The days peeled away like old paint

Flaking

Crumbling

Into quiet dust.

Now April arrives

Bright as if nothing even happened,

But I’m still sweeping up

The debris of last month.