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No Zombie, I

The Undead Consciousness

By r. nuñezPublished 6 years ago 8 min read
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'The Jungle', by Cuban artist Wilfredo Lam, 1944

Heartbeat of the Jungle

These are only thoughts disassociated from their mind of origin, from the very person of origin. They have become loosened and are falling away somehow, wafting off like a vaporous cloud, collecting bits of realization and disbelief in their wake, the very clear truth and the doubts that always betray it. This whisper of tenuous presence has drifted like some dead or wounded thing, dragging images from the memory like entrails for everyone to see.

No one can see them, of course, for they are only thoughts. And whether or not they can ever find their way into someone else’s field of awareness, I can only imagine it… if that is what one would call it. As for the origin of these thoughts, the person from whom they have taken flight, that was I.

I can no longer tell whether I am alive or whether I can ever reclaim these silent utterances. Nor do I know if I am dead, and if perhaps I am what some people perceive as that which they call ghosts… the remnants of thoughts worming their way into any available cavity in someone’s brain, before they are obscured by the forgetfulness of duration.

In my present state of awareness, I seem to hover in darkness, and I have a curious and pleasant sensation of waves arriving and lapping at a beach… and raindrops falling gently on my face.

I can almost visually watch my ruminations as they escape, like rodents abandoning me to my fate. And I have now become aware of a vague recollection of flying into Venezuela. I was supposed to have gone to the capital city of Caracas. I don’t remember why. It was a business undertaking of some sort.

And I have no memory of Caracas. Instead, I am recalling images of a night lit up with an enormous fire and drumming that would not stop … like the heartbeat of the jungle. Yes, I was in the jungle!

It was night, and I was in the jungle somewhere, and I heard drums that sounded like a heartbeat. Then I began to hear chanting. And people began to come out of the darkness, out of the jungle, and they danced around the flames.

Datu-datura, el ojo de l’altura, la fuerza de la cultura, datu-datura ...(jimsonweed/deadly nightshade, the eye of highness, the strength of the tribespeople)

Something Other

It all continues to throb in my head even now, wherever it is that I am. Whoever it is that I am. Was I kidnapped? Have I been robbed, violated, or otherwise exploited? The memory is there, I do know what happened to me. But the willful part of my mind that would normally recall something like this appears to be dormant or inactive. The remembrance is there… I just can’t get to it.

Then I seem to get an afterthought. I am accustomed to a trait of my thought process that often contradicts, disputes, challenges, and ultimately helps me to arrive at my conclusions. It would seem that my second voice is telling me now that my will is neither dormant nor inactive… it is merely being kept from me, or it has purposely been disabled somehow.

A cold sensation passes through me suddenly as I realize that some unfamiliar intent is compelling my willpower, and something other than my own volition is controlling me! I become drenched in sweat, and I want to cry out my despair, my protest of invasion. I want to expel this thing or to distance myself from it in any manner that I can find. But I cannot leave my body or deafen myself to the dictates of my mind, and this 'other' is here with me. I can almost feel its breath and its watchfulness of me.

I seem to have awakened, or come to… there is a ceiling above me. Awakened from what? Was I sleeping? Have I only been dreaming? I hear the drumming, muffled and vexing. For some reason, it’s become loathsome and nauseating to me.

Could this simply be the aftereffects of imbibing or over-indulgence? I don’t remember consuming anything… but they... they gave me something.

Who was it? There were two men who held me. But were they restraining me or were they helping me to stand? And another person, a woman with a painted smile, she held a cup to my lips and told me I was thirsty.

“Yo soy la caplata, usted es usted; yo le digo todo, usted tiene sed...” (I am the sorceress, you are you; I tell you everything, you are thirsty)

The Madness of Being

The Madness of Being

What I remember after that could not have been real. Some of the people in the dance began to change. Their limbs and torsos appeared to twist and stretch beyond their natural limitations, and they became grotesquely distorted. They turned into animals! But not like any animals that I have ever seen.

Datu-datura, el ojo de l’altura, la fuerza de la cultura, datu-datura...

I became immersed in a world of madness, watching a bonfire that danced and changed colors, crackling and sparkling as if it was alive, and hearing that dreary monotonous rhythm that engulfed and permeated every aspect of my being. I saw those people and otherworldly beasts as they threw themselves into a flurry and a frenzy of motion and abandonment. The pulsations of the drums gained a momentum and took on a sort of physical presence, until I felt as if I was being held aloft by it.

Datu-datura, el ojo de l’altura, la fuerza de la cultura, datu-datura...

I have a visual memory of hovering over the people and those nightmarish creatures. And they cheered for me, moving their hands like waves and reaching out with incitement and encouragement. I floated above them, riding on the density of that rhythm, mesmerized by some small degree of elation… once around the spectacle of flames, and then away, until it all became distant, and I came to a quiet place.

I sit up now and scarcely notice that I’ve been lying on a table. To my left is a mirror on a dresser, and I stand to look at myself. I am completely disheveled! My suit appears as if I’ve been sleeping in it. The jacket is filthy and has holes in it. My hair looks greasy and matted, and I am unshaven. My eyes are sunken and dark, resigned in some way, and I am repulsed to look into them. The skin against my bones, I look as if I haven’t eaten in weeks!

With discomforting effort, I muster the will to look back into my eyes, hoping to recognize something of myself or find further traces of remembrance. And I do, but it is quick and painful. It has to be quick, because no sooner do I see myself than I seem to be looking into someone else’s gaze. But even as I look away, I have the instant realization that I have killed someone!

I remember now being told to do it and expressing my distaste. And I remember trying in vain to voice my refusal to obey. There was no threat or promise, no persecution or deception. I agreed because I was prevented from perceiving any other choices.

I have a clear picture now of walking in the rain, giving in to my leaden footsteps as they pulled me along. I fought it at first, but the futility of it drained me of resolve. And I walked up to someone and strangled him. I do not know who he was or why he had to be killed.

His final flicker of life… what was it? A spasm? A gasp? It drew on some dark obscure corner of my conscience and brought out a lustful and perverse hunger which sated itself in the kill. All the time, I kept hearing those drums pounding softly like the heartbeat of the jungle, and the faint chanting…

Datu-datura, el ojo de l’altura, fuerza de la cultura, datu-datura...

Crazed and Desperate

And then I walked again, dazed and unblinking in the gentle sprinkle, seeking pathways with little or no lighting, moving from shadow to shadow.

The torment of my guilt… or was it just the betrayal of my self-image… it finally freed me of the cautionary hold, and I ran and cried like a crazed and desperate creature. I tripped and fell in puddles, I slid down a hill, I ran into obstacles… and I continued to stumble on this way, having lost all cognizance or concern of appearances or discomforts or consequences.

Arriving at the high embankment of a lake, I thought of throwing myself into the rocks below. The other consciousness gave consent with a nod of impetus. And then something illuminated and spread in my being. A certainty emerged in my own consciousness that nothing, no amount of degradation or abuse, no kind of punishment or humiliation, would ever move me to take my own life.

I stood there momentarily stupefied, absorbed in this revelation, tranquilized in the movement and sound of the waves lapping below, and lost in the caress of rain on my face. It occurred to me then how vividly I was sensing the world around me, and how very much I cherished water and rain.

The Sweet Surrender

The Sweet Surrender

I am looking closer at the image in the mirror now, at the holes in my jacket.

There was a fleeting moment there by the lake, when I didn’t hear anything or sense any awareness. In the haze of the drizzle, I saw two or three flares, I thought I heard thunder, and suddenly, I felt something hit me, with a soft and muted thwacking.

And I reeled in an ever-so-gentle surrender to the world, ceding to the playful sound of the waves below, and submitting to the droplets falling on my face. And then, a welcome blanket of darkness engulfed me.

In this room where I’ve been lingering, there is a body responding to the whim of someone else’s corrupted intelligence. I am detached from it now and free of that malicious influence. The brain in that body is empty of all but the basest of functions now and is barely animated by an individual yet unknown. That individual was able to manipulate me by the usage of datura and other toxins, mesmerizing drums, and seductive chanting.

The mind from that brain has all but dissipated now, the thoughts loosened and falling away, wafting off like a vaporous cloud.

fiction
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About the Creator

r. nuñez

I am a shamanic priest who loves to write stories, poetry, and songs. Retired, but still helping people, animals, and the planet.

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