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A flash of light, screams echoing in his head, and searing pain that burned everything and anything.
Stuttering sounds of a heart beating, until finally, nothing. For an eternity, nothing. Not even a true conscious thought, there was no pain, no relief, no Vincent.
And suddenly, a bright light, and the feeling of falling.
The ground beneath Vincent felt like tiny spears digging into his skin. His clothes were damp. There was a pulsing ache in his head. As his senses started to return, everything felt so incredibly overwhelming. He could hear strange humming coming from all sides. His vision was still dark. Why couldn't he see? Moving his body, his memories staggered in, like plates dropped on tile as they broke into his mind. Scattered facts and questions. He was standing with his people. He was the head of the network (which he renamed VWBC). There were headlines proclaiming him to be a charlatan, that his movement had been a ruse to gain unsuspecting individuals' trust and use them. As these memories returned, slowly, Vincent pulled himself upwards. Where was he now? There was no opening his eyes- something was wrong. The panic started to set in as his body started to feel more lucid.
Raising his arms, both felt as if they were asleep, pins and needles starting to set in the more he started to move. A low hum rang through his head, eliciting a pained noise from Vincent. Hands slowly moving to his face, they made contact with something hard and flat with a slight curve. He could feel something was on his hands, something odd. A warmth started in the back of his head, and it began to spread across his body. A flash of heat that conflicted with cold from his clothes that stuck to him in the most uncomfortable way. Frustration rising as he still couldn’t see, his hands grasped at the flat surface. A horrible scratching sound resonated, a piercing sound that caused Vincent to flinch. Hands instinctively went to the sides of his head to cover his ears as they were met with a different flat surface.
‘What? ’’, Vincent tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Dread was beginning to settle in his bones, causing everything to feel more intense. Hands gripped the odd surface, a surface different from the one blocking his face. As he frantically clawed at this box shaped structure on his head, he heard and felt more scratches all around him. A metallic sound, clinking together every time his hands slipped off the box. Vincent slowed his movements, another realization hitting him. Slowly, cautiously even, Vincent brought his hands together and let his fingers brush along each other. He could hear it. The sound of metal against metal- maybe even steel. Touching his fingers together, he could feel it. A pit in his stomach formed, a pit that took all rationality with it and left an empty, fearsome feeling to flow freely.
It was then that he was struck with a memory. A memory that felt like it was moments ago and yet a lifetime ago hit Vincent like lightning to a rod.
His speech, his followers, and the sudden collision. Vincent hadn’t processed it in the moment, that his head had been crushed and trapped within the very machinery he had craved to be on. But now he could see it. He could feel it.
The television was still on his head.
Chest rising and falling quickly, Vincent trembled, his limbs growing heavier by the second. Suddenly, static appeared on his screen. Vincent could see it, the peppery snow that happened when a television was struggling to find its signal. The sudden brightness disoriented him after having seen nothing but black. All reasoning told Vincent there was another, more logical explanation as to why he was experiencing this, why he saw this snow so close to his eyes that it obscured all other vision. Frantic, Vincent quickly held his hands in front of his face once more, hoping to see something, anything. His heart began beating faster as adrenaline continued to flood his system.
“░F░u░c░ k░.”
A sound.
Vincent made a sound.
The man could sob. He was terrified he had lost the ability to see and speak, both of which didn’t seem to truly be the case anymore. This small victory, the warbled word he had been able to emit, was enough to make his hands stop shaking. Vincent exhaled and startled at the sensation. Something about it felt odd. A small breeze hit his tongue. Slowly, he reached his fingers towards his mouth, vaguely aware of the spatial distance. Mouth open, Vincent gasped when his tongue was met with something cold and sharp with a strange texture. His suspicions that something was welded to his fingers were holding up. One question slightly answered as many more began to pop up. His hand didn’t move. He could begin tasting the residue on his ‘fingers’. Blood. Dirt. Metal.
Breathing becoming louder, he slowly pulled his hand out and gagged out a distorted sound. Vincent’s vision remained the same. Grey, white and bits of black were all he could see. The sounds around him were muted, a slight breeze every now and again. There was a tree somewhere in the vicinity, Vincent was sure of that. Honestly, he had no way of knowing if that was true, but it was the one thing he had to ground himself. There was a rustling whenever he felt the breeze, the breeze that reminded him of his clothes being stuck to his skin, slow to dry.
Vincent knew he should get up, it was useless to sit here and wait for help. At best, if Vincent got up and wandered looking for medical assistance, he might be able to find someone who could do a damn thing about his predicament. At worst, he should try to escape the scene of the crime - the scene of the crime. There was one more thing Vincent could remember when the electricity surged through him. The silhouettes of his dear congregation, alight like stars in a dark sky, with Vincent in the center of it all like the brightest star there ever was. Regardless, Vincent had a strong idea that he wasn’t the only one who suffered.
And yet, here he sat, feeling the weight of the horrors like lead in his lap. There was little to no hope that he’d be able to find his will to move and actually stand up. That was until he heard the sound of rushing wind. As he slowly moved in his seat on the ground, Vincent could hear something quickly whistling through the air. Before he had much time to understand, there was an impact. The ground rumbled angrily beneath him, rubble, chunks of debris and presumably dust beginning to rain. Flinching when hit with various pieces of earth, Vincent shielded himself as best as he could using his arm. After the dirt rain subsided, what remained was the sound of pebbles falling. The way the singular tree nearby seemed to bend and sway, at least, he could guess based on the small bit he could hear. Wood bending, almost too much to the point of snapping, leaves making a chorus of noise as they all were blasted with an unprecedented gust of wind. Without any warning, a wail erupted. A wail of pure agony, something that evoked a sense of pure suffering. His body reacted in kind, that horrid trembling returning. Vincent could hear these cries, erupting and unstoppable, no words, just screams with muddled sobs. Before he could think a single coherent thought, the sound of whistling returned and Vincent’s instincts took over. Getting to his feet, Vincent stumbled, truly feeling the weight of his head as he lumbered along. The ground beneath him was solid, mostly plain terrain it seemed. As that rustling sound returned, barely heard above the continuous screaming, Vincent did his best to move towards the tree. He could hear its leaves.
But he didn't make it in time. Vincent was blown forward when another collision hit the ground and shook it. With him already being unbalanced, Vincent used his hands to catch himself. Normally, that would’ve hurt with his palms bare. However, there was no pain. No feeling of his skin scratched up. Head hanging low, breathing shallow, Vincent still only saw static, his head radiating heat while the rest of his body grew cold in shock at the unexplainable phenomenon. Once the earth had settled, a new cry began, joining the one that never ceased. This one was more high pitched. It went on longer than it should have, sounding like some sort of amalgamation of a woman’s voice and some sort of animal.
Where was he? What sort of Hell did Vincent fall into? Wasn’t he supposed to be a star?
Crawling towards what he hoped was a tree, his shoulder brushed against bark, bringing him immediately to a stop. Finally, finally. Vincent turned and clasped the trunk with his hands and felt the familiar bark beneath his palms. His fingers, nails – claws? He gripped into the tree, puncturing it with odd ease. Vincent swallowed drily, the whistling picking up once again. Vincent could only hold onto the tree. Hear the way the ground shifted, felt it shake, and hear the chorus grow louder and louder. There was nothing Vincent could do to dull the shrieks. He grabbed at his head, desperate to get the television off, desperate to cover his ears, desperate for even the smallest reprieve of this tortuous symphony of painfilled cries. Vincent held onto the tree when the whistling occurred, trying to figure out the distance from the tree to the various impacts against the earth. No explanation as to why this was happening, not a single idea as to how it was happening, and no hope that it would stop as it continued for minutes, which felt like hours.
Between holding onto the tree when the ground would shake, Vincent would push, pull, any and all attempts to pry off the television set. Despite no progress, Vincent didn’t give up. The screams were so loud and only climbing in volume. When Vincent found purchase underneath the television, he felt with his fingers against the smooth bottom of its casing. Carefully, his deft fingers searched for an opening, where his head had crashed into it. Once he made contact with skin instead of any sort of gap, Vincent stuttered in his movements. Slowly, ever so slowly, he encircled the area surrounding his neck that met with durable bakelite that he was ever so familiar with. Gently, the tip of his malformed finger touched just where the two met and melted into one. It was sensitive, particularly alight with pain just from his basic pressure. He could especially feel how cold that finger was, how sharp it was. Vincent let his breath hang in the air, the echoes of screams surrounding him, two whistling sounds starting as Vincent realized with true horror what this meant.
But denial was such an ugly thing.
Grabbing hold of the tree once more, he rested his head forward and could very well feel the tree. In a sense that it was there, but would have great trouble describing its texture, unlike his palms and neck, which could feel everything as a normal patch of skin would be able to. But his claws, his ‘head’, those had similar touch receptors as it were. A horrible feeling took root in the pit of his stomach. When the sound of another crater being made finally happened, Vincent quickly touched the television more, feeling its casing and really taking the time to register what he was all feeling. Not just his fingers feeling something smooth, Vincent was recognizing that he was feeling the sensation of metal claws tracing the outline of its shape.
That was enough of a fully formed thought to make him suddenly lean forward and hurl. Heaving, out of sheer exhaustion. Overwhelming fear had him sweating and trying to empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Instead, Vincent only threw up liquid, burning immensely with the notable absence of the familiar burning in his nose. Vincent had enough instances of being hung over to remember what it all felt like. It was only then that it clicked- Vincent didn’t smell anything. He should be. He could smell in a subjective way when he opened his mouth to get some form of smell, but otherwise that particular sense was absent entirely. His olfactory system was completely gone, and the answer that Vincent had been trying so hard to evade was screaming; nearly as loud as those around him.
The whistling started again.
Turning where he sat, Vincent moved to hold the tree. But this time, he began to hit his head against the tree. A singular thought repeating over and over, the crashing and screaming growing, the sound of the tree shaking with each hit, pain echoing in his head, the feeling of leaves falling on his head and shoulders were the only gentle feeling he had felt since he sat up in his shallow grave. The fourth or fifth time he banged his head against the tree, trying to wake from this haunting nightmare, he paused. Vincent, albeit blurry, was beginning to see. What he first saw was charred looking bark, splintering and showing where he had been hitting it with his head. Vincent leaned back and looked to his claws, raising them one more time in front of his face. He saw them, the sharp and elegant look to them, the bright cyan color they shined. Clicking them together, he could hear more clearly. They were metal – they were claws. And they were his. Before he could fully understand, the whistling became louder, louder than ever in fact.
Vincent didn't know why, but something urged him to stand. Using the tree as leverage, he got to his feet once more and bid the tree that was his sanctuary farewell. He was no more than a few feet away when the meteor struck the tree. The collision was enough to send Vincent falling once more, one hand catching him as his other arm tried to shield his face. Grunting, he could tell from the noise alone what had been impaled on the tree. What demolished it? Vincent struggled to stand. Once he did, he turned his head to look. A sight most gruesome, a creature – humanoid, was impaled deeply onto the tree. One of its branches found home in its chest, making the creature a bloody mess of a body. Four limbs and presumably a head, one that fell further back than was natural. The creature was silent, only the echoes of screams filling the air around them. Vincent watched as its chest inhaled, rising, and then it let out a horrible screech. Turning tail, Vincent didn’t bother to stop when he heard more whistling in the sky.
He needed to get out of this rain of terror.
As Vincent found his way onto the wayward streets, a deep crimson sidewalk greeted him. Littered with trash, stains of various reddish varieties, and what Vincent thought to be a few stray teeth that appeared sharp and canine like. The shadows were a deep plum, the world drenched in red hues. It was as if the entire world was through a lens coated in blood. Tripping over his feet, he caught himself on a trashcan, nearly falling over again in the process. Standing up, he turned and looked to the building, something mildly normal, a café. But the building was colored in reds, blacks and a splash of white. What stopped Vincent was the window. He saw himself, and quickly turned away. The image was overpowering. He couldn’t stand to see it for another second. Something, some sort of coping mechanism begged him to not look at his reflection. Instead, he surveyed his surroundings.
Not just the buildings or infrastructure, but the inhabitants. All terrifyingly deformed and exceedingly bizarre. Vincent began walking faster, finding no escape from the eyes on him. Feeling them peel him back, seeing him for all he was; fearful and shameful. Weak. It wasn’t until he found an alleyway that he escaped their gazes and ran deeper into the shadows. Once he felt his lungs burn, and with enough distance between him and the street, he finally allowed himself a break. Resting a hand on the brick wall beside him as he stopped, Vincent did his best to catch his breath. He felt his nerves tingle with a sense of being watched. Vincent looked behind himself but saw nothing. Not a damned soul in sight. Looking ahead, nothing on that side either. A car passed, that was it. But he couldn't shake it.
Looking up, anxious to see if he was being watched, his paranoia only grew when he was met with a diluted red sky. As if it were smoldering, dying embers that couldn’t fully be put out. The light that kept the alleyway lit began flickering, until suddenly, darkness. The only trace of light on was Vincent's mildly illuminating screen.
But there was something else; a red glowing that brightened and faded in time with his heartbeat. Eerily, it seemed to be a perfect match for the rhythm. It didn't take long for Vincent to see it. Honestly, he should have seen it sooner, but as it were he was having a hard enough time to turn his head to even look at it, as if he truly didn’t want to. His mind pleaded with him not to, yet he turned his head. Vincent felt his eyes widen impossibly large across his screen. Looking straight into his soul, a giant red eye embedded into the wall, glowing, pulsing, beneath his palm. The crimson iris moved and focused on Vincent. As he retracted his hand, the iris focused on his movement, on his face. The height of it, the way it was all encompassing was undeniably horrifying. It was more than humbling, more than fear, it was something wholly insidious and shook him to his very core.
There was no other explanation – Vincent had found himself in Hell.