Dark Shard 1. White ceiling.

Tim Nakhapetov
2 min readJan 24, 2024

I slowly moved my hand over the black carcass. Its slimy skin sank slightly under my fingers, squelching and moaning.

I didn’t want to be here. However, I didn’t want to be where I was for quite a long time, but I had no choice.

The carcass splashed a little on the sterile white floor, the sterile white walls, and the dirty gray me. It flowed in black shards and scraps everywhere except the sterile white ceiling. However, it will undoubtedly get there too.

I was sick to the point of vomiting, to the point of pain in my guts, to the point of tears flowing from my glassy eyes. However, I had been experiencing this pain for a very long time, and the carcass only illuminated it with its black, slimy spotlight, exposing it naked to everyone’s ridicule and censure. I even felt sorry for my naked, ugly pain, but it was no longer possible to help it.

I reached with my fingers to the laceration that cut the carcass in two — peered into the dark depths. Slowly, I inserted my fingers into the swirling depths. It smelled like a spruce forest after the September mushroom rain. I shuddered, and a tear lost in my beard flew into the darkness. The sweet and inspiring smell of autumn hopelessness was added to the pine needles.

I felt the elastic, slightly pulsating essence of the carcass. I noticed how a fleeting grin of dominance over life giggled along the edge of consciousness. It quickly disappeared into my dark voids — to continue waiting for a moment.

The fingers closed slowly, one at a time. The pulsation was weak but noticeable. It seemed to beg for mercy, whispering: “Look, I’m alive. Look, I’m more alive than you. Look”

Darkness splashed out in a thick black stream. The carcass twitched for the last time and froze forever as a sad non-answer to my non-question.

I looked closely at the black hand. Most likely, it was mine — and whose else — but I would like to deny it with all my nature. I carefully wiped my-hand-that-wasn’t-mine on my pants and shirt and put it in my pocket so I couldn’t see it.

I looked at the carcass one last time, turned on my creaking heels, and walked out of the almost white room with the confident gait of someone condemned to the scaffold.

The sterile white ceiling, dissected by black slimy darkness, froze with an angry no-question for no-answer.

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Tim Nakhapetov
Tim Nakhapetov

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