Silhouettes 7: Black Metal and Diabolical Masquerade

My role as an inpatient was reprised one last time, with my hemoglobin levels barely making me fit for the intensity of chemotherapy. Other doctors at the hospital denounced the decision to take me in due to the fact that I could barely stand. My lungs were filled to capacity with each breath, emitting a high-pitched wheezing whistle with each exhalation. My bones ached from the inside out; a rusty jangle flamed from within with every step. 

Ultimately, my doctor and I decided to go in—I was hooked to the machine once again. I only remember one nurse from this shift: my first male nurse in the entirety of the treatment who had soft, feminine hands and a wiry physique that gave him a sensitive, yet sturdy presence. The only sonic booms that comforted me apart from his touch was my end-of-the-line playlist, comprised of existential black metal mind warps. 

My soul seemed to vacate several planes simultaneously as I underwent the last of the chemical affair, with my mind drifting in and out of consciousness. My body floated from a rotten state of extreme discomfort, stomach plagues, and a lack of comprehension of my surroundings, to absolute peace in the absence of any corporeal vibratory presence. It seemed as if my mind, body and soul were dancing between heaven, hell, and Earth, unable to decide. 

The sound of ripping skin was heard inside my psyche as flesh filaments seemed to tear from each other. This transformation of tissue muddied my vision, adding considerable light to my tunnel sight. The fluorescence of the hospital roof’s light bulbs sharpened in hue while my peripheral vision darkened. For a brief moment, my breath escaped me wholly and my eyes stopped blinking. Pure silence. 

From a distance, a familiar guttural groan came towards me, gaining in intensity. The dissonant crunch of amplified, wailing string devices ignited a candelabra of bones. A loud, resonant bass wound the gossamer dermis together, enriching their thin veneer. The pounding of medieval catapults struck the closing veins, opening the sanguinary dam once again. The lights, colors, and sounds evened out as the live carcass made the perennial climb towards homeostasis once again.

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