Hole of the Living Dead | Head to Head Prompt 1 | Story 2

Victor injures himself during a suicide attempt, and must survive or die in a pit of kindred spirits.Story by Joe MorinNarrated by Joe MorinForeword and Afterword by Joe MorinEdited by Joe MorinTHE PROMPTA guy breaks both legs from jumping/falling into the suicide pit, and landing on the other bodies to break his fall.THE STORYHole of the Living DeadBy Joe MorinPlease be advised, the following story contains graphic descriptions of suicide, the occult, gore, and cannibalism. "Please be quick," I think as I leap into the pit. The voices of reason I hear moments before my jump, which urge me to choose life, continue t heir irksome prattling as I fall to my demise-- distraught at what they witness. They ought to get over it; they'll be next, if they came all the way to the pit.Or maybe they'll be scared off. The half-assed warning signs to urge away wanderers might have done it; or could be the anguished and unprepared folks who write their notes at the last minute; or maybe the horrendous smell of uncountable corpses which waft out from the chasm. Yes, my would-be saviour might be scared off, but not me. I marched from that bus stop straight here and threw myself in with confidence!Now the breeze whips around my head as I fall, and whisks away my pesky final thoughts as I think them. Thoughts like: Is there an afterlife? Am I ever going to hit the ground? Who was speaking to me just before I fell? And why the hell are their voices getting LOUDER?! Did I hear one of them say “A day”, and another “An hour”? What does that mean? I've had more time to think than I thought I would. Time for thinking is done. Time to be paste on the ground.I land on the mound of bodies feet first. The impact ripples up my legs, to shatter and dislodge my bones from one another. The bones’ sharp edges rip through my skin and cover my legs in crimson. Not a bad start. But I’m still alive. Damn. And I’m in pain. Ouch. Yes, I’m in severe pain. This is what happens when the government neglects their suicide pits for too long: the bodies pile up, and cushion the fall. Funny that: incompetent bureaucrats found a way to mess up my life AND my death. Bastards.It starts to dawn on me that this is much worse than I imagined. Suicide seemed like a good idea when I thought it’d be quick. But now I’m going to bleed out slowly, or starve to death, or catch a disease from one of these corpses… I don’t want to die those ways. What did I do? Why did I do this? Pull yourself together, Victor! No point in fearing death now. You made your choice. And now you’re going to die here, painfully and all alone. Tough.“Dude, that sucks.”I jolt my head in the direction of this voice. But I see no living beings. “Who’s there?”A face-down body near me twitches, and turns its broken neck around a hundred and eighty degrees to face me. Well, I call it a “face” out of courtesy. It’s more like shredded flesh on a human skull.“What are the chances you’d survive this fall, huh?”“Freaky,” I reply as calmly as I can muster through my pain and unease. Talking helps take my mind off both.“Don’t worry, man. We’re in good hands. The ghosts are decent folks, on the whole. Gail is a bit grouchy, but means well.”This man must have hit his head too hard. Or maybe I did? Wait, no, he definitely did. Am I really speaking with a zombie right now? Meh. Tell me zombies were real yesterday and I would have freaked out. Today, I couldn’t care less. And that thought actually makes me sad.“What?” I ask nobody in particular, still gaining by bearings.“Gail,” repeats the zombie. “Sorta the ghost leader. Been here the longest.”“Can she finish me off? Cause I am suffering horribly right now.”“Nah. She mostly just helps the spirits come to terms with their deaths.”“Argh! Too bad. Did she help you?”“What do you mean?”I hear a voice drift into my ear, almost imperceptibly. “He doesn’t know he’s dead yet.”Is that my conscience? A ghost? The pain has me so delirious I can’t tell what's real anymore. But I figure I’ll play along. Keep my mind occupied. “Lovely,” I reply. “Well someone ought to tell him.”“Tell me what?” asks the zombie.“That you’re dead, my friend. Another corpse on the mound. But one which can speak.”The zombie turns a dangling eyestock towards its rotting flesh. “Oh. I see. Wow, man. That’s trippy.”The zombie’s body collapses back into the corpses, face first as I found it, with a soft THUD. And from the back of these remains rises an apparition of a man– handsome, tall– dressed in pristine versions of the garments which adorn the zombie.I sharply twist my neck to glance beside me, as another apparition– that of a middle-aged woman– takes form from nothing. Her figure resonates a faint glow, as now does the man’s. “Gail?” he asks, voice quivering. “Jackson,” she replies with a warm confidence. “Welcome.”“I’m dead?”“Yes.”“How long?”“Some time.”“And you never told me?”Gail’s lips drop into a frown. “Do you understand what’s happened to you?”“No.” “See, Jackson: those who survive their falls almost never realize once they’ve actually died. And they cannot join our spirit world until they’ve acknowledged the fact. Till then they control their bodies. And their own perception of the world limits their mobility.”“I think I understand… But why did you not tell me?”“That was, I’m embarrassed to say, part of a game some of the spirits like to play. They bet on how long it will take the deceased to realize their fate.”“I see,” says Jackson, his gaze downturned at his body.“My apologies. But you too will crave little amusements when you’ve been here as long as some of us.”“Excuse me!” I interject.“Yes?” replies the female ghost.“I acknowledge I’m dead too!”“But, dear boy, you aren’t dead yet.”“I worried that was the case.” Gail’s demeanor hardens as she addresses me with evident frustration: “Consider yourself thankful. You’re the only soul in this pit who still has a chance to live.”I quiet my natural inclination to a witty response and try to match her seriousness: “I’m here because I made up my mind.”“Then you’re a fool,” she retorts. “Have you no regrets about your decision?”I look towards my bleeding, broken legs, then back to Gail. “Some.”“Good. Hold onto that regret, tightly as you can. Use it to ignite whatever spark of life within you remains, and get yourself out of this pit by any means necessary.”I grimace as I reply: “You seem to mean well, Gail. But I’ve made up my mind to die here. It’ll just be slower than I’d have preferred.”Jackson chimes in: “Bud, I agree with Gail. You want to die now. So did everyone here. But do you want to be stuck in this pit forever?”Suddenly the permanence of the situation dawns on me. “Forever”, he said. My body crumbling down here, probably being buried by other poor jumpers; my spirit bound for who knows where, or for how long? But no. I made up my mind. And, whatever becomes of my spirit, it’s better than my painfully wasting away down here… or up there.I can’t very well take another jump. Still there has to be SOME way for a guy to kill himself inside this pit… Let’s see: maybe I could impale myself on one of these jagged bones which line the ground, from other destroyed bodies like mine. Then again, that sounds painful. Why is my first thought to impale myself? Let’s try asphyxiation. Yes, that’ll probably be terrifying, and require some measure of will to pull off properly. It’s doable though. I just need to crawl over to that heavier looking body there. Ow! My God, what shooting pain that causes. My fingers grip on torsos, legs, arms, heads– whatever they can find that’s sturdy enough to get me to that husk. I slide my stomach across the human remains inch by inch towards my target. Easy does it. OK. Now I’ve just got to roll up the torso a little bit. And I’ll just stick my head under like so. And set her down onto my skull. I try to hold my breath at first, to avoid the putrid stench of decaying flesh RIGHT in my nose. Then I remember that losing oxygen is kinda the point here.My lungs are empty. I’m feeling OK. Then my body craves air. Badly. I resist breathing for as long as I can. I start to writhe. I tell myself to stay strong– exercise that willpower which I knew I’d need. Then I chicken out and suck down a big snort of… nothing. My mouth and nose are crushed. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!I throw the corpse off my head and take the best breath of air I’ve ever consumed. It’s like breathing for the first time. Sweet, precious oxygen restores me. I sit for a while and ponder my predicament. I sit for so long the sun sets and rises again. Two attempted suicides. Two failures. Third time's the charm , as they say. But how? A new spirit appears: a man in working apparel. Some kind of labourer I suppose? He points at a cluster of bodies: “Had a pocket knife in my jeans if you wanna use that. You'll have to dig a bit, but…”“Morgan!” Exclaims Gail with disgust.“The man's made up his mind. You tried. Let him finish the job. It's better than starving to death down here.”Gail turns away from Morgan, seething. She doesn't want to admit that he’s right. “Thank you.” I offer. “I’m offering you mercy. But also death. I don't deserve your thanks.”I pause while I consider Morgan's suggestion. “Is there ANYONE here who doesn't regret their decision?“No,” answers Gail, decisively. “Nobody left.”“Of course I have to ask what you mean by ‘nobody LEFT’”Gail smiles for the first time since I've seen her: “A few of the lucky souls– the ones who've unloaded their burdens are granted the privilege of ascension.”“Like heaven?”“Nobody here can say for sure. All we know is that the people who finally find peace with their lives and deaths are whisked away.”“Does anyone ever… descend?” I ask with concern.“Yes. Do you wish to take the risk you'll be one of them?”I weigh my options. I'm a flawed person, definitely, but not the kind to descend… I think. But do most people who descend know they're the kinds of people who would? This is a conundrum. Likeliest scenario is I wind up a ghost here with the others, then work my way to heaven. Yes. That sounds like a plan. I pull my way over to the section which houses Morgan's body. And I start to roll corpses out of the way. That is, of course, harder than you'd think with two broken legs. I have to leverage the weight on my stomach. Bingo! There's Morgan. And there in his pocket… a nice, razor sharp pocket knife. I stare at it. This tool will bring my salvation. All I need to do is raise it up to my throat like so. And… Aaaaaaand. Aaaaaaand. Cut! Come on you coward! Actually do it. Just slice open your throat and bleed to death. Is that so hard?I notice Gail and Jackson observing me. Now I‘m embarrassed. All this big talk about killing myself and I can't follow through. They must think I'm pathetic. “Go on,” I goad. “What do you have to say? I can't do it. Are you happy?”“What’s your name, my boy?” asks Gail. “Victor Hill ““Victor. Tell me: why do you want to die so badly?”I hesitate. I haven't really talked about this with anyone. But I may as well share with them, if they're to be my company for eternity: “Because I'm alone.”“You have no family, wife, friends, pets?”“Friends. Some family. But it's more that I FEEL alone. People care about me but I can’t ever shake the feeling that, on some level, their lives would be easier without me.”“Oh?”“I'm a bit of a burden, see. Cause I'm pretty oblivious. Sometimes downright naive. And I take an embarrassingly long time to catch on to stuff other people find obvious. And my always being the guy to whom people need to stop and explain things: it has a tendency to piss those people off after a while. I've also got a penchant for melodrama, if you haven't noticed. And patience sometimes wears thin with that. But I can't change who I am, you know. I go out of my way to keep people happy, however I can; I listen and do my best to learn; I keep my mouth shut and my head down. It's not enough. People still get angry at me. And, at a certain point, a guy has enough of that.My best efforts don't make a difference. So forget it! If I'm the problem, then maybe my death can be a solution. I figure some people might miss me at first. But they'll find their lives better off, in the end. I'm just an annoying person who everybody has to work around.”“Do you honestly believe that, Victor?”“Look here! I've failed no less than 3 times at suicide in the last two days. And now you're going out of your way to talk me out of my stupidity. You’re just as annoyed as anybody else gets with me. I can tell. ‘You’re a fool’ you said.”Gail is taken aback. She sees I've caught her. But she presses on: “Do you have a mother?” she asks.“Yes.”“And do you love her?”“Dearly.”“And will she miss you if you die here?”I hesitate. “Maybe.”Gail's features contort. “Don't pretend you believe that. You know she'll face the deepest heartbreak of her life when she hears you've died. And it'll all be because of your stubbornness.”I can't think about that. I'll start to cry. So I double down on my self-pity: “I can't live right; I can't die right. I seem to cause negative feelings no matter what I do.”“Victor, do you know why I'm here?” She questions in a way which leads me to think I’ll hear her answer regardless. “I'm here because MY son was killed. And I couldn't bear to live without him. He was a frustrating boy too. But that didn't matter– not when he wasn't there anymore.”“I– I'm sorry.”“Thank you. I admit freely that I tell this story to cause you some guilt. Because, as much as I hate to watch a nice young man die, the thing I really dread is the thought of his mother having to hear the news.”I have no words for Gail. I just think over her words. Over and over. “Jackson? Why are you here?” I begin. “If you don't mind sharing.”“Nah, man. Not at all. I'm here ‘cause I didn't get accepted into college. Worked my butt off through high school. And all for nothing. I had no future.”“My husband left me after 20 years of marriage,” chimes in Morgan. “If my own spouse couldn't love me, then how could anyone else? I'd die old and alone and unfulfilled.”A hard-faced old woman in layers of tattered clothes appears: “I was homeless, and my only living relatives disowned me. Society pretended like I didn't exist.”Then more spirits emerge before me, each with their own stories: lost all their money, cheating boyfriends, despair over the state of the world, insurmountable debts, terminal illness. You can name any reason imaginable, and there was someone here because of it. The spirits regale me of their tales through the night and into morning. The overwhelming tragedy of it all first fills me with indescribable anguish. Then my soul stirs from its long-lived lethargy. I stand before all these people whose lives were cut short by their own hands… and I start to laugh. I laugh like I haven't laughed in ages– so hard I start to cry. Then tears of empathy, and self-pity, and epiphany join my tears from hearty laughter. I laugh so hard that I'm momentarily distracted from the pain in my legs.I turn to Gail. “You know what's ironic?”“Explain.” she answers, curious.“I used to think I didn't believe in suicide. There was a time, not long ago, where I would have looked down on each and every one of you.""Really?” Gail asks with a tinge of sarcasm. “What happened?""I got sad.”“As did we, Victor.” She pauses a moment to make sure I still listen. Then she continues: “But sadness, like all emotions, is fleeting. It can last for longer than we'd like; it can be all consuming. Sometimes it consumes until we're convinced that our only solution is at the bottom of a pit. But the truth is: we're forced to work through our problems one way or another – in life or in the afterlife. At least in life you get to work them through and see your mother.”“You can make it through this, Victor,” adds Jackson. “Do it for all of us who won't get a second chance.”The spirits cheer on the sentiment. I don't know if I agree because I'm a habitual people pleaser, or if I'm just caught up in the moment, or if I actually have some measure of hope… but I agree to try and survive. Of course, surviving down here brings its own set of challenges: there's no water, or good food; my legs are still broken; and the government doesn't check this place for survivors, ‘cause 99% of the people who come here either die or want to die.Maggots and bugs which crawl over the bodies are my best source of nourishment. They aren't too filling. But then again, my appetite dwindles by the day. I eventually lose it altogether. Still I eat, because I MUST survive. I promised to try.Truth be told: I’m still not sure these ghosts are real. But they're good company. They're pretty lively for a bunch of dead, suicidal folks. Some of them try to advise me where they can – the doctors, nurses, and other healthcare people, mostly. I'm not a quick study but I get the gist of their advice. Their suggestions help ease my pain, till I practically forget it's there. I scream for help to the landing above, day and night. My cries seem to fall on deaf ears. Countless people leap into the pit each day– so many I lose count. And not one seems to acknowledge me. But I hold out hope, each and every time. There on the precipice stands a woman. One more chance. And I cry out to her as loudly as I can muster: “HELP! I'M TRAPPED DOWN HERE! GET HELP!”Some of the spirits start to place their bets: “Straight away.” “Nope. Three days.” “An hour.” I shush them: “Shut it, you guys. Morgan, I'm looking at you. I've got my chips on her not jumping at all.”I can tell she hears me. She doesn't care. The girl jumps into the pit and breaks her neck. A soul rises from the body (“pay up” Morgan beckoned – ‘cause he banked on “straight away”). I see this girl's soul and she’s different to the others down here. Her essence radiates darkness and… bad. I know somehow that it's bad. The other spirits “boo” the dark soul while she stares at us in horror. And, as quickly as she appears, she vanishes– sliding down through the bodies towards the bottom of the pit, or further, by unknown forces. “She's the type that wouldn't even stop to help a guy in need. I see why she's a descender,” I declare.“I'll doubt if a failure to listen was her only sin,” says Gail. “Most of them up there don't. You didn't.”I sigh as, with my breath, a bit more hope exits my body. “Well I– you're right, of course. They're too busy dwelling on life up there to acknowledge life down here.” Jackson joins our conversation: “Don’t give up, man. You’ve gotta stay strong!”He’s still my cheerleader, despite the odds stacked against me. I chuckle, “Ha. I can’t say I’ve EVER been strong. But thank you for saying so.”Jackson smiles, with full belief in his words, “Not one of us would have tried this hard to survive, if we’d lived through our falls. You, my man, are the strongest spirit in this pit.”His faith helps clear my mind enough to unveil a new idea– a bad idea. I address Gail and Jackson, “How bad a person would I be to– BLEGH” I can’t even finish the sentence without an involuntary wretch. Jackson and Gail stare at me in confusion. I continue, “Do you think I’d end up descending if I– BLEGH” another wretch interrupts me, “--if I eat… something meatier than the bugs?”Jackson doesn’t catch my meaning, but Gail understands. She looks at me with a flash of horror, then softens her features and kneels next to my body. “My boy, you do whatever you need to do. I will not judge you.”I crawl my way over to the body of that woman– that apparently despicable woman– and brandish Morgan’s pocket knife. I draw a deep breath. Then I saw into the flesh. It’s just like carving a turkey on Thanksgiving. That’s all it is: nice, succulent turkey– a big ‘ol cut of bird. The blood drains from the chunk of meat in my hand– drips down my wrist as I bring the torn skin and muscles to my mouth. It’s just turkey. It’s just turkey. I chomp down on the meat… then throw up.The remains of digested bug carcasses rest on the ground next to the body now. My resolve drains. Jackson stands next to me, “Ew.”“I know. I know.” I can’t even look up at him.“Victor?” I keep my head turned to the ground. “Dude. Eyes up here.” I sheepishly glance at him. Jackson is resolute. “You’ve got this, man. I’m still wrapping my head around all the spirit junk– but I gather this lady was NOT a good woman. You’re a good man. And you’re gonna get out of here to be a good man out in the world, cool?”“Cool,” I reply, unconvinced. “And you’re gonna do that by getting your strength back, yeah?”“Yeah,” I respond with a touch more enthusiasm. “And how are you gonna do that?”“By eating this body– BLEGH.”“Yes sir.”“It’s my Thanksgiving dinner,” I say to myself, much to Jackson’s confusion. “But I can’t very well eat this fine meal before giving my thanks: I’m thankful for the support of my friends; I’m thankful to get a second chance; I’m thankful to still be alive.”And I feast.More days pass. My energy fades. I think I might have developed an infection in my leg wounds. And there’s nothing around to cure it. But my will to survive remains. Jackson, Gail, Morgan, and the others encourage me. Still I can see that look in their eyes– a look which says their encouragement is that empty kind which people give when they don’t wish to be rude. I still hope beyond any reasonable measure that I’ll escape this place. Yet the reality of my situation has finally caught up with me. I can pretend no longer that I have a good chance to survive. Gail, perhaps sensing this discouragement, appears to me. I struggle to ask her that question which, before now, I’ve been afraid to even think: “I'm never getting out of here, am I?”“Nonsense, dear boy!” She smiles through what I perceive to be melancholy. “I know it.” Funny enough: she doesn't seem to be lying. Her confidence refills mine. I can do this. “Enough, Gail!” Jackson interjects. “I can't let him continue this way. Not enough of us want to acknowledge the truth– to Victor or ourselves– so I’ll say it.” Jackson turns from Gail, then to me. “Man, you've fought so hard to cling to life– even harder than you tried to die when we first met… We all know that’s saying something. You’ve inspired us– inspired me– in ways which I can't begin to describe. You set me free from my bonds, and now I need to return the favour. You're–”“Dead, aren't I?” I pipe up. Jackson nods while Gail hangs her head, almost in disbelief. Now I can see myself: hardly a man at all anymore. Just another rotten corpse on the mound. “I didn't realize a body could decompose so badly in a week.”“A year,” Gail counters, emotionally, as if she just came to a realization.“Excuse me?“You died a year ago, after about a week.”“The longest time till acknowledgement by a mile!” Morgan notes. “Oh.” I have no other words at that moment. I tried so hard to live, only to die. So what was it all for? I turn back to Jackson to see his spirit glow the most brilliant, beautiful light I’ve ever seen. “Jackson?”“Goodbye, dude– friend. Thank you for guiding me down my road to peace. May we meet again soon.”Then Jackson’s glowing form rises to the heavens, radiating light and… good. I know somehow that it’s good. And my struggle helped him achieve that elegance.Gail and I shift our gaze from Jackson’s ascension to each other. She addresses me: “I’m sorry.”“I feel like I let you down.”“You tried harder than anyone else here ever has. First to die, and then to live.”“And now?”“Your afterlife. We will purge our demons, then–” she points to the sky, where Jackson’s form still rises, a mere speck in the distance. “Well…” I say, “let’s start by trying to keep optimistic. I’m dead; I died horribly; I’m full of regrets. But at least I’m surrounded by people who get me.”Gail smiles as we turn our attention towards the pit’s edge, where a jumper stands at the ready. We call out to dissuade them. We fail. We place our bets. We welcome them. We hope the next one chooses life.END