The Pug and The Pit
Within the human mind’s recesses lies a labyrinth, concealing our deepest fears and most obscure memories. When the sinister whispers of this haunted maze become unbearable, one might seek solace in the strangest of places, for even the most bizarre solutions can offer a glimmer of hope. Enter Maxwell’s Morbid World, where reality and insanity are blurred, and a desperate man’s search for answers may lead him to a chilling revelation.
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On one particularly dreadful day, I became lost in the cave of troubles that served as my brain. Disembodied whispers echoed off the hollow walls of my mind. The cacophony of bellows and sobs created an unending concert that had dragged on for nearly a fortnight.
I could not find a reasonable conclusion for why I became targeted by these phantom murmurs. Not a word was discernible to me amongst all the chatter, and covering my ears only shut out my environment, resulting in the internal racket becoming louder.
Rocco, my pug, yapped viciously, curious for me to explain why I ignored him. I ran my fingers through my companion’s fur and scratched his ears, hoping to satiate the plea for attention. The young pup’s bark seemed muffled in comparison to the haunting voices.
My body begged for rest, but sleep was impossible when dealing with so much inner commotion. Perhaps Rocco could spare me some words of wisdom.
“What say you, my one and only furry friend? How do I quiet this unholy jabbering?”
He tilted his fuzzy head at my words with ears flopping about, and I felt amused at the look of processing he gave.
I held my hands to my face, hoping to reach inside and strangle the contents of my subconscious. Unfortunately, this only aided in my efforts to hold back the river of frustrated tears that attempted to leak from my eyeballs.
“Whenever I get glum, I dig a hole in the yard!”
My heart tried to escape from its rib cage. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The fat little pug snapped at me again, and I glanced down at him. “Dig a hole! That is what you should do!”
I could not believe my eyes. Was I going mad? I questioned the canine further. “Did you just speak, you miserable mutt? Or am I insane?”
Rocco responded cheerfully and without hesitation. “When I ask myself those questions, I find the answer buried! Dig, you must dig to find it!”
At first, I refused the dog’s demands. “No, no. I cannot tear up my terrace and scatter my garden to the wind!”
“That is not what I said. Not at all, not at all! I will show you where. I know a fresh, unsullied patch under the old Weeping Willow. You need only dig there!” Rocco persuaded.
The voices hushed a bit as I considered the proposal. “You promise and swear these spectral sounds will disappear?”
The stubby, round dog led me to the backyard. When I looked at the tree, my stomach felt an oddly familiar ache. Soft, loose soil surrounded its decomposing roots. My willow was crooked and wilted.
“I promise and swear, bald brother, my dear. Grab the shovel and get to work. The noise in your noggin will be gone for good.”
A rust-covered spade stood at the ready, guarding my tomatoes. I clutched its splintery ash-wood handle and began to hoist with a grunt. The damned scoop protested and would not budge an inch. Upon a second attempt, my hands gave way, and the timber shaft needled my palm with shavings. The pain was trivial compared to the relentless and immaterial assault against my brain. The third time’s the charm, and I triumphantly held my trophy high for Rocco to see.
My lone supporter woofed his approval. “That is the way! Now dig under this decrepit tree until those inner demons have nothing left to say!”
I planted my feet deep, like seeds in the lawn. Then drove the spade down, head-first to the dirt. My foot was a hammer to stomp it the rest of the way. Breathing deeply as possible, I brought up the first load of sod and heaved it over my shoulder. My arms felt like they might snap off, but I pushed through the uneasy feeling and remained motivated to cleanse my mind of the toxic voices.
With every clump I collected, a castle of turf began to build to my side and allowed me to descend into the ground. I felt no remorse for the countless colonies of creatures disrupted by the excavation, not for a metropolis of mites or burg of beetles. Any cost would be worth the price if it would rid my head of the nightmarish vocals swelling inside.
The aroma of bacteria and microorganisms playing in the air was surprisingly pleasant. Earthy scents mingled in my nostrils and stuck to the drops of sweat forming all over my body. Once in a while, the dirt would tickle my nose hairs and bring on a sneeze. Rocco, ever the proud cheerleader, would graciously bless me.
After only a couple of hours, I was waist-deep in the hole. The sun’s rays made my skin crispy, and the wind blew through dry canyons in my lips. Each of my fingers protested their abusive conditions to me, yet I forced their compliance.
Silence ruled over my conscious self when I shoveled as speedily as possible. All mental deceptions were lost, isolated on an island of thoughts, and unable to reach me. Starvation’s sharp claw poked at my stomach, compelling howls and whimpers from it– These also fell upon deaf ears.
Darkness and bitter winter spread over me in a deathly blanket. My veins turned to frigid tunnels, living under an icy and blistered road of skin, but still, I did not waver. The stars and moon revealed themselves, casting their judgment, yet the harshness of the night felt welcoming and right to me.
CRACK!
I took another swing to make sure I’d heard correctly.
CRACK!
It was no false alarm!
Rocco had heard it too, and he looked down at me with a grin.
“You’re almost there! Keep going, my friend!”
The answers I sought were just underfoot—crunching and breaking with my movements. Each snap was a key to the curse over my life– All the treachery, torment, and turmoil— and the first thing to greet me: a bony finger pointing at my surprise.
“Dear God!” I cried. “Corpses under my Willow Tree?!”
Maniacal laughter sprung from the dog, who towered above the pit.
“What is the matter? Why all the shock? It was the remains of the souls we stole, and you simply forgot!”
The world turned upside down; I snapped at the demon. “What do you mean WE? I’m innocent, not some murderous beast!”
Rocco ran out of sight, but his evil, detached words spun around my head.
“Pugs cannot talk; I agree there’s no WE. I am your guilt–it seems your mind split to make peace.”
I tried to climb from the hole I’d so feverishly made. But my body was now too sore, and all my efforts had me drained. Falling to my back, I realized my mistake. It was not just a pit–I’d tricked myself into digging a grave.
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As the cold dirt embraces his trembling form, our tormented protagonist discovers that the phantoms haunting him are not external forces but manifestations of his guilt. In his quest for peace, he unearthed the skeletons of his past but, in doing so, dug his own grave. Let this harrowing tale be a reminder that in Maxwell’s Morbid World, some secrets are best left buried, and not all journeys for self-discovery lead to redemption.