installation, for choosing to contribute to my pretty little vision, where henceforth you will see only through my eyes.
YHVH Elohim Met.
As I finished reading I began to feel that I was becoming enmeshed in another man’s nightmare. Did I possess an independent existence, or like the mannequins I had encountered was I a construction of Eleazer Golmi?
The idea was ridiculous of course. I had not been dreamed into existence. It was just that in this ‘little universe of terror’, as he termed it, my life outside the building seemed far away and unreal.
I left the room and made my way once more along the mouldy corridor. The doors that I passed seemed to be locked, but through their glass panels I could see the silhouettes of more mannequins. Some appeared to have their faces turned to the walls and were set in crouching positions, whilst others were curled up in a ball on the concrete floors, surrounded by debris. There was one mannequin, however, who had been positioned in front of one of the glass panels. It was more horrifying than any I had seen thus far.
It was clad in the same shoddy suit as the others, but its expression was very different. The thing’s eyes bulged and its mouth opened in a grimace of agony that reached across the whole width of its plastic face. Its body was twisted over to one side in a contortion of agony. Awareness, frozen in time, that it had been shaped to suffer . . . and mingled with that awareness was an abyss of agony. This one could not look at me for it had its eyes rolled up in their sockets, its head thrown back as far as it could go.
I turned away in disgust. Another chalked arrow lead me into a further corridor, this one, to my great relief, had a sign marked ‘Exit’.
I would have run towards the set of double, rusted doors at the end of the corridor if I hadn’t felt a sudden stiffness in my limbs. It resembled the onset of cramp and my movements were becoming awkward. I felt like a puppet on strings.
By the time I reached the end of the corridor the pain in my limbs was becoming unbearable. I pushed open the double-doors. Beyond was a large room that must once have served as a canteen. The dining tables and chairs remained, although some were broken and others tipped over. Piles of rubbish, mostly paper and empty cartons, were strewn all around and the tiled walls were smeared with grease. Scattered among the debris were dozens and dozens of mannequins.
These dummies were not just tatty, but broken, with smashed limbs and fractured faces. But the agony of my own limbs was so fierce that I could hardly register the scene before me.
Through my pain, it seemed that the mannequin closest to me looked like a road accident victim, with broken arms and legs at odd angles and the top of its head smashed-in. Only the eyes were whole, the glass eyes, and peering into them I gained the impression that there was a mind imprisoned in this damaged form. It was experiencing an agony that no living thing could bear, that flesh and blood could not possibly tolerate. I could not begin to describe their state: to die and decay and yet not to be released—to be suspended in such a condition for ever. . . .
I moved on, screaming soundlessly in my mind, as my stiff limbs were willed into motion. All around me were dummies in their corpse-shells.
In the far corner of the canteen was a large mannequin, set apart from the rest. As I drew closer, its features, though as distorted as the others, became recognisable to me. It was a man with a heavy face and one of his eyes seemed larger than the other, giving him a lop-sided appearance. The mouth began to move, emitting a low, grinding noise.
As I stood before him, my living flesh and blood became decayed paint and plastic. I waited for him to explain what was happening, but he did not move or speak.
Apartment 205
Pieter Slokker awoke from a dream in which he was trapped in a dark, windowless room. It was three o’clock in
YHVH Elohim Met.
As I finished reading I began to feel that I was becoming enmeshed in another man’s nightmare. Did I possess an independent existence, or like the mannequins I had encountered was I a construction of Eleazer Golmi?
The idea was ridiculous of course. I had not been dreamed into existence. It was just that in this ‘little universe of terror’, as he termed it, my life outside the building seemed far away and unreal.
I left the room and made my way once more along the mouldy corridor. The doors that I passed seemed to be locked, but through their glass panels I could see the silhouettes of more mannequins. Some appeared to have their faces turned to the walls and were set in crouching positions, whilst others were curled up in a ball on the concrete floors, surrounded by debris. There was one mannequin, however, who had been positioned in front of one of the glass panels. It was more horrifying than any I had seen thus far.
It was clad in the same shoddy suit as the others, but its expression was very different. The thing’s eyes bulged and its mouth opened in a grimace of agony that reached across the whole width of its plastic face. Its body was twisted over to one side in a contortion of agony. Awareness, frozen in time, that it had been shaped to suffer . . . and mingled with that awareness was an abyss of agony. This one could not look at me for it had its eyes rolled up in their sockets, its head thrown back as far as it could go.
I turned away in disgust. Another chalked arrow lead me into a further corridor, this one, to my great relief, had a sign marked ‘Exit’.
I would have run towards the set of double, rusted doors at the end of the corridor if I hadn’t felt a sudden stiffness in my limbs. It resembled the onset of cramp and my movements were becoming awkward. I felt like a puppet on strings.
By the time I reached the end of the corridor the pain in my limbs was becoming unbearable. I pushed open the double-doors. Beyond was a large room that must once have served as a canteen. The dining tables and chairs remained, although some were broken and others tipped over. Piles of rubbish, mostly paper and empty cartons, were strewn all around and the tiled walls were smeared with grease. Scattered among the debris were dozens and dozens of mannequins.
These dummies were not just tatty, but broken, with smashed limbs and fractured faces. But the agony of my own limbs was so fierce that I could hardly register the scene before me.
Through my pain, it seemed that the mannequin closest to me looked like a road accident victim, with broken arms and legs at odd angles and the top of its head smashed-in. Only the eyes were whole, the glass eyes, and peering into them I gained the impression that there was a mind imprisoned in this damaged form. It was experiencing an agony that no living thing could bear, that flesh and blood could not possibly tolerate. I could not begin to describe their state: to die and decay and yet not to be released—to be suspended in such a condition for ever. . . .
I moved on, screaming soundlessly in my mind, as my stiff limbs were willed into motion. All around me were dummies in their corpse-shells.
In the far corner of the canteen was a large mannequin, set apart from the rest. As I drew closer, its features, though as distorted as the others, became recognisable to me. It was a man with a heavy face and one of his eyes seemed larger than the other, giving him a lop-sided appearance. The mouth began to move, emitting a low, grinding noise.
As I stood before him, my living flesh and blood became decayed paint and plastic. I waited for him to explain what was happening, but he did not move or speak.
Apartment 205
Pieter Slokker awoke from a dream in which he was trapped in a dark, windowless room. It was three o’clock in
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