In A Darkened Room by A. N. Gretly


A single bulb buzzed to life, shining a tender red hue, with the intensity of an eternal late afternoon sun. The light did not chase the shadows away, no, no; this crimson dusk strengthened them, it intensified them to a point where these sordid shadows seemed to have developed their own vulgar characters.

Jaded faces of mysterious men and women faded in from the dense mist of their eldritch lives, their eyes, they spoke of mortal tragedies, and lingering heartache. And all around the walls, they stared, they gazed upon me as I stood in the middle of this dark room, peering at their faces. The reek of chemicals crept into my weary lungs, leaving me with a faint sensation that enhanced the surrealism of the room. Time had no meaning here, space did not make any sort of sense, I merely existed in this black-hole of lost humans. These were my memories, the souls I have collected over the years. These humans, the stories they told, the memories they’ve shared with me in moments of weakness or trust or comfort or utter despair. They spoke with moist eyes, and quivering lips, transferring parts of their souls into mine. It was soul hunting, and I was bloody good at it.

Now you see it. Bloody soul hunting – their eyes spoke of quivering lips – weary humans share despair – they tell stories of black hole moist eyes collecting time and space in dark room – I merely existed in this enhanced surrealism peering at jaded tragedies of mortal chemicals – the mist reeks of strange heartache – vulgar characters in crimson dusk chase the shadows away – lingering light crept into my faint lungs – remember locked moments – don’t forget the comfort found in a strange land – hold them like you hate their memories – keep them lost – madness of weakness –  and I was good at it.

Ah, remember, remember. Remember. Don’t forget anything. Keep them in there. Damn it, keep them locked up inside your head. You shall never be alone again because you have them, you have their memories. You have their moments of love and hate and lust and happiness and loss and madness. Yes. Remember the eyes. Remember how they trusted you, how they found comfort in a stranger from a strange land like you. They warmed up to you and offered you their tales. Hold them now. Keep them inside. And remember. Remember their heaviness forever.



About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
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9 Responses to In A Darkened Room by A. N. Gretly

  1. This certainly creates a vivid picture!

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