Spectrum of Hell

Choose a type of 'common' language and incorporate it into a piece of writing based on your own experience. Originally published January 2023.

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Hidden in his room, pencils in hand, Anselm is seeing what type of oddities he can make, letting his hands guide him. Gentle music blasting in his ears, gaze focused on the piece of paper on the floor; the only way to keep out the dissonance creeping up from behind the door, spreading itself as far as others would let it. Anselm thinks of himself to be alone in wanting to stop that growth.

A tall woman slamming the door wide open affirms his belief. He dares not to look her way. He had before. Her eyes were an icy cold blue, piercing through his body.

She's talking to him. He knows she is, but her voice doesn't travel far enough to reach his ears. It pushes itself towards him and gets pulled back into the monstrous static coming from the hallway. He signals his hand, asking her to leave. Instead, in a haste, she enters the room and shuts the door when Anselm refuses a vocal response. The cacophony fades.

Again, she speaks. Her voice travels farther, still not far enough. Anselm hears her noises. A garbled mess. Desperate, she kneels next to him and takes off his headphones. In a flash, his hand stops guiding the pencils and his eyes stray to the side, staring at her but not acknowledging her.

There's tones. Familiar tones. Her tones. Following a pattern he'd heard somewhere before. She appears concerned, asks him a question. Anselm looks away from her, back to the lines on his paper. He can't answer her. He doesn't know what she's asking, only that she's asking something. His hand moves to shove her away, not touching her. She tilts her head, waiting for an elaboration. All he does is point to his artwork and then to the door.

"Want to show them your work?" Finally her voice is clear, his ears allowing themselves to be graced with her melody. Anselm frowns, points to his unfinished artwork again, wagging his finger at the door this time. "We'll have plenty of time." she reassures him before hoisting him up by his arms. No matter how much he resists, she pulls him straight in to the discord. "Don't be fussy now, Selmie. I'm sure they'll love it."

The hallway starts growing distorted in front of his eyes as the noises turn harsher, drilling into his ears. In a panic, he tries to pull at her hand, her arm, her jacket, anything he could get a hold of until she stops. Dead in her tracks. Fixating that cold gaze onto him. Diverting his eyes, he makes an arch over his head and taps his ear.

Her eyes narrow and her mouth twists. Anselm had learned this isn't supposed to be a good combination. She yells at him, but her vocal unpleasantries mix themselves with the blaring static, growing louder every passing second. He waves his hand in front of his body, his body that is holding back.

Sounds explode into his ears once the door at the end of the hallway opens. Unrecognisable people stand there, staring. Anselm couldn't help but deflect his view, their eyes an uncanny valley. They're not supposed to be there. Their mouths creating the voiceless noises he despises. He can't hear his own thoughts anymore, his hands mixing with his hair, grasping at the locks and strands.

Looking to signal to the woman, Anselm finds her to be gone, mingled somewhere within the crowd. They ignore his calls for help. A mere beast to them. A beast they would rather not exist. In a sea of chaos, he floats, lost in the waters. Pain increasingly agonising. Thousand needles jammed through his ears, bleeding. They're about to explode, popping off his head. He doesn't want to lose them, and covers them in fear.

It still hurts. It won't stop. He tries and tries but it. Won't. Stop. His torso starts feeling weak, until he eventually can't hold it anymore. His lifeless body collapses, hands begging for help before he lets out the most dreadful scream one would've ever heard. Cruel. Horrid. But his grisly wailing is mangled within their voices. He does it again, and again. No matter how loud he gets, neither he nor anyone else can hear him anymore. His voice fades within theirs and his throat becomes sore as he screeches into the night, becoming part of the antagonising cacophony he had tried so desperately to avoid.