Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24099053-20150806224334

''(Last stab at this) All help greatly appreciated.''

]A lesson with no redemption I have a story to tell, and I need you to listen very carefully. I must inform you now that I will have to leave out a couple of details; although I assure you, unintentionally so. I don’t care if you don’t have time – you need to listen very carefully because this information may just save your life. I knew the man as Dr. Parnassus. He was six foot tall, and had a complexion a bit paler than most people. He used to dress eloquently- he would wear an expensive custom-tailored three piece suit on many of the occasions that we convened. His general appearance fit exceptionally well with his occupation, in the way it made him appear credible. At the time, I admit I was quite unnerved by his sharp features, which did in some ways betray his smooth persuasion. I admit – I may have been greedy, selfish and delusional. I truly believed that Dr Parnassus could extend my life. Maybe it was the firm timbre of his voice. Perhaps it was the piercing butcher blue eyes, which emanate a fear and certainty quite reminiscent of authoritative figures. He assuaged the slight doubt I had of his unorthodox methods. Yes, if there was something pertinent to look out for in this man, it would have to be his unconventional nature. So, for six weeks, a man whom I had grown to trust was administering ‘mushrooms’ to me. I would receive this treatment three times a week, in varying degrees. It was a curious brown mixture, which he told me was a careful mix of exotic mushrooms. This combination of mushrooms, he claimed, restored the body’s cells. He was certain that I would in no time have the physique and bodily function of myself when I was in my prime. Simultaneously, he had me undergo certain psychological tests; however I do not recall their relevance. This routine continued for three weeks. He asked of no payment until I was satisfied with the results. Means of payment I had no shortage of. I had noticed, following every treatment, that my energy levels were improving. By the second week, I noticed that I could jog a kilometre with no problems. I was surprised – this actually worked. It was such a contrast from beforehand, when I couldn’t even break into a jog. Such activity isn’t easy for a sixty five year old man with crippling arthritis. By week three, he had altered the final formula. This time, I noticed that it had bluish leaves in it. He asked me, specifically, if I wanted to continue the treatment. Of course, I said yes. I don’t remember anything after the session with the leaves. All I remember is waking up in absolute darkness. The air was stuffy, and nauseatingly stale. I was lying on my back, and my hands were aching with the pain of arthritis. I sat up – or at least tried to. My head hit something cushioned yet hollow sounding. I was confused, but very aware that something was not right. Around this moment, I brought my arms from my sides and felt around. I was boxed in. It had struck me like a freight train: I was confined in something. By the fabric nature of my surroundings, I was most likely in a coffin. Buried alive. It was impossible – that simply didn’t happen, ever. Not on purpose, anyway. I had started to panic then, but had calmed at the thought that panicking consumed more oxygen. The focus was to get out. I had a feel for anything that could help me escape. I didn’t find anything but wilted flowers and a pen. Useless, but I could do something with the pen. It felt like stainless steel – like my graduation pen from high school. It was my favourite pen. This information also filled in a lot of missing parts of the puzzle. Firstly, I had undergone a proper ceremony. Secondly, that my family and friends had attended, as my wife was the only one who knew of the pen. Lastly, that I was not buried. I was in a mausoleum or above ground burial vault. I knew that six feet of soil crushed coffins. Therefore, my chances of survival were increasing. I balled my arthritic hands into fists. It was extremely painful, but exceedingly more appealing than suffocating or starving to death...whichever was to come first. My favourite pen was in my right fist. I started to scratch along the lining of the lid, trying to wedge and lever the coffin open. At that point in time, I did not even want to begin contemplating the possibility of the burial vault being sealed. No one would be able to break the bond of cement on impenetrable stone. I was confined in the dark, scratching and wedging away, until I spotted a crack along where the lid was. It was a fine, delicate thing. I tried to control my excitement, but it was very difficult. If there was light, there would be a chance that I wouldn’t have a horrid stone casement to bludgeon myself on. The crack increased with time, and I managed to ease the nails from the base. Fresh air leaked through. I had gambled then – I pushed the pen to its limit and shoved my hands into the crack. From there, I pushed against the lid with all of the strength I could muster. By now, I was kicking and thrashing, spitting and scratching. I could taste freedom. The lid popped from the base, but wouldn’t budge. So I was still confined in something, likely a casket vault of some description. I’m not a very fit man, but I realised that adrenaline could do wonderful things. I stopped kicking, and pushed upwards with everything I had. I didn’t manage to push everything off at once. Instead, I managed to push the coffin lid against the polished marble of my casket’s vault. I had then proceeded to slowly slide the very top off, by pushing the coffin lid to the side. From there, I stuck my hand out of the entire vault, and pushed the marble lid off most of the container. From there, I eased the coffin lid out. It fell to the ground, giving a hollow sound. I had sat up in my grave, breathing heavily. I spent a moment to collect my thoughts, and had suddenly laughed out loud. I was alive. I stepped out of the entire contraption, with some difficulty. The entire exercise had not done any justice to my back. It looked like my family had commissioned a cheap marble burial vault, to store a quite nice looking coffin with a silver trim. The vault had iron bars on the side. It was unusual, but the very reason I was still alive to talk about it. I had a look around the mausoleum, quite unnerved with the spare coffin space, presumably for my wife. There was a small shrine with long candles, one of which was still alight. There also seemed to be an excess of religious paraphernalia, none of which I was an endorser of. I was quite flattered and thankful that they had given me a mausoleum for my final resting place. By the state of the vases, the flowers were relatively fresh. Therefore, I hadn’t been dead for long, if dead I really had been. I spent a moment thanking my stars and barged my way out of the mausoleum. It was quite barbaric, but I had just lived through the worst time of my life.

Sandra had been preparing lunch for one. I had stumbled into the mansion, my suit jacket long discarded. It looked like she had given leave to the servants, in her grief. She only cooked when she was stressed or frustrated. It looked like she cooked when she was sad as well. I had stood silently, observing her prepare her meal. I recall quite clearly, that she had been preparing a stir fry at the time. For some strange reason – perhaps the reason we feel someone is watching us – she looks up at me. She screamed at first, holding the knife in terror, but then calmed down. I promised I wasn’t a zombie or poltergeist. She told me everything by the end of it: I’d been clinically dead, and she’d seen my corpse herself. I even had a death certificate to prove it. Apparently, I’d died naturally. There was no heart attack, stroke, or cancer. I’d simply died at the office. There were just no vital signs. I have no idea how I’d come back to life, but it may have had something to do with the leaves in the mushroom brew. I have been told that it is possible to survive brain death. Perhaps the functions of my vitals were slowed… Fortunately, I was not an organ donor. On reflection, I believe that this whole situation convinced my wife to never be an organ donor... It was only later that I discovered Dr Parnassus had fled at the time of my passing. I couldn’t testify anything, because I couldn’t even remember how I’d gone from the last meeting at the clinic to the office. I might know one day – things are slowly coming back to me. I went to a psychologist recently, to overcome claustrophobia and cope in general with the bad dreams. He said that there was a chance I’d been in a hypnotic state; which the man possibly had me undergo to make me believe that I was getting younger. As for Doctor Parnassus, my only advice is to take heed of my story. Chances are that you won’t be as lucky as I. I know for sure that I would have been dead if they had sealed my coffin’s containment contraption. I don’t know much about Dr Parnassus personally, but I do know that he dislikes rich people. He, in a way, takes advantage of our greed to teach us a lesson. A lesson we will never forget. A lesson with no redemption. 