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The Broken Place

Here they lie, in this broken place, the people, the places, the objects and dreams, their numbers uncountable, the rooms and spaces they occupy, unending, a place where nothing is whole or pristine, the place that awaits the things that are gone, but not dead, hell for the lost, and lost to those who want only to find.

All new arrivals of flesh birth from the hospital, the only hospital, its halls span that of small towns, maze like and unending, here each new room, each new patient is brought in their rooms, rooms which seem to grow from the lengthy halls, being built by invisible hands to add to the masses.

Every room is announced entre by grotesque misshapen children, bore on metal stilts and carts, their faces obstructed by brass masks to hide their broken minds, these are the children whom never saw a mother to love them, nor a father to guide them, and this is their fate.

Here the nurses are but mannequins, bodies of wood that move with a jerk in each step taken, the uniforms clean, but not quite spotless nor whole; their faces little more than shattered mirrors bearing a thousand faces, turmoil with each other, thoughts turned to personality within them, and for this they roam these halls with shattered minds, seeing to those whom have no minds left at all.

Here the patients seems as if in their own world entirely, perhaps somewhere less broken, but unlikely as they mutter the same lines over and over, death would be kinder to them then this broken place, but alas nothing here can truly die so they must endure, not that they remember how to.

But hear that, the club footed thumping in those dimly lit hallways, that heavy breathing in this stale air, here come what they call the impossible man, a twisted being strewn in thick trench coats and heavy hoods, see that face bearing no lips nor teeth, those eyes void of colour, that stringy hair and grey flesh, quickly, hide, he hunts only for those few who aren't yet broken but find their way here.

Flee this place as fast as you can, take to the exit with what heart you've left he will not follow into those woods, for something worse stalks the unending maze of rooms and hallways that damned forests branches has made.

All around, crooked trees, silver leaves, coarse grass, littered with things dropped, tickets, coins, wrappers and scraps, here they all lie, never to be picked up again, only collected by this woods dark guardian.

That starved crow lit only by pale moonlight seeks to collect all and any from these woods, and carrion like you is rare so flee yet again, pray your feet find the road, the only safe bastion in this place, that stretching tarmac, cracked and pot holed, a winding snake against this landscape, let it swallow you, let it save you.

But now which way to take, venture up road or down, which does it matter, the carnival is the destination you shall find regardless, here the stalls of joy stand rotting, decaying, the games and prizes mouldy, unattended, the coloured lights sway softly and glow dimly as always, and the Ferris wheel stands tall above the rollercoaster, and groans out in the perpetual night.

Here broken clowns, jesters and costumes walk aimlessly, laughing and wailing for its all they know how to do, their masks long since fused to flesh now articulate and expressive, making them all the more uncanny.

The gaping maw of the fun house even seems to mock its passersby, the horrors within become and call to the witless and all stinks of pain and blood, this here is the place joy breaks, all the fun of this place has been sucked dry, replaced only by cold air and hollow laughter.

But there is more, move on forward to the town, those empty streets, silent buildings, a reminder of what was once full and bright, now a vessel of ghosts and silence, all save the school which stands tall and only slightly uncared for.

Step inside this blackened place, here is where the toys stand, all those childhood things so valiantly bringing comfort and happiness now discarded, cared to only by that unknown woman whom creeps blindly through her collections.

Here the library is full with toy soldiers, the shelves of books barren and staked with these wooden figures, by the thousands, piled high and positioned with care, wounded, paint peeling, limbs broken, weapons rusted, eyes hollow, yet still they wait for battle, but stare as you wander the midst.

The halls filled with lockers now bear the music boxes and trinkets of affection, their melodies haunting the air which to seems broken, all the love notes add to the letters, poems, stories, deserted, forgotten, unread.

The classrooms bear other horrors, this one here hangs the puppets, the marionettes, the strings, all tangled forever bound together, no longer forms visibly recognisable, but misshapen spiders, of plastic, wood and porcelain, all hungry to add to themselves, will you let them wrap you in their webs of plastic, be their comfort.

No, then the next room, here sits the dolls, the princesses for dress ups, the mannequins for model, now forever waiting at their tables for tea, strung up from the very rafters, hair frayed, dresses rotted, eyes missing yet still smiling, but if only because they can show no other emotion, shall you sit, be their comfort and have tea.

Pass by the yard, where the mounts lie, horses of wood, bikes of steel, tricycles of plastic, all now forgotten, those childhood wonders, all rusted, bent, rotted, silent and groaning in pain and want, tend to them will you, lessen their wounds perhaps, or ignore them.

Again you walk the halls, beckoned by something, now here the lockers and walls are decorated with paper hearts, each one a heartbreak, a lost love, a broken soul, each missing something, each lost, so thickly layered the hall narrows to a doorways opening and no wider.

The lunch hall, the place where the collection blends together, all those things watching as you go, silently judging, asking why you abandoned them as that hole and stair calls you forward to descend.

Here lay the bones of the building, the town, a hall of woven pictures, portraits, posters, photos, broken hopes, dead dreams, forgotten memories, a hall of whispering pasts ones that will never know the future or the present, but to where does this tunnel lead.

At its end it flattens to a crawl, but there is light near, good light, push forward just a little more, and empty into the room you called yours in childhood, crawl from under your bed here in the dead of night and see the things you left.

Look around does this night not feel familiar, twas it not the night you woke to see that thing, that monster that came from under the bed, go on, turn around, face yourself hear that scream you once emitted so long ago at this sight.

Now you remember don't you, that beast, coated in fur, horned, snarling, skull of face, void of eyes nor lips, glowing like fire, dare you turn around to make this loop complete, dare you simply talk to the child behind you cowering in terror, oh should you just leave, in this broken place, all is broken, time included, nothing escapes the prefix of broken.

Here you will stay, for there is no leaving this broken place, those few who make the journey you have and survive become something else, become nightmares, they afford the worst of fates in this place, gifted to glimpse the outside world each night, but never allowed to stay, you will break just like they all do, go on, turn around, kill the child, you'll never come to be here, tis the only way you leave.

This

Broken

Place