Fiction: Selections from Titoxz

Neurosis

He had never found solace in this world, for he knew with a gnawing certainty deep within that he was not fashioned for it. The universe, he believed, was engaged in a relentless, cruel jest at his expense. To him, life offered two paths: one right, one wrong. Whether he believed in a god was a matter cloaked in ambiguity, perhaps even to himself. His existence was a relentless march down the wrong path, every fiber of his being straining against the force that compelled him to live a life antithetical to his essence.

He often mused, "He who knows nothing of fear knows nothing of this world." And he, without a doubt, knew fear intimately. Not because he was a coward—quite the contrary. There were moments when he seemed the bravest of men. Yet fear, in its most primal form, is the fear of death, and he was well-acquainted with it. Panic would seize him often, and he courted death innumerable times. This intimate dance with death rendered him perhaps the most fearful being in the universe, yet he knew death like an old companion. He yearned for it, and sought it as one seeks liberation.

His detachment from the mundane grew so profound that he feared the loss of his sanity, feared the descent into psychosis. In time, he embraced psychosis willingly, a rebellion against the hollow veneer of human rationality he so despised. To be truly free, to be authentic in a world steeped in hypocrisy, he realized he had to surrender to madness. In his presence, one felt the unsettling possibility that it was not he who was mad, but we. He wept like a child and fought with the valor of a hero. Some saw him as a tragic figure, a squandered potential. But not I. I believed in him.

 

 

 

Apneic

 

I

The infinite night yawned before him, an abyss that mocked the very concept of time. He yearned for sleep with a fervor bordering on the maniacal, like a wretch starving for a drop of poison to still his restless mind. But sleep remained an aloof specter, indifferent to his suffering. The drugs that once provided a semblance of peace had long since betrayed him, leaving a bitter nostalgia in their wake, a cruel reminder of when he could feign sanctuary. Now, they ensnared his mind in a suffocating fog, reducing him to a stumbling wraith, his thoughts sluggish and fragmented. Anorexia gnawed at his insides like a relentless parasite, transforming the act of eating into a grotesque ritual he abhorred. His stomach, a void echoing with emptiness, mocked his every attempt at nourishment. He had consumed every sleeping pill, every soporific, every tranquilizer, saturating his bloodstream with a toxic cocktail battling for dominance. Daylight brought no relief; tremors wracked his limbs, turning his hands into instruments of betrayal. His mouth was a parched wasteland, while cold sweat drenched his skin, a deformed reminder of his body's rebellion.

His descent into madness blurred the boundaries between the drugs' insidious machinations and the relentless onslaught of insomnia, leaving him adrift in a surreal limbo where reality and nightmare coalesced. His psyche, frayed and tattered, wandered through this spectral existence, ensnared in an ever-deepening abyss of desolation and turmoil. He could no longer discern whether his torment arose from chemical infiltrations or sleepless nights. In this shadowed purgatory, he lingered in perpetual liminality, neither fully awake nor mercifully asleep, a prisoner of his own failing mind, condemned to existential anguish.

In the suffocating darkness of his room, he wrestled with the distinction between the void and the oblivion of sleep. Both were vast expanses devoid of meaning, realms where the essence of existence seemed to evaporate. Even in the absence of sleep, his mind wandered through a tumult of thoughts, weaving a tapestry of haunting visions like a fevered nightmare. With eyes wide open, he questioned the divide between waking purgatory and elusive dreams. Was there any true difference between the torment of consciousness and the fleeting solace of unconsciousness?

II

In the desolate embrace of a corroded chamber, where shadows clung like relentless specters, an oppressive dread festered. Within this rusted womb, an unnamed horror lurked—an elusive malevolence that defied comprehension. Its mere presence tainted the very air he breathed. Insomnia ravaged his psyche, devouring the fragile remnants of his sanity. His thoughts stuttered and faltered, choked by the corrosive rust encroaching upon his mind, dragging him inexorably into an abyss of despair. The weight of existence bore down upon him, crushing his spirit under its unbearable burden. The ceiling groaned under the weight of his sorrow, struggling to endure the oppressive force. Each tick of the clock reverberated like a relentless toll, marking the passage of time as a torturous dirge. His body throbbed with weariness, every sinew and bone pulsating with despair. His heart beat within his chest like a frantic drum, echoing his turmoil. The air grew dense and stagnant, suffocating him with its oppressive weight. He felt himself slipping away, his grasp on sanity weakening. The encroaching darkness threatened to engulf him completely. Lost in this abyss of despair, he drifted like a forsaken soul, adrift in a sea of hopelessness, with no prospect of deliverance.

This nightly battle had once been kept at bay by medication, but now he faced his tormentor unshielded. His thoughts, shattered and erratic, spiraled back to his shortcomings and flaws, amplifying his self-loathing until it reverberated through his being. The cruel symphony of his inner demons played on, each discordant note a piercing reminder of his worthlessness. Defeat crept into his consciousness long before the struggle commenced, a silent acceptance of the consuming darkness that enveloped his existence. Even the most wretched souls found solace in sleep, but his existence remained shackled to ceaseless vigilance. What was this agony that held him captive? He envisioned hell as an intensified reflection of his current state, yet how could he fathom such a place when his own suffering eluded comprehension? He had long abandoned the quest for self-repair, surrendered the battle against this insidious demon, and relinquished hope of deciphering its nature.

Now he lay there, eyes wide and unblinking, awaiting whatever doom might befall him. Perhaps the bugs would feast upon his flesh, or the ceiling would descend to obliterate him. He conjured grotesque scenarios, each more macabre than the last, and resolved to remain motionless, indifferent to the horror awaiting him. He imagined his skin peeling away, revealing a writhing mass of maggots beneath; faceless wraiths materializing from the shadows to tear him apart; his bones splintering and twisting into unnatural shapes, piercing his flesh from within. These hellish visions, like nightmares painted by Francisco Goya, seemed a merciful release compared to the relentless torment of his waking hours. Tonight, one of these grotesque fates would emerge victorious. He would lie still, a passive witness to his own demise, until sleep, the final tormentor, mercifully claimed him.

Mahmoud Maher Eltrawy, writing under the pseudonym Titoxz, is an Egyptian writer who explores dark, existential themes. His work delves into the human psyche, suffering, and the fragility of existence, driven by his personal experiences and internal struggles. Mahmoud writes in English, believing it provides a more authentic way to express his complex thoughts. Although a graduate in medicine, he finds his true calling in literature, focusing on the darker aspects of the human condition. Residing in Egypt, he continues to practice medicine while dedicating himself to his writing.