I was already gone

Hunter Whiteman - May 20, 2025

Artwork: "Emotions Set Free" - Usko

It’s done.

The work is finally complete, at long last. For centuries, I have waited for it to naturally come to an end. Its own end. One that it could be proud of: one that it deserved. I picked a place out for it, the last thing I ever did for it. There was no regret, nor sorrow, nor pain when I told it where to go, and tears welled in its big, bulging eyes. With empty eyes, I watched it walk away, setting out on its journey now, to where it belongs, far away from me.

I am no longer here right now

You are reading this at my desk, in my room, on the second floor of the hollow house. I hope you did not trip over the floorboards, or the pipe jammed into the center of the floor. I hope you don't mind the smell in the closet. I hope the trip here did not trouble you. I hope you understand what it means to me that you even bothered to read this at all. This wasn't written for you; rather, it was written for no one at all. The grace and worth of these words will be lost on all who stand in their splendorous light. They will not understand, not out of ignorance or pity or denial or anything of the sort. The only person who can understand is me. And I'm gone. Whatever meaning I poured into the ink of these words is no longer possible to be discovered. I would apologize to you for giving you a useless letter, but that implies that you were worthy of forgiveness.

Or need it in the first place. 

People are strange.

I'm sure you’ve come to realise this over the course of your life. It's pretty easy to figure out, you simply need to watch someone for a few hours, and you’ll come to notice all the little flaws they make that you would never, their mannerisms, their funny ways of speaking, the faces they wear around others. I, too, have seen many a strange behavior in my time here in this place. I’ve seen silent types, strong types, brats, and intellectuals. I’ve seen people who claim to never have a stutter, stammer through whole sentences. I’ve been friends with people who graft a happy visage on their face to cover the ugly, writhing mass of scorn underneath. I’ve met people who speak with their hands, their heads, their curves. I’ve met compulsive liars and faithful idiots. I’ve watched people change in real time, watched as their hands melted into their heads, and flicked globs of flesh onto the floor as it spun and shifted into something completely new.

I'm sure you noticed mine in abundance in the time we spent together.

I would be shocked if you hadn’t. I make myself pretty apparent and open. I suppose that it was a folly of mine. That doesn’t matter now, however. The opportunity to remedy this issue was lost a long time ago. I believe it went to the same place I told the other thing about. I wonder if they met for a short moment. I’ll never know.

I'm sure you noticed the masks I wear.

I wear quite a few. Idiot boy, pseudo-intellectual, soft-hearted writer, strong-headed barbarian, lost angel of God. That last one was made-up. I don't believe in God, and I never have. No God would allow the cruelties on earth to persist. Yet they do, and there seems to be no end to them. But what do I know? Maybe tomorrow, the earth will crack open, torn asunder by some ancient force, and swallow all the bad people in one large gulp, leaving only the lion-hearted and lawful alive.

I would be swallowed up along with all the bad people.

As would you.

I am no lost angel of God; rather, that mask is indescribable. Words do it no justice, they fail to paint a vivid picture of that mask's hideous smile and tinctured skin. Sounds do not describe the thunderous laughter bouncing off the walls of grey matter, nor the crumbling of those walls. I cannot tell you my place in it all, because I am no longer here. My mask has long since left.

Although I suppose since this is the last thing I'm sending you, I can try.

It's a disgusting thing. As large as a statue and two times as noisy, it's a face of utter amusement. Its plump cheeks curl at the tips of its dried lips, shining rosy red, melding with the skin that drips off like hot cheese. Its chin has retreated back into its skeletal shell, like a frightened tortoise. Its eyes, crazy and tired, spin in their sockets so fast: they appear to be dilating with each round they make. Its mouth opens to reveal rows of hideous, holey teeth; the tip of the tongue sits in one, discarded and alone. The body flails around, begging to taste anything but the rot and mold that grow in enormous colonies on the inside of the cheeks. Its forehead has lost all skin and bone, showing only black where the brain once was. Something tiny, out of view, sits in that abyss. A singular feather of brilliant gold. A shred of decency amongst the degeneracy. 

You can figure out what this all means, I stopped trying to. For I already knew what it meant when I walked into that hellhole, I just chose to ignore it then.

I still do now. 

What it meant to me no longer matters. It eluded me a long time ago, and went to the same place I told the others to go.

Maybe they all met each other, maybe they didn’t. 

I’ll never know. 

This is the last thing I will ever write to you. Do not cherish it, do not love it. In fact, throw it over your shoulders when you are done reading it. Crumple it into a tiny little ball and rip it to ribbons. Tear it into pieces and eat them. Soak it in anything but tears. Let it seep into your memory and be my legacy to you. People are strange, and the reason is, they wish to be remembered by someone. They wish to leave an impact on this floating rock that will far outlast them, no matter how small it may be. They wish to live their lives to the fullest, to make memories that will stick until day fades to night, and months to years, years to centuries,  decades to centuries, centuries to eons. Do not let my final mask be who I am in your mind, for it is gone, as am I. Whoever I was to you, that's who I want you to tell the world I was when you find me in the same place I told my life, love, and hate to go die in obscurity, away from me and the rest of humanity.  

When you are done, please check the closet. I left you something inside. I think you’ll find it quite appalling.

Although I trust you’ll understand.

That it isn't me.

I was already gone.