The Abyss

She was waiting, the clock kept ticking. She listened to each tick lead her right into the next one. She listened to the next tick as it became this tick which, yet again, led to the next. She felt as if she was being pushed forward by an invisible force onto someplace she knew led to an Abyss. Yet, she sat there, being pushed.

She had tried to resist it before — ignore each tick by willing herself into an older tick; keeping herself attached, rooted at one place. But it never worked. Each time she came back from one of those trips, the clock had moved forward and she had missed several ticks.

She had watched those around her for countless ticks. She had watched them grow, watched the world change. She remembered the ticks near the beginning — they were a haze to her now, a different time. The ecstasy when her father lifted her and her mother laughed with her. The time spent talking and playing in the mud with kids at school, long before they got bedazzled by screens. Long afternoons spent in silence, reading through dozens of books, being immersed in the stories, losing herself in them. A relaxed pace, innocent laughs and easy happiness.

She looked around her and saw people swing from one tick to the next; rush forward with no thought. She had never understood what their hurry was, or what they were looking for. The Abyss was there for everyone: the ones wearing golden robes as well as torn ones. The running ones will fall, the strolling ones will fall. The fall is certain.

She counted her remaining ticks. For quite a while, she had lived with the realization that there were more ticks behind her than those ahead. Now, however, she looked on at them and wondered how she barely felt those go by without a heed in her younger days. Yet again, she felt the urge to hold the last one.

She wondered what the Abyss would feel like, whether there was a bottom. Would she land on another cliff similar to this one, and begin another journey? Or would she just keep falling? Would she be aware that she was falling? So many questions, they gave her a headache. All those quarrels over what lay beyond. The bribes they paid the ticker to ensure their fall is a smooth one. The stories they made to convince themselves that the next tick would be worth it, and the one after that. Their hatred and disdain towards those who disagreed with their version of the Abyss, when in reality there was no one to ask. No one who had truly fallen, had climbed their way back. Deep down, none knew what it was like, so they told themselves stories.

Some she saw, had counted less ticks than the others. In the beginning, she used to be crushed in terror, now it became a dull throb, maybe even a pang of envy. Yet, she could not bring herself to rush forward to the next tick — she enjoyed her leisurely stroll too much for that.

Because this tick, was always worth it.

I was screaming, into the canyon
At the moment, of my death.
The echo I created
Outlasted my last breath.


My voice, it made an avalanche
And buried a man I never knew;
And when he died, his widowed bride
Met your daddy, and they made you.


I have only one thing to do, and that's
Be the wave that I am, and then
Sink back into the ocean.
I have only one thing to do, and that's
To be the wave that I am, and then
Sink back into the ocean.


-Fiona Apple, "Container"

Cover art by Leio McLaren