Los Angeles Monologue

Not only Elie, so do other people. “Next to me lay a Hungarian Jew suffering from dysentery. He was skin and bones, his eyes were dead… These words, coming from the grave, as it were, from a faceless shape, filled me with terror” (Wiesel 78). Gregor faces the same problem—the reduction of self-awareness. “Streaks of dirt ran along the walls; here and there lay tangles of dust and garbage” (Kafka 33).

He rested upon the dumpster while the unbearable smell outrageously and unbearably came across his nose. Hours later, the hungry and soaking wet dog drifted into a faint sleep. Rufus awoke to gleaming lights burning his eyes as he heard a loud screech of a van coming to a halt in the dark alley. The van

I turn around only for my face to be illuminated by an oncoming truck. As it approaches, as if it were going downhill, I brace my arms for the impact and my impeding death. At the last second, the truck vanishing and through a mirage comes a figure that pushes me into the hole. The fall wasn’t long, but the landing was rough. I could feel the pain of something jagged as well as hear the crunch of bones and metal.

Instead, I clutched the beautiful hard dagger against my throat. I pause, remembering the velvety blackness of a night I no longer have a place in.” The shows that the narrator is extremely depressed and suicidal. Depression and suicidal thoughts are a few of the many symptoms of schizoaffective disorder, which this narrator clearly has a severe case of. Living in a world where you are considered an outsider, loner, or freak is no easy task. Escaping from reality through delusion might be a person's only choice if this is happening to them.

Sirens pierce through the still midnight air. I weakly look up and watch as the walls of the room are lit up with red and blue flashing lights. I sit hauntingly still, a mere ghost in the shell of my existence. Is this what catatonia feels like? I wonder dully, trying to downplay the presence of the dead body lying in my arms.

Grabbing the camcorder, I activated its night vision feature and surveyed my surroundings. The chamber that I was in resembled a decrepit hospital room, with large shards of broken glass lining the edge 's of the room 's peeling walls and a cracked porcelain counter-top containing a rusty sink. I rubbed my head and immediately felt the rough polymer bandages that were swathed tightly around my forehead, the dried blood coming off in flakes on my hands like dandruff. I then peered at the adjacent chambers, noticing a dead body in one chamber and toppled furniture in the other. How is that possible?

My own blood and I didn’t even know it. “So wait, you mean to tell me, I was attacked by a person that turned into this thing with intentions of eating me?” A sick nausea feeling filled my insides, I could feel the buildup rising. My organs churning, almost

The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me” H.P. Lovecraft, a gothic literature writer, addresses the fear of the unknown as, “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown”, Put a child in a dark room, and they may express concern, due to the fact, that something may be lurking in the shadows; Now give that same child a light so as to be able to observe the surrounding area, they will sleep soundly. We fear what we cannot understand, just as children fear the dark, Poe has his character thrown into a situation of deep confusion and heavy darkness, where he even doubts his own sentience. Poe uses the fear of the unknown to evoke horror and the feeling of suspense to “The Pit and the Pendulum” efficiently and effectively by targeting the root of fear itself; the unknown. “Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought – a condition which lasted long.

The men flung themselves back and away. The body hit, ten tons of cold flesh and stone. The guns fired. The Monster lashed its armored tail, twitched its snake jaws, and lay still. A fount of blood spurted from its throat.

Waking up with the smell of booze still oozing from my breath I climb out of bed and every breath I take is like a sharp knife in my dry throat. With shaky hands so bad, I’m almost vibrating, my hand grips the dirty glass of what’s left of last night’s whiskey. Gulping down the lava-like liquid I start to choke, quickly trying to spit out what I haven’t already swallowed. After the whiskey comes back up I find an unwanted friend coming along. Below my bare, cracked feet I felt the grimy carpet thinning as the whiskey with drops of blood fall from the corners of my mouth.