Streams of Consciousness

by Chromentazol

Stranger/2: Echo

Just beyond the tree line, the stranger could finally see the end of his path. Further ahead of the ashen trees and their stony leaves, large ominous forms awaited him. Although supposed to resemble houses and buildings, they too had not been spared by the strange phenomena affecting this world. A part of him wished to turn back, to avoid what he might find in this place once full of life, the absence of any living soul nearby implicating terrible consequences. Glancing at the path behind, however, he knew there would be no point in leaving. Sooner or later, he would have to try his luck in this ghost town if he wished to find supplies and answers. Steeling himself, he pressed onward, quickly reaching the edge of the town.

He slowly approached the looming buildings on the outskirts, taking great care in assessing their current condition. First focusing on their exterior, he noticed that the stones, bricks and wooden logs assembled in the form of houses were warped and discolored, changing the buildings’ silhouettes into mockeries of their former selves. Most windows were barred with heavy wooden beams, although some were not. Instead, the few windows left unprotected were smashed, the shards of glass on the inside of the houses.

Stepping up to the closest building, he peered through one of these broken windows. Inside, a thick layer of dust — or was it ash — covered every surface. The furniture, much smaller than he was expecting it to be, was in a pitiful state. A table broken in half, one of its legs missing. Large marks on the wooden floor, evoking in his mind the image of someone striking with an ax, or perhaps oversized claws. Shelves on the ground, knocked over and spilling their contents. Countless shards of glass and ceramics scattered across what used to be a living room. A clock, broken, its face pierced with the table’s missing leg. Its hands indicated some time not too long after noon, though he wasn’t sure if they were left untouched as soon as the clock stopped working.

He was just about to step inside the building to investigate further when his eyes stopped on a curious detail on the other side of the room. There, a small door, once again slightly too small for a regular human, was held closed by a chair, its back preventing the handle from opening it. Whoever lived there, they were afraid of what laid just beyond that door. He knew he should be afraid as well. He stepped away from the house.

Instead, he headed deeper inside the town. Passing by more of the same dilapidated buildings, the stranger carefully looked around in hopes of discovering anything out of the ordinary. He chuckled at his own thoughts, as nothing in his direct vicinity could be described as ‘ordinary’, before deciding to do something he hadn’t done ever since waking up in this world.

Taking in a deep breath, the scent of stilled air filling his nostrils, he spoke up, to call for aid.

To his own self, the sound of his voice sounded alien, as if not truly belonging to him. His heart raced for a moment as his mind mistook the sound of his own voice for that of someone else’s, but disillusion was quick to set in. The only answer his call mustered was that of his own spoken words, repeating themselves multiple times as the soundwaves bounced around the empty buildings. He sighed. Just as he expected, just an echo.

Spotting a nearby bench, he decided to sit down for a moment, allowing his legs to rest for a while. He rubbed his eyes, then stared at the empty streets around him. Despite roaming in this world for some time now, he couldn’t help but feel dissatisfaction at the absolute absence of any living being. There was no one to help him, no one to answer his questions, no one to guide him. All there was, was an echo. An echo of his voice. An echo of what must have been, in the past, a town full of life. An echo of whatever ended it.

Then, he pondered. Was he an echo as well? Looking upward, his mind began processing the question. First, he would need to define what an echo was. Of course, the most common definition was that of acoustics, of sound bouncing off of surfaces, crossing the speaker’s space once, twice, thrice, however many times the architecture allowed. Was he, then, an echo? No, he thought, I am more than sound. I am flesh, I am blood and I do not go around bouncing off walls. But then again, he was bouncing off places: right now, from the clearing he woke up in, to the path he found, to this settlement. Would he end up crossing back his starting point? Would he be, then, an echo?

Even then, this was not the only existing understanding of the concept of echoes. What does an echo require, in order to exist? It requires a large space, mostly empty, with surfaces to bounce off from, clear boundaries allowing what was uttered to come back. Looking around at the empty streets, he wondered what boundaries this world offered. Were there walls around him, clear limits he wouldn’t be able to cross and that would send him back on his way? Would he even be able to recognize them?

Then, he remembered the chair keeping the door locked in that house he investigated. He remembered how he knew better than to discover what was beyond.

Perhaps he had found his first wall.

Or perhaps he was overthinking. With so little around to entertain and stimulate his mind, his thoughts had the tendency to wander off whenever left unchecked. Was this something he did before ending up in this world? If it did, then, he never paid attention to it. Is awareness an echo, he wondered?

Forcing himself to stand back up, he marched on, not wanting to waste any more time thinking about echoes and instead focusing on the search for supplies.

Then again, what did he have if not time to waste?

A nagging voice in his head made itself known. Is time an echo too, it asked?

He replied aloud, speaking up for the second time that day though it was more of a half-mumbled mess of words than any clear utterance of speech.

“If I don’t find something to keep my mind occupied, I’m going to go mad.”