Warning: Do not read this if you are squeamish or disturbed by dark themes
in·san·i·ty: noun - the state of being seriously mentally ill; madness.
How did it come to this?
The people here were nice. They had been kind to him after his ordeals. Strengthened and nourished him after they had found him, weak and emaciated, still trembling from fear. He remained under their kindness for many days, lost in memories of men. Men who were not men, but monsters, of those who feasted upon the flesh of his brothers. He had chosen to say with these people, strangers, who had brought him back from the cusp of the abyss. He had aided them, taught them skills from his homeland, told them stories of his childhood and travels. Now, many months later, he was one of them, brought into this village by a wife. A beauty who was kind and soft. For him this was now home, a place of refuge and comfort from the torments of the world.
This was not how it was meant to be.
He had went to see his friend, who had lost his wife in childbirth. Going to give comfort as was the way of his old people. But his friend was unconscionable, rebuffing his kind words. Confused, he asked why his friend was so morose. In answer, his friend wailed the truth. No married couple went to the grave alone. His friend would be buried with his departed wife, alive. He watched as his friend was lowered into the catacombs alongside the body of his spouse. He watched as seven days worth of rations and many resplendent jewels were lowered down with the doomed man, and he feared for himself. Dread crept up his spine as he watched the village seal the mouth of the cave.
He went home, terrified and on edge, feeling as if death was grasping his shoulders and pulling him towards that forsaken tomb. Several years past, he remained skittish around the village. He could not leave. When he left to hunt people followed him as if they could smell his fear and would not allow him to flee. Everywhere he went someone accompanied him, like some guardian of the dammed. Then the unthinkable happened, his wife caught ill and perished.
What dreadful circumstance
They stood there watching him, waiting for him to break. Then, when he shattered and ran, they caught him. They dragged him terrified, screaming and thrashing, to that living crypt. They held him as he watched his wife be lowered into that chasm; as he watched the jewels and riches poured into that hole, as the food was placed into the crevice. Then they watched as he was placed upon that pallet and lowered into his tomb. Their cold eye followed him as he went bellow that final precipice, until he could see them no more. He watched as their shadows made demons upon the walls, heard as their voices mutated into a psalm for he dammed. He watched as the stone was moved to the mouth of the cavern. Then he was alone with no light to see but a small touch, about to be burned away entirely.
Trapped in the land of the dead.
He did not know how long he had been there. He was out of food and was running low on water. Already, he was more of a wraith then a man. He was a mad man, talking to the shadows. He had entire conversations with the the dead as his captivated audience, but the dead were not supposed to talk back. The smell alone was enough to drive someone to hysteria, the sweet stench of rotting flesh, that sickly fragrant aroma. The darkness was worse. It put visions in his mind, a none existent flicker of firelight, a touch or a wispier of a passing man, a shade from the beyond. He was living, but living as if he were dead.
Suddenly, there was light in his dark world, the rock had been moved from the lip of the crypt. A new death, the next unfortunate soul, was being brought to the cave. Then he smiled. Here was life, sustenance. He waited as the body was lowed. Hid as the gems were deposited. Prowled in the shadows, waiting as the new sacrifice was deposited into his cave. When the stone was once again rolled into place he struck, catching the young woman on the head with a femur. She fell, dazed. Then, he dragged a sharp stone across her neck, killing her. He hesitated, here was meat, warm and fresh. Then, like the wild men who had eaten his brothers before, he descended and ate upon her flesh. As he waited for his next meal, he took the bones and decorated his new kingdom, caught up in his madness. Soon, yet another was lowed into his grasp and yet again he tore into the man.
Never before had insanity tasted so sweet.
Author's Note- There is a lot of this story that I kept true to the original. This story is based off of Sinbad's Fourth Voyage. This if the only voyage where Sinbad had his own ship and this particular voyage caught up in a bad storm and wrecked. Sinbad did actually encounter a tribe of cannibals and was able to escape by starving himself. Then he was rescued by another tribe and married one of their women. As in this story he was buried with the dead body of his wife, as was the custom of the tribe, along side jewels and a weeks worth of food. Similarly, Sinbad did kill the next person to be put down in the hole. However, unlike my story he did not eat her. Also, unlike my version, Sinbad eventually escapes and makes his way home. Whereas mine stays in his 'kingdom'. What I really wanted to show is just how much strain all these event would have put on Sinbad, and write a story where he broke under it. When exactly he broke I will leave up to you. I do apologize for the morbidity but the story ended up writing itself.
Biblography- Voyages of Sindbad by Andrew Lang,
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