Worth 1000 Words | Episode 24 | Crawling Death

An artist I continue to come back to time and time again. His imagination was staggering in both its depth and darkness. Giger may have achieved more mainstream commercial success, but Bekinski’s work has much more depth, much more to say — in my opinion, and I hope if you haven’t discovered him yet, you will explore his artwork now.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Zdzisław Beksiński

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Mother had always called me a dog.

Before I knew what a dog was. Faint memories of her barking in my face, snarling, mouth dripping. Or were those images I concocted? Funny how memory works.

Before I could walk, which I suppose I was then, to a degree. Crawling, with my nose to the ground. Putting any vile thing in my mouth, to explore the world that most people trampled, uncaring.

Before the city burned. It still burns. Endlessly.

I don’t hate her for it. A game maybe. For her. Alone in such a small apartment with an infant. No one else to keep her company. To converse with. You can’t converse with an infant. All you hear is yourself, and perhaps the pop of saliva bubbles. Giggles if you’re lucky. I’m not sure if I laughed much as a child. I’m not sure if children laugh. I have heard stories. But there are few people left to tell stories. Fewer by the day.

I hear voices, though. So many. Far away, usually. Sometimes I will hear a soul perish outside my window. Soul. Mother used to call them that, when we’d watch them burst into flame or be cut down and then lit on fire. It was a custom to be burned, even for those who killed. She told me it was believed that a soul traveled on the smoke rising from the deceased.

Deceased. I like that word. I like words you can break to discern the meaning of by analyzing their respective parts. Cease living. De. The Greek or Latin prefix meaning “off” or “from.” Cut off from living. I learned that from a book. There aren’t many books anymore. They burn more easily than people.

Now, where was I? Many places, I suppose. I have to be, because I am only in one place. I cannot leave. The streets are dangerous. The air is dangerous. I have a fan that runs off a generator. Funny that I can still find fuel. I think that’s called irony. The thing that burns most is still abudnant. Abundant is the wrong word. Somewhere between abundant and scarce. That is where fuel is.

It sounds like I’m speaking of actual locations. Streets, maybe. I’d say, “Yes, fuel can be found between Abundant Avenue and Scarce Street.” Alliteration, that. I think. I do think. It’s mostly all I can do. I told you I can’t leave, remember? Yes, I think I did. If you’re still listening. I hope you are.

Now, where was I? Somewhere. On the third floor between two burning ones. If it were winter, I might be happy. I am happy. It is a winter of sorts. Flakes fall from the sky. Not white. Grays and browns. Sometimes reds. Yellow embers, which I prentend is the sun crying because it misses me. And I tell the sun I miss it. That’s when the embers usually stop falling. Usually. And I think I made the sun happy. I know I made the sun happy.

Now, where was I? In my room, because there is a window there. We have a window in the living room, too, but mine has a better view. I can see a sign that just won’t fall. It’s been burning for ages, rocked by powerful gusts of wind from the storms that pass by daily and force me to close my window and hide under my bed, because it might be the only safe place in this world. Monsters used to live under beds. I heard that once. I’ve been here a long time and the only monsters I see are outside my window. Sometimes they see me, and when they do, I hide under my bed, because I’ve discovered monsters are afraid of what hides under beds.

Now, where was I? Not under my bed, that’s for sure. I’m at the window. In my room, because it has the best view. We have another window–wait. I told you that already? I apologize, I don’t like it when people repeat themselves. Repetition is the enemy of … something. Or do I have that wrong? Probably. There aren’t many books anymore.

Now, where was I? On my balcony. Yes, today I braved the outside. I’ve learned to breathe ash. I think. It feels like I have. I forgot to mention the balcony. A fire escape they were called. That’s funny. More irony. There is no escape from this fire. But I am at the window, because I must watch Mother. Oh, yes, Mother is still here. She finds things. I made her able to find things. She inspired me when I was a child. She called me dog, so I made her one when I was bigger and stronger than her.

Now, where was I? She hunts. No, scavenges. How did I make her a dog, you ask? It’s a secret, but I can tell if you promise to not tell anyone else. All right. I let the fire burn her, little by little. It changed her skin and her bones. It made them resilient against the outside. I made her a coat of ash for the more dangerous days. She had a small nose so I tried to make her a bigger one, like a dog’s. It didn’t work. It never stops bleeding. That’s okay, because I found gauze. The whitest thing I’ve ever seen. She kept it clean. And when she doesn’t, I punish her and she knows to never let it get dirty again. She’s a good dog, Mother is.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Mother. See, I’m on track. Always on track. There used to be tracks. It’s how I gave her extra joints. Breaking them there. Again. Again. Again. It’s surprising what the human body can adapt to. Oh, here she comes. I can’t wait to see what she brought for me to eat and her to watch me eat. I never let her eat. Bad dog.

Now, where was I?