The MIST

Nothing prepares you for Okummuo. Not the articles or accounts you have devoured. Not the grit you have secured through your life's passage. Nothing. The moment you lean into the heavy mist that exudes the smell of freesia and saffron, and you answer the call of the gentle-flowing waters from within it, you start to kick and claw at the terror that beckons.

Wind. Rain. Quiet. In quick succession and riding on waves of white-hot heat, one melds into the other. For a moment, you expect your flesh to scorch and separate from your bones. It does not. You tilt your head for the rain to bathe your mouth, but hear sizzling, and your lips pull themselves shut.

Pain lances through your legs, like rusted nails pricking an open sore, and you look down to find no ground. Only jellyfish. Millions of them, their translucent bodies flashing a molten red at intervals, enough for you to see them move under your feet. Other than that, there is invasive darkness. The kind you see when intense lights blind your vision, only this time, the blinding is anything but fleeting.

A loud continuous sound of anguish awakens and begins to bubble in your belly. Snaking its way out, it fills your lungs, pierces into the darkness, almost startling the despondence now winding its arms around you. Soon, your cries fade into rasping sounds, then you hear the grunts; now muffled, now deafening. Indeed, there are many like you who, surrendering to the allure of this unknown place, do nothing but wait, hoping a day will, by some stroke of providence, fall through the mist to redeem them from the nemesis of their choices.

But while they wait, while you all wait, you will boil in despair. Alone. For in Okummuo, your only true companions are you and every choice you made. Every choice right before the mist.