CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I found a diary about an earthquake that never occurred" Creepypasta

Episode Date: February 5, 2021

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Day 7. Blink. My name is Adrian Kagwit. I know this. I am sitting against the floor of dust, my back absorbing the cold of the wall as I stare at the ground, trying to get a grip of the last seven days.

I tell myself this will pass. In a few more hours, I will get back home, reward myself with my home-cooked Dinaguan and greet my students hello. My left arm is freshly cut to the shoulder, slowly bleeding out the rest of my life. I take a deep breath

My limb felt like being pounded between steel doors Every half a second My stomach aching like sharp teeth Are eating the way out of my insides I don't have enough strength to move I'm stuck in a dark corner Inside a mall's hardware store Beneath the ceiling that fell into the slope

Where is this goddamn rescue team It had been a week since the earthquake The air was heavy of gasoline and rot Among the darkness the dust, the broken shards of fluorescent light, the limbs of those who did not make it, some blood and darkness, a black existence by itself, in itself.

Blink. Sasha squeezed my hand. We'll get through this, she assures. Her palm is soft against mine, warm even. It is only then that I realised I've been trembling hard. I always tried to distract myself from the pain, staring at Sasha's face.

I focus. on her eyes, her long black air, inhaled, then tried to relax. I felt the air implode inside my lungs, thought about all the other things I will do after I get out of this ruin, then exiled. Sasha smiles at me with her dimples bearing inside her cheeks, and I managed to calm down a bit. She then helps me eat by hand-feeding me meat. For one demented reason, it felt good having her stuck here with me. During the earthquake, the department store's upper floor collapsed. I thought that would be the end of it,

but by God's holy miracle and a probability jackpot, the upper floor slumped to the side and fell into a slope, shielding my group from other falling rubble and left us untouched. Electricity was the first to go out. We made away blind and lost in the dark. At first, we were just happy we survived, but as the days went on, we were forced beyond our limits. Joseph, one of the clerks, broke a water sprinkler straight to the pipeline, turning it into a source of water.

It served as a solution to thirst, and was enough to fill a stomach that was empty on food. Although, of course, not completely. One needed protein and carbohydrates, just as much as one needed oxygen. Blink. I chew, munch and swallow. Once one gets too hungry to even consider the taste, one will stop thinking about what. what they eat and just focus on the fact that one is eating. Sasha yanks another chunk of raw flesh from my recently amputated arm, then proceeded to feed it to me. My teeth munch it like it's

undercooked to Sino. I savour my own blood-like juice, squishing out between strands of meat. Jatoy, thank you, Mr. Martin said. His voice is old and scruff, but calm and gentle. He robs my shoulder, maybe trying to comfort me. Your sacrifice saved us all, and that is the most important part. He continued his pep talk, and in a normal occasion, his words would flow in and out of my ears. Mr. Martin's words reminded me of the old movies I used to see as a child, those lines about nobleness, heroism, and other morality talk films wanted the prime in its audience. Today, it was just music to my ears. It was a rational decision. We all had sacrifices to make, and this one was mine. Yes, it was my arm. It was my arm.

But what was the piece of a limb compared to all the lives he could save? Just one thing, Mr Martin added. Please don't tell my son what is eating. He's been through enough. He turns and looked at his seven-year-old son, who they referred to as junior,

minus the eating a chunk of meat. Day 8. Blink When I woke up, my throat was as dry as a drought, and my head was a spinning sandstorm. my fever wasn't helping either. Water is the first thought I had. I was going to use my left hand to help myself up,

and as I fell, I was immediately reminded of what I lost. I groaned, swearing I could still feel it. Hey. Joseph came up to help and walked me to the broken pipeline. Water rained from above, caught inside an empty tool bucket. Joseph carried the bucket up to my face so I could take a gulp. I let the liquid flow down my throat. as soothing as water, soaking in dry soil.

I close my eyes, remembering the day of the earthquake, how I wouldn't be stuck here if I didn't make the small decision to buy a new screwdriver. It seemed like divine invention for leaving us alive. Today, it seemed like damnation for being given the slowest possible way of death. Sometimes talking made things cozy. Even just for a moment, we could forget about the situation we were in. Joseph and I had casual talks about the bad system of contractual work since we both worked as salesmen once

Mr Martin and his son shared stories about Europe the countries they had visited lighting up the topics a bit and Sasha a god-sent nurse reminded us to be strong she told us about a most hopeless patient about how people could survive and defy imminent death that was after we stopped trying to get out after we accepted the fact that only bulldozers could destroy the walls and set us free.

But as time went on, I shared hunger and paranoia fed their doubts. Today, I just sat on the floor and cried. We were long due for rescue. It was an earthquake with enough magnitude to bring down a building.

How come the rescue team were not here yet? How is it that I hear no machines outside or people shouting for survivors? Have they abandoned us? I didn't bother to wipe the tears from my cheek. I didn't bother to hide my weak sobs. Most of the time, I thought about the idea of how being crushed under debris was better than eating yourself to death. Day 11.

Every passing day is worse than before. My head ached, my body is weak. Every second I felt like I was going to puke. But there is nothing to vomit. I can almost see my own hands ripping through my skin to my intestines. My stomach banging, burning, yet bloated from water. In two days, it will be Joseph's turn to sacrifice an arm. I could still feel the handsore bearing itself into my limb,

the blade grinding against my bone. Soon, there would be a new member of the amputee cannibals club, and I didn't ponder a single thought about how hard it would be for Joseph to share my fate. The only thing I cared about was that in two days, I'm going to eat. Day 13 Today, today I woke up to me. Mr. Martin's cries from a distance, screaming his son's name over and over again, shaking the walls, shaking my head.

I scrambled to my feet, half awake. I'm sorry, I could hear Sasha speaking in a muffled sob. I'm sorry, I couldn't do anything. I rubbed my eyes as I sprinted across the rubble, stepping through stones, stepping against the palm of a corpse. My stomach growls, my headaches, my veins burn. There is junior, lying motionless on the asphalt. His shorts torn on the left, revealing a narrow, swollen wound on his leg. The cut is yellowish, rotten, surrounded with dried blood. It started from his upper knee to his lower waist. The boy's eyes are open the whole time, never blinking once. His whole body was steady, stiff.

Mr. Martin sat behind them, crying as he held his son, caressing Junior's cheek. Sasha beside them and Joseph coming from a distance holding a hand saw. My stomach writhes and writhes and writhes. Martin, Joseph mumbled, his face dripping with sweat. There's nothing else we could do. Sasser tried everything. He continued, taking a slow step forward. And I know he is your son, and I'm sorry that I'm saying this, but...

He paused. All of us are hungry. Joseph looked at Junior, and I knew, in that moment, that those eyes weren't looking at a corpse, that those eyes were already looking at his food. It was the amazing miracle of death. It's been six days since we last eight. Don't you dare lay a finger of my son.

Mr. Martin swept Jr. into his arms. His voice was deep now, stern, like that of a soldier commanding his platoon. Look, I'm not a bad guy, and I know what I'm saying is wrong. Joseph reasoned out. I mean, damn, I'm supposed to give up my goddamn arm today. His hand closed into a fist. But because this happened, maybe this is my son's body mr martin's voice boomed throughout the room his whole face turning red i intend to bury him whole sasha tried to squeeze in between begging them to stop pulling joseph by the arm but a word faded into white noise i watched and writhed and writhed and writhed in my ears all i can hear is a concert of chaos and disorder the sour of violins and bitter piano screaming in high pitches trying to out-sound each other

Joseph's eyebrows folding underneath. "'All right, then, we'll bury your child. And then what? You're going to cut off my arm?' Joseph's foot charged another step forward. "'I'm going to give up my limb, while we're bearing some goddamn food.' I could hear church bells swinging back and forth,

acquiring Fortissimo. Just try it.' In a quick second, Martin rose to his feet, his height meeting Joseph's, his fist swung straight into Joseph's face. Joseph kept his footing, his nose leaking drops of blood. He fought back, knocking Mr. Martin to the floor.

He wrestled over the all-man's chest, landing punches against his cheek. I think of juice, leaking out of tender meat. I stared at Joseph, pounding on Mr. Martin's head, the way the bones of the hand buried against cheek, turning it to red like pounded beef. It felt like a spell, a requiem forming within me. Blink. Mr. Martin reached for a screwdriver he kept in his pocket,

as Joseph delivered another swing. Blink. I don't know. I was lost in a trance. My eyes were looking at Sasha, but I wasn't really looking at her. I wasn't really listening. She had grabbed me by the shirt

and was shaking me back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Blink. Stop them, Adrian, she was saying, Adrian! Blink, blink, blink. Get the hell away from my son. I brought Joseph away from Mr. Martin.

He'd bludgeoned, Half of the man's face. Mr. Martin's right eye had swollen half the size of a golf ball. I turned to Joseph. What were you thinking? Blink. There was a screwdriver impaled through Joseph's right eye, pierced through his skull.

His body fell flat to the floor as I let go. Blink. In my head, I thought of barbecue, skewered through a stick. Day 14. The wound is still healing. Don't try to move much,

or you might bump into something. Sasha wiped a wet cloth where my shoulder used to be. She cleaned the blood stains around, then tied it with another cloth. We can't risk another infection. She continued. I failed, junior, but I won't let myself lose another person. I leaned against the wall,

looking at the small light that managed to squeeze itself through the tiny cracks. It must be morning now. I wonder how many days it has been. I could see Mr. Martin from a distance, the old man's loathing up. eyes aimed directly at me at his hand at Joseph's leg between his teeth. I'm sorry I wasn't able to do anything, I told Sasha.

Told, I thought, I'd apologize. Semantics. I stopped lying to myself that I was not glad of my inaction, that what it deserved wasn't an apology, but gratefulness. It was my inaction that served as a hand to pull us from the abyss of starvation. I wanted to tell Mr. Martin that I wanted to grab the words and shone. shove it into the meatball of those eyes. We were all in shock, Sasha justified.

His kid just died. My patient just died. And you were still burdened by this. She placed the hand in my shoulder. And then my head. I'm so sorry. Mr. Martin sat beside his son, blood on his hands. I wondered how he could stand the smell,

but paid it no attention. He approached him and offered a chunk of Joseph's flesh. Just don't think. about it, I said. I wanted to give the old man back the same pep talk before, back when I offered up my own arm. I thought that it was the least I could do for the man who gave us food. It's done. It happened. Mr. Martin simply shook his head in response. I looked at the old man's beaten eye, swelling in blue, trying to imagine how painful it must have been. But all I could think of was how it would taste like. We need to eat. Let's stop worrying about anything else for.

now, I tried to encourage him. At this moment, the only thing worth of value is our lives. So we eat. He insisted. We can live for days out of Joseph's body. Miss Martin paused for a brief moment. Then he turned to him like he was told a bad joke. What happened to us, Adrian?

He mumbled. I killed a person, Adrian. I murdered a human being. For God's sake, he should still be alive with us right now. He should be at the corner trying to make a toilet or a light for us. And I killed him. His eyes were filled with horror, with a watery weight of guilt that hauled the saw from its windows and pulled it down the cheek. And you made us eat him.

I wanted to tell him that it was simply a rational decision, that we did what the situation forced us to do, that we were only playing the cards we were dealt with. But I knew that the old man was past that reality, that all that is my good think of was death and despair, of junior, of Joseph, of the piles of course, of course, corpses that littered the hardware store of the walls left undistroyed. I could see it in the way that Mr. Martin stared at random spaces as if every pile of rubble gave him an existential thought or a moral crisis. What was real was simple, and I understood it. I understood that we needed to eat, and none of the dust, rocks or hardware tools were at the very least edible.

Are we still human, Adrian? The odd man asked. He looked at Junior's corpse lying beside him. You're a teacher, right? What would you say if I was one of your students? I tossed the chunk of meat on his lap. Morality is a privilege of the fortunate. Now stop your drama and eat.

Day 13. Mr. Martin lay in a pool of blood, and in his hand was the same handsore Sasha used at Kurt Joseph's body. The old man lost it. All I could think about was how far. fresh with the remains. In my head, that body wasn't the same living, breathing, caring father I knew. At this moment, he was just the corpse. Dead, lifeless, decaying organic matter. Meat. It was simply

a rational decision. We needed to maximise what we had. And Sasha, the alive body, could only bury her face in my shoulder. Her arms wrapped around the last ray of hope she had. Every inch of her skin was trembling, her hands shaking as they pressed against my back. We can do this, Sasha reassured, but I knew that she had had enough. I knew she could not simply take more. We can do this, she repeated, but she sounded more like she was trying to believe it herself. For one demented reason, and it felt good about having a stuck here with me. Day 18.

I found myself being carried to the inside of an ambulance. Beside me was a woman wiping alcohol to clean the cut on my left arm. You are Adrian Kaguen, correct? She asked. I wanted to nod. I wanted to tell her, yes, that's me, and that I survived. But I was not Adrian.

At least, not anymore. Because Adrian was a cultured, educated man who lived a life so cushioned that survival was never an issue. And inside me that Adrian was already dead. I was barely even a remnant. of what Adrian was. Is there any part of your body that hurts? You, a piece of crap.

Adrian was supposed to be a good young man who was willing to give his left arm to save other people. Adrian wouldn't have the heart to slaughter Sasha in a sleep. Adrian would never consider the idea of killing someone just so he could eat. And of course, Adrian would never have survived. Perhaps the proper question to be asked was, Why now? Why the hell is it just now?

It was a magnitude 7 earthquake, enough to crumble Manila and its old set of structures in just a few minutes. The rescuers lacked numbers and were working in small groups. The country didn't have the resources to respond quickly to such a massive catastrophe. Blink. How did you hold on? The woman asked. You're the only person we found alive in this building. She continued.

No offence, but after a month, most people would have lost hope. We've seen lots of cases of suicide. She added, But you, you cut your own arm off so you could eat. I don't have the right words to express how hard that was. How did you survive all of that? It was an interesting question. And Adrian Kagwit would never have grinned so wide.

I found these notes tucked inside an anatomy book I borrowed from our school library. His previous owner was named Adrian Kagwit, who, after asking my professors and alumni, never existed within the university. The notes had stains of dried blood and smelled like sport food. Aside from this, there was never a magnitude 7 earthquake in Manila. My friends and I dismissed the disfiction written by someone who watched too many psychopath documentaries. That was until, while passing by a mall within my area, in a split second between blinks. I saw the city crumble in itself, then returned to normal.