Chapter Text
Imitation. Eight was wonderful at blending in, adapting to her surroundings, feeling the vibrations of the world around her and morphing her hue to match that of the world around her while still maintaining some semblance of herself on the inside, where no one could see. She was a mimic octopus, afterall. With everything she imitated, she kept a small piece of it inside of her, bright and vibrant corals, matching the tropical coloring. Or, regrettably what she reverted back to so often, the deeply saturated and low tech tones of the metro, plastic, leather, metal and screens projecting blues, purples and teals, casted over with ocean light.
In this moment, however, surrounded by pearlescent coral gardens beaming a sickly white, she hadn’t made up her mind on what this meant to her. Not quite yet. Eight sat still, just as still as the coral gardens around her, radiating their snowy coloration, contrasted beautifully by her tanned skin. Wind swayed the outstretched branches, and in a similar fashion, swayed her tentacles. Her eyes were closed, pen to paper, thinking drenched in orderly silence.
She opened her eyes, ready to write.
The city of an eternal summer, filled with youth, of which I lovingly called my home for what I sincerely hoped would be forever, is dying. In the darkness, I dreamt of light, engulfing me at the shoreline. As I slept, I dreamt of days alone shopping in the city stores, in crowds of people, all of us bathed under the forgiving and gentle summer sky. The deep ocean sang songs of prophecy to me, songs of the past and whispers of the future. I dreamt of seeing the sky my ancestors were torn apart from, to mend that relationship in fields of grass and flowers I drove to in my own car, of my own freedom to get to, apologizing for my absence away from both the loving surface and autonomy. Through blood and ink and hardship, I thought I had caught my light. Under the sky, I let the sunsets swallow me whole, humbling me to my core. I let thunderstorms and the calm of snow hush my most rushed thoughts, leaving me in awe of beauty I didn’t know existed.
But now it seems I have been running, chasing the setting sun, running from an inevitable fate, a fate that drains the color from my life, while the sun sinks into the water below. I ran from the dull grays and blacks of my beginnings, dreaming fleeting dreams with a full, hopeful heart to be welcomed in by a new self-sustaining freedom.
In fear, I chose order, to attempt to protect the new world I was so deeply in love with, and so brought about its demise. Slowly, I watched the heavenly rapture eat away and infect the city, bringing a new, sickly life. Where I once felt the warm light I picked apart my being for, shedding a life to obtain a new one, killing the colorless pieces of myself, creating by hand a new ocotling. Now, I sit in the same spot, watching order endrench the city.
I welcome the seventh heaven of order. In my body, the city dies, and is reborn with the rhapsody of pearlescent coral gardens. A song with no words overwhelms me, a silence so loud I will never forget it.
When the pen came off of the paper, night was threatening to take hold of the sky. There was no one else in the barren coral gardens of inkopolis, besides Eight, and the occasional school of fish to keep her company. Without much more left to write, Eight turned her head to the stars, only just starting to peer out as the pinks and oranges were slowly fading into a navy blue.
Without a word, and without another soul in sight, she prayed, so similar to the prayers she repeated in bed as a child, begging anyone who could hear her thoughts to let the sky be known to her, to let the elation of freedom overwhelm her. Now, sitting on the ground of the promised land, she looked to the stars, and whispered a plea, to let order overtake her, cleanse her of everything. She prayed with a hopeless desperation to let the white sickness spreading across the city to ravish the innermost parts of herself, leaving only the body that dreams.