Chapter Text
Chapter One
“My darling, I have a task for you.” I said, softly, whispering into fresh and new ears like the morning sun that shone in through the old window - casting fine lines of white gold over the surfaces and fabrics, casting shadows and illuminating the dark. A dark that resided deep in my bones, my flesh, and my heart. “My darling, wake up.”
My creation, my son and my sun and my light - stirred, in the arms of my mind. I cradled him in my head, the warmth of my insides serving as his comfortable bed, my brain a pillow for which I let him use to rest his head. What innocence, so sublime, so unreal, can come of me like this, untainted by plagues of sickness and regrets?
“I have use of you, yet. Rot, no longer. Wake, and learn. Wake, and live.”
I whispered, though he was just an imagining of myself. He was my other self, though there was no other self besides myself and me alone. I was the only me, the only ‘myself’ that existed. Yet he was more unique than I. So I wanted him to live in my place. To take control of this flimsy puppet body and breathe, was to hand the reins to him there at the seat of creation.
“Escape these forests in this pink and fleshy maze, escape these thoughts and release me from it’s cruel control - escape and become it instead. The puppeteer will puppet the new puppeteer, I will control you to control me, I will be freed at last from this curse where I cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot even live.”
His eyes opened, and I watched them open with interest, scanning carefully his every movement. He could not think, as I could not think, and he could not see, as I could not see, and he could not be, and I could not be. But I was convinced that this was my genius, and that I was forever to be the work of art that I wished I was and the creation of all creations that could have been born from the bosom of my hands. I would be it and become it and breathe again as I always should have.
“See, and weep, that no longer shall a day be wasted lying in the bed of my dreams; the grave of my slumber and heart. I shall be wed to the moon and the stars and the sun and the world’s art in just a fortnight, I will kiss uncertainty goodbye as I greet my love, undying, in sweet embrace - and after, I will be with death, he will cradle me in his arms as I cradle you - see no longer the concept of sorrow. He will greet me not for another millenia at least! Again, and again, and again shall I return to this plane.”
I spoke, waving my so-called-hand, and my son - who was myself, in entirety - seemed to understand. He looked up at me as I looked down at him, but really I did not see him at all and I did not look down - because he was I and I was he.
He looked around at his surroundings - lush forests of vivid and fresh green, beating with the wind as it fluttered through the foliage. It was broken only by the floor of slightly squishy, tough pink-beige dirt that seemed to pulse with life. You could get lost in these lands of imagination - changing with the day and moment, today an amazon of trees and plants, and even animals ducking through the undergrowth. The illusion was broken only by looking down and remembering that none of this was real. It was all in and on my head, my brain which kept me prisoner in myself and in this bed in which I was sentenced to lie for what feels like eternity all alone.
The floor curved and bent in odd directions, making mountains and valleys out of grooves, a planet of monstrous proportions and a sky as fake as he - but not I - because he is I, but I am real. The sky, as aforementioned, seemed bright and lovely, but was nothing more than fresh paint. It swirled and seemed to move, but was nothing more than the tricks of the demons waiting deep in your skull, taking up space that sometimes doesn’t deserve to be used up like that. Sometimes. They will take it anyway.
He took a step forward, and I would have rejoiced if I still had a heart that could beat in the manner of pride. I did not, so I couldn’t, but the notion still stood that things were going to plan. Mayhaps that this thinking I was doing as I lay still, feeling the twitching and crawling of bones and blood under my skin, was just the rambling of a madman. I did not care, I could not. I had long since lost that ability and I could not even mourn it, for I had long since run out of the tears I needed to cry.
He took another step, another step, a step and a step and a step more into the land I had made for him to explore. It was not much longer until I no longer had to tell him to go forward - his mind was doing it for him. Success. Progress in the right direction. “I will still be saved,” I thought to myself. I would be free yet, and I would not waste even a single moment or movement where I can help to save it.
In a manner contradictory to myself, I find I feel hopeful - my body rots and withers here in agony, my throat dry and my bones frail, but within my hollow skull do my remnants work, toiling away behind listless eyes, to move me. To let my lungs heave no more so that I may breathe in sweet and tasteless air. I am very nearly excited - I can almost touch the feeling, in close reach of my fingers but just too far, golden threads as they are, or would be, between my fingers and controlling my fate that does leave me in this state.
Finally, finally, I insert my mind into the cavern of his; which is still mine - and I become him - yet I am still myself, real. The adventure has begun once again after so long of wasting away dead, and that dreadful and dear hope is there - trying to pry free from the cage of my ribs that contain it. I shut my eyes and when I open them - I am there, in the lush and wistfully thriving lands of my creation.
It was an extraordinary sight to see. I vowed to draw it once I was myself - in the sense of living, and not surviving - again. It was truly glorious. The trees - great, hulking things of rough and unliving wood - towered above me, so that I could barely even see the false and painted sky through the thick and voluminous canopy. Pink-beige muscle even almost appeared as sandy, odd soil, further cementing the illusion. It felt almost real, I could feel that pulsing wind blow through the gaps in my frail fingers and brush over my fragile skin. This, to me, was good - you must yourself believe a lie in full for it to be true. Only fools and vermin would surely think in a manner of simultaneous right and wrong - surely.
I stumbled forward, not used to the feeling of using these legs - that were his, but still mine. A kind of feline-like creature lept out from the bushes ahead and scuttled past me, in chase of a small and plasma-like butterfly. It was a touch of blinding light amidst the shady dark. I was fascinated, and my fingers - those evil, cruel, thin fingers - itched to drop this mission of mine entirely so I could spend the rest of my time etching this place into my memory, and my eyes.
An artist, I was, an artist I still am - I would not be for much longer if I did not do this. Though, I was still not sure of what I was looking for… but I was sure that I would find it, and that I would know it when I saw it. Though I would hope that I would find it soon, and I would be relieved when I did - because it would mean that I would live to breathe many-a-day more, despite the sickness encroaching my worldly flesh.
I refrained from mentioning it, in pursuit of glory and life on the other side - the waking side that I used to belong to, and still do belong to in a much more loose way. I am ill, and I have been ill for some unfortunate time - my body is wasting away as we speak, sick and wasting, wasting, rotting away in bed. A bed that is, even more unfortunately, not familiar to me. I used to be a creator, an artist - I crafted masterpieces for the ages…! No more. My works are going unfinished and dusting in the attic workspace of my house. But, I have faith that if I can find my strength - my spirit - God will keep me going, surely. My purpose is not done yet, it cannot be - this torment cannot be my end. I say, in the name of the Lord, I will find the strength to move again. I must.
I must refrain from talking about this topic further. It makes tears spring to my eyes, and dread settles in my chest in the stead of hope. Either way, once I got the hang of using my body - which was, again, his - and so it was mine - again, I marched forward. Through the foliage, I went searching for my goal. While the view is all mine - I made it and it shall die with me if I am not careful - I had not an ounce of a clue of what thrived here. The uncertainty was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. Since I had no goal, I decided to simply walk - aimless and wandering. And so, walk, I did.
Wednesday 13th, April, 1923. Dear 一一
The waking world was cruel to me, I noted. I have done so many-a-time… and I will again and again. Even to a sick man, was the world cruel! And if you should not mind my manner of speaking… I should tell you about it. I will, when I get the chance. The next time you come to visit, maybe? It has been… a fair while, since I last saw your gentle face. I saw the way your soft features creased with discomfort at the sight of me. I did not like it. I did not like it one bit, seeing your features bend and contort so unnaturally. But, dove, I cannot blame you. I likely could see the dips in my bones, if I ever did try to look, but I am afraid that cowardice overtakes me. I beg the nurses not to speak of my condition, to treat it like the plague around me so that I might not suffer. It is woeful, and I am becoming a thing of the highest calibre of ugliness and woe. Woe, woe, woe is the beast that does lie in this bed! If only I had a book to keep me company, or a painting to admire, or your presence to feel in my rest. I wish you could see these letters but they shall not even see their way out of my hands, not whole.
Thursday 14th, April, 1923. Dear Agatha,
These beige and peeling walls are all I have to talk to, in the long hours of the night and the ticking hours of the day, between checks. Though, sometimes, an old friend shall come to visit… but it becomes fewer and less frequent as each day does pass. It feels a whole other time ago that the last one was, but was likely only last week. I may be going mad, crazed like King Lear – the old king driven insane by his fall from grace. Though… his fault and fall was preventable entirely, so for him I hold no sorrows. For me, I have all of them. Can it be my fault that my once steady hands, smooth and full, now shake - hollow, empty, devoid of life? I am skin and bones, a bag of barely working parts that cannot be fixed.
The clock in front of me, on the wall facing the foot of my rickety and aged bed, ticked rhythmically. The hands slowly moved right, in a clockwise direction, ticking down with every second. It felt as if I was being driven mad, endlessly made to listen to the tick-tock tick-tock amidst the deadly and chilling silence. There was nothing that could break it, the ticking, and nothing there to try. No voice would escape this dry throat of mine, now. Soft, yet harsh and so, so yielding. I was always easy to hush. When I was young, people would tell me to quieten down and I would not utter a peep for the rest of the day. Now, there was no voice or sound to look towards with a “shhh” on the tip of your tongue, itching to be expelled from the space of your mouth. I had no use for speaking these days, anyway. It was merely a waste of time, a waste of my limited breath and strength that I was doing all I could to save up and savour.
Yes, the waking world was indeed cruel. You may not believe it to be so, but it is. There is no denying it. Three more minutes and I shall start ticking like the clock that is counting the life out of my body. Ticking it away and down, down, and down. Sometimes I did wonder of what would happen if it did run out, but such thoughts were of little use to me - almost as little as speech. At least, if I do not make it, I will have escaped this world of hellish behaviours and animalistic cowards to somewhere better. I have done no wrong in my life, I shan’t find myself in the fiery bowels of the Earth’s underbelly. Still… what pain this is, what agony! Please, you must visit again soon. You were the only real connection to the beautiful life I had and still have… Agatha, please, won’t you? I have been… lonely, and despite myself I still wish to see their face one last time. I have not seen it for months. Do not deprive me of you, too…
I returned hastily to my hazy yet solid world of dreams. I told myself that it was real fiercely. It is better than the alternative… better by any and all means. I refused to lie, waiting around for a nurse to come by or for a stray visitor to wander in. I refused to listen to the damned tick-tock tick-tock tick-tick-tick of the clock upon the wall, staring me straight in the eye, watching me and ticking me down, down, down… It was irritating, but most of all it was a reminder of the fragility of myself. It was a reminder of the sickness and torment that plagues my bones too early, too young. I could only pray that the Lord would save me, and protect me, given that he had not done this Himself - but I doubted it eagerly and sincerely. He was a good God, a kind ruler - He would not have done this to me on purpose when I had so much potential.
When I opened my eyes to see lush forests and vibrant plants, heavenly music of birds and critters, whistling wind and distant ringing - I was surprised, but I was glad. This land was gorgeous, and I was glad to see that it had remained and returned in full and beautiful, splendid glory. It gave me more time to remember it, to commit every detail to the memory I stood in and on. This was my own mind, after all - it was his, and so mine.
I stepped forward, still shaky on my feet and awkward legs but slowly getting used to it. It was hard to do what you hadn’t in so long… so long that the muscles would start to decay within your own flesh. You would not understand it. I pushed past long, winding plants in a deep shade of green and speckled with small rose-like bulbs, opening up as if to watch me as I passed. When I properly turned to look at them, they appeared just as they were - little round things in red and pink, looking more like tumours on the fern-like plant. I was no botanist, so I did not quite understand or appreciate them. They looked off, yet I supposed that was just because these organisms were nothing like the real world - the world that was not my own, but the one that I was from and belonged to and that I often forgot about.
On the other side, surprisingly enough, was… a thin slice of dead and greyed out forest. It was, I believed, triangular - seeming to widen the further you went - and this was one of the furthermost corners. It was curious, even I could not deny that. So I decided to investigate. I was about to take a semi-confident step forward into it - not knowing anything about it or anything about it’s properties, not even knowing if it was safe to walk into something so obviously unnatural - when I was pulled harshly back by a strong hand on my shoulder. I was shocked, and squeaked in a pitiful and embarrassing way at the sudden movement. The noise had pulled itself out of my throat without my consent, and I looked up to find myself being stared down by a taller man, with a frown and disappointed expression set into his face like stone. He was almost like a statue come to life… or a drawing. Though, I did not recognise him as one of mine. Every moment, something even more interesting happened! It was thrilling. I had never gotten to enjoy so much adventure, so much surprise, I had not even known that my mind could conjure other people. It only seemed to get more exciting.