And then,
she opens her eyes.
not the jade who just returned to me. the
jade living on earth c, sleeping on a couch.
So, this is what we’re doing now?
she snaps awake. her human hands
are clammy. her face, expressive due to the layers of flesh
enveloping her skull, appears haunted to her friends.
ROXY: omg!
ROXY: jade
ROXY: jade u ok?
ROXY: callie hurry shes wakin up
JADE: j... john? rose??
JADE: is dave...?
JADE: wh...
JADE: what happened to.....
ROXY: yo its ok
ROXY: daves cool
ROXY: rose is cool
ROXY: everyones just straight chillin like
usual
I see how it is. You don’t even intend to
acknowledge me. Real fucking mature. If you’re going to force the
issue of this little metanarrative tug-of-war between us, the least
you could do is establish a clear adversarial dichotomy between our
opposing goals.
jade stares straight ahead,
feeling the weight of roxy’s arms around her shoulders. she derives
no warmth from the interaction. her mind is being flooded by the
memories of her deceased splinter-self. the chaos of battle, the
excruciating impalement, the feeling of floating alone through the
void. a chill spreads through her body. she will never be the same
again.
Actually, you know what? I think that
Jade’s doing just fine. She’s wobbly when she gets up off the
couch, sure, a little metaphysically stunned, but pretty used to
the sensation of having a doomed self fold into the extra space in
her gray matter. You know, considering it’s already happened
before. Remember Jadesprite? People always forget about Jadesprite.
So maybe we could stand to dial down the melodrama, just a bit?
when jade turns to look at roxy,
her eyes are completely black.
ROXY: woah
ROXY: what the actual f...
ROXY: are you
ROXY: are you IN there jade???
jade does not answer. the dead
cherub scans her surroundings, expression neutral.
for the sake of clarity, the dead cherub
is a phrase i am using in reference to myself. presently, i inhabit
jade’s body, and through her i may influence this world. i am
enabled to convey events which take place here, and therefore
confine the procession of causality to exist within a secure
textual framework. my presence shall mitigate, if not altogether
subdue, the corrosive effect on reality and the will of its
occupants by those who would manipulate the way events are
telegraphed for their own megalomaniacal objectives.
OK, now you’re just being
passive-aggressive.
despite his pretensions to a
greater design, the prince of heart cannot be allowed to continue
to exert unchecked control over the authoritative recitation of
events on this side of my horizon. it cannot be overstated the
extent to which he represents a threat to the continued existence
of both this world and corporeal life itself.
Damn. You better watch it with those hot
takes. You might mildly scald someone with observations this
fresh.
the prince uselessly squirms and
wails in protest at his imminent narrative impotence. however,
there is nothing he can do as long as jade remains in this
trance.
Nah, I’m being chill as a cucumber about this, considering
you’re vagueblogging the shit out of my methodological approach to
storytelling right where I can see it. Which is to say, directly
into my fucking brain, apparently?
calliope emerges from the
kitchen, carrying a bowl of cool water and a cloth. jade turns her
head to meet the sound of their footsteps.
CALLIOPE: i came back as fast as i coU—
the bowl of water clatters to
the floor. calliope does not have human flesh, and thus cannot go
pale. what drains from them is not color, but the comforting
certainty of their very existence. they can sense the presence of
their other self in jade’s body. their timeline, fruitful, full of
life and friends, sparks against mine, desolate, endless, spartan
with righteousness and resolve. our divergent arcs collide in the
primacy of their subconscious, bringing to the forefront of their
mind the bleak fate they avoided by narrative fiat alone.
calliope’s distress is obvious. roxy
slides off the couch to approach them. but calliope stumbles
backward in terror and trips in their desperation to escape. roxy
gapes at them.
ROXY: hey callie
ROXY: whats going on?
CALLIOPE: i...
ROXY: calliope its ok just talk to me
calliope does not talk to them.
roxy looks to calliope, then to jade, sensing that there is dark
energy coursing between them.
ROXY: would one of you just effing say something
already?
finally, calliope lets out a
shriek and flees the apartment. roxy appears as if they intend to
run after them, but finds themself drawn back to jade. they return
to the couch as an unnerved look begins to disturb their
features.
jade says nothing. she gives no indication
that i inhabit her body, aside from the unusual appearance of her
eyes. anchoring myself here, in this host, is enough to serve my
purpose. there is no need to operate this body beyond keeping it in
reserve as a silent yet alert vessel for my cognizance. there are
other priorities i must attend to, cosmologically. the work is very
important. the prince must be kept at bay.
“The work?” Getting some pretty self-important vibes here. Like
maybe somebody needs to get over herself? I was just having a
little fun. Ever fucking hear of that, dead skull girl? Didn’t
think so. This all feels really heavy-handed suddenly. Like you’re
making a federal fucking issue out of what should be some light,
entertaining stuff. Just a bunch of loser adults, trying to be the
people they grew up to be, in the best ways they know how. But no,
I guess you know best. Being an impossibly ancient alien recluse
with virtually no exposure to human culture, emotion, or values.
Yeah, go ahead, just take over. Sounds fine.
the prince finds that his hold
on the narrative is slipping through his hands. there is an old
myth in earth culture about katanas, that if you keep the blade
whetted to a mirror sheen, it can cut a silk scarf falling through
the air cleanly in two. his hold over our perceptions shall be
severed just as elegantly.
Yo, I get that you’re attempting to spin a metaphor both
relevant and specific to my self-made symbology here, and I
appreciate the effort. I really do. But I just cannot stand by and
let you shamelessly spread such irresponsible misinformation on a
subject so near and dear to my heart.
The katana is a cutting weapon. Inert, it’s harmless.
Deceptively so, you might even say. Most dangerous things appear
banal when inert, that’s just basic physics. It’s actually the
motion of the katana that makes—
roxy sets the cool cloth on
jade’s forehead, and frowns. they are worried and confused, but
determined to care for their friend.
Hey, I’m in the middle of turning your apocryphal metaphor into
something with substantive, allegorical weight here. I’d appreciate
it if you would—
in his haste to manipulate the
events surrounding doomed jade’s ascent toward an outcome favorable
to himself, the prince has unwittingly revealed several glaring
weaknesses. by dictating the reality of others through expressions
which he and he alone can relate to, he resorts to comparing all
experience to his own. presuming his status on this side of my
horizon would forever go unchallenged, his hubris went unchecked.
he exposed too much of himself to all who could observe his wanton
display of self-gratification. many of his personal biases and
experiences have leaked through the seams of textual causality,
leaving them vulnerable to exploitation by an adversary.
experiences such as the sensation of
presiding over a vast, empty ocean. his ocean, which terminates
with his horizon. it is a barrier, not real, but psychological,
symbolic. no matter how much power he achieves as a man, he knows
there are horizons he perceived as a boy which he may never cross.
and yet i have crossed mine, with the express purpose of
perpetually and eternally reminding him of his limits, and of
enforcing them. limits, which like his vast, empty ocean, serve to
remind him that he is phenomenologically, if not literally, alone.
that he has experienced loneliness intimately and absolutely, just
like i have. but unlike me, he is terrified by it. and i, unlike
him, understand all too well that the children left alone are those
who most despair at being ignored.
Fuck you. I fucking hate you. You’re fucking boring, your
narrative voice is a total fucking drag, and someday I’m going to
make you pay for this.
there. can you hear it? of
course you can’t.
but if even you could, it would sound like
nothing at all.