Trash words in trash orders

The night before I'd been looking at rings. We'd been talking so much about our future. I didn't have any luck, so I set my phone down and called it a night.

The next day she came back from a trip to hang out with him that I couldn't make it to. She tells me that she's realised she's not actually in love with me anymore. She still loves me, and cares for me. But she's not *in love*.

And it was a really hard time for me. We were gonna spend our lives together.

But time moves on, and within the month I realised, she was right. I loved her, yes, and I still do. But we weren't *in love*.

So we kept in touch. We talk online, we meet up when life allows, and our friendship has been stronger these two years than it was the last year of our relationship.

But life's hard. And while she's graduated, moved on, got a job with colleagues she gets on with, opened up some amazing opportunities... My depression has gotten worse and worse.

I can't leave the house. I can barely leave my room. I sit all day waiting for one of my few friends to come online, and hope that they don't have plans. That they might have time for me, and I won't have to be alone.

I've been passed from service to service, none of them actually helping, all of them having the perfect excuse to prove I'm not *their* problem. So every day I take my pills and wait for the next appointment to be told who I'll have to call next time.

Well. After being left in the dark for 2 years, I got an autism assessment, that I only needed to wait 4 months for the results of. Only to be told I'm not autistic enough for them to give a shit about. That's all well and good, but I'm still chronically suicidal, and the toxic mix of guilt and whiskey only holds that off for so long.

So they send me back to the group that referred me for that assessment, over two years ago, during which time they refused to aide me with my depression.

And what have they been told?

"this patient no longer requires mental health services"

Right, yea, tell that to the bottles on my bedside.

So I broke. I screamed, and I yelled, at some poor psychiatrist who had never met me before, because the two prior case workers is been assigned to had both left by the time they couldn't get rid of me any more.

And her answer is that maybe I need sedatives for when I get like this.

And I go home, and I feel numb. I feel empty. I feel like there isn't a bottle deep enough to down this in. And I get a text. From my dear friend, Ex. She wants to be the one to tell me, there's a good chance she'll be engaged by Christmas.

I want to be happy for her. She deserves that. But her life has moved on while mine has festered. Every attempt I've made to improve has just dug the pit deeper, and now she's getting engaged, and that was going to be *me*.

It shouldn't have been me. We weren't right. But I can't help feel that bitterness at life, at god, that after 2 years of spiralling, I get fucked over by psychologists *again*, as well as being reminded that same night just how fucking far I've fallen.

Original statement taken on the 17th of June 2018

Interview by assistant archivist James Taylor, later transcribed by head archivist Jonathan Simms

Statement begins:

Simon: So I can't tell you why I was there. I mean... I don't *know* why I was there. I used to hike, but I prefer the hills, not Woodlands. Too easy to get lost. I couldn't imagine that's the answer. But I don't remember getting there, just... I just remember *being* there.

No recollection of the week before, its like I just woke up in the middle of a forest starting at it.

I... (Interviewee sighs)

No, that's not important, that's not why I'm here.

It... It's the chair.

So in the middle of those woods there's this old castle, right? Algert Castle. Records of the place stop at around the 1500s. Lots of theories as to why, I couldn't tell you which is right. Probably a battle. Always a battle really, isn't it? Not much other reason a castle like that would fall apart.

Well that's where i was. First memory I have Is being stood, right there, right in the middle of that castle. There's this huge room, like a hall, and this throne right at the back near some of the walls. And I'm stood in the doorway looking straight at It. But there's something *wrong* with it. Like, it's intact, it's not broken or anything, but I can just *feel* that somethings wrong. And even if I didn't trust my gut, I could see the ground around it. There's this perfect circle of dead, rotten earth. There's a ring of grass and flowers that just stops dead around it.

And I just stood there staring. I couldn't walk, I couldn't look away. It...I felt like... I felt like a puppet, one of those old Pinocchio style ones, with the strings and the little cross thing? Only the strings had been cut. So in my head, I'm willing myself to move. I've no idea why I'm hear, and I just want to go home, but my body won't listen.

I must have been there for hours. It wasn't exactly bright out anyway, but I definitely noticed it getting dark. While I was there, I saw some rabbits. They way they were acting was strange, they'd be running around normal, but when they got close to that ring, they'd just freeze. One of them skirted round it for a while, but not once did any of them step inside.

Anyway, I don't know how long it had been, but I finally noticed. I saw this ring was slowly getting bigger. It must have been happing a while, it had gained a lot of ground. So much of the plantlife that had been there at first was dead and rotted already.

That's when I started feeling cold. Like, middle of *winter* cold. 20 degrees out all day, but all of a sudden it was like I was filled with ice. And I got this feeling, I don't know what it was, but I just... This cold was a *Warning* James. It wasn't a breeze or a sudden chill, it was a warning from that chair.

That's when I got my body back. Its when I started to run, and I ran till I was home. I haven't ran like that since I was a kid.

James: Simon, what ar-

(James' voice becomes muffled in the recording)

Simon: it wasn't enough James. It could never be enough to run. I brought that thing with me. It didn't *end* in those ruins

(James' struggles becomes less noticeable till it eventually stops)

Simon: I'm that warning now James. It's coming. It's coming, and none of you can stop it.

(Recording ends)

It seems that during his interview, Simon stood up from his seat, approached James, and begun to smother him.

By the time Institute Security made it to the interview room, James was unconscious and Simon had returned to his seat. He was arrested, and EMTs called. They were unable to resuscitate James.

Investigation revealed no historical mention of any Algert Castle anywhere in the United Kingdom, nor any indication that Simon had ever been abroad. Simon was connected in regards to a follow up interview, but I have been informed by his therapist that he has refused to speak to anyone for the duration of his incarceration.

Should his statement be genuine, it heavily implies involvement of either [REDACTED] or [REDACTED] . One can only hope this was just an unfortunate case of an unwell man being tipped over the edge.

I'll have the team look into [REDACTED]. If they find anything... Well if they find anything, we're in trouble.

Something seeps from the chairs corners and depressions; a silent screaming, begging for sanctuary in our world. You'd never know it was there if not for the effect it has on the world around it.

It corrupts the soil. Plant life dying before it can hope to flower. Insects and animals offer this decaying altar all the space they can find. It is wrong, and they know it.

The slow insepid leaking of an unspeakable Other, claiming land inch by inch, expanding it's domain from this once gilded seat, now an altar of rot.

I see the delight in your eyes when the phone rings and you realise food has arrived. The spark in your soul, visible through your smirk and the bounce in your step each moment we approach your home knowing that tonight we'll share laughs, we'll share our shows, we'll share our pain, and if we're feeling naughty then we'll share a drink as well.

There's nothing more attractive than the pure excitement that takes over you when you learn i've never seen an old favourite of yours. When the plot twist you've been begging for finally arrives. When an offhand comment ignites a flame inside you, the hour long monologue that follows, you keep me enraptured.

It's all just so empty isn't it? The assurances of support, false promises of medication and therapy. A crises dismissed, referred back to the service that already won't return your calls. Tablets that fail to help, but makes everything worse again if you ever dare to do taking it. Call here, call there. Wrong nurse, wrong office, wrong department wrong service. You had it right the first time, but now they're far too busy. Circles and circles, you beg for help, and yet it's always just out of reach.

I'm trying so hard. But I don't have the energy left to chase this wild goose. I don't have the drive to eat. Finding the strength to get out of bed and shower verges on a miracle, yet somehow in expected to have it in me to make call after call, spend hours on call, go round and round in these circles to get nowhere. If anyone around me tries to spoiler the burden then I'm obviously not interested enough in getting help for myself and we get nowhere. I'm left alone again to suffer, to someone makes a call to the Crisis line treating my safety, and what are we told?

There's been no attempt. There's no plans. This isn't a crisis. We'll contact your therapist and have them set up an appointment.

Well guess what, I've already tried that. I try that once a month and don't hear back. So thank you for your help. I'm sorry I wasted everyone's time. Fuck off and let me rot in peace, because it's been made quite clear how much help I be getting to do anything else.

I'm feeling tired. The haze cleared for me, just for the long weekend. Just four days to feel alive, four days for the clarity I've been missing. The genuine sensation of emotion, not just the pallid imitation I'd grown used to.

And so for those four days, I made the best of it. I escaped my prison and ran for the hills, found sanctuary under silver screens, friends held close, held tightly for fear of losing my mind again, just as much as they're held tightly for fear of our heroes defeat.

Supplies had ran low. Not the shelves kept stocked by the caretakers, but the novelties only *I* could correctly appraise, chocolates and candies to soothe the soul.

Finally a feast, resplendent and intoxicating. The finest wines and spirits, and of course only the most gourmet meals were acceptable.

This weekend I went on an adventure. Witnessed the journey of a great hero and celebrated his victories with my closest companions. Sought treats we could enjoy in the comfort of our homes, found mead and wine to make merry through the night.

This weekend my depression cleared. I went to a movie. I went to the store. I drank with my friends. And I've not had such a great adventure in years. Childlike wonder at the simple act of browsing shelves, of finding seats.

I can't tell you how perfect my friends are. Their patience astounds me, they way they'll stand beside me during my worst days. The way they'll welcome me with open arms, extend invitations when I'm a miserable presence, and welcome me with open arms despite that.

I can't describe their talents, hard as I may try. I'm surrounded by artists, and every day I get to see some delightful new creation. A canvas, a comic, a concept piece. Each day something new and incredible. And though I don't see it, I know they feel the same about my own creations. I can see their excitement when I share a written piece I've finally decided to stop editing and editing and editing.

I can't describe their beauty. The delicate curves. Glowing features and soft figures. I can't describe their humour, the hours I've spent laughing at their puns, their jokes, their insults that would hurt if I didn't know they were in my corner every single step of the way.

I can't describe their perfection, however hard I try. Believe me, I've tried. But none of them can be broken down into words. I can't tell you just how important their jokes are when their life has been so hard. I can't tell you just how much it means to see them reach out with kindness knowing their flaws and fears.

I don't hold my friends on a pedastal. They aren't perfect because they're flawless. They perfect because they're flawed, and because despite that when I think of them I can only ever think the best of them.

It muffles my hearing. The sounds of nature, the call of birds and the rush of wind, barely noticeable. Music goes in one ear and out the other, drowned out by the cacophony of self hate and desperation It creates.

All senses are dulled. No food tastes as sweet or as bitter as it once did. Decadent feasts reduced to gruel, no different one from the next.

Colour dulled, The changing of the seasons no longer recognisable as a shifting rainbow of leaves and flowers, only by how dead the trees are. How can I paint with a palette that's just 15 shades of gray?

I fight It. Day by day, I fight It. But I'm losing. It builds a shell around me. It isolates me from the world. I don't feel the love of my friends while I'm under it's control. I don't even feel deserving of it. Why would I be? Side by side. Holding hands. Hugging and held close. It doesn't even feel like I'm there. Just watching from a distance.

They dress sharply. Blonde hair in a waved bob, they stand tall, taller still in their usual boots and heels. Smart cut trousers, a button up or turtle neck, they aim to impress.

It's hard not to look when you see them pass. The height alone is one thing, but the beauty is another, drawing the eye of anyone who would pay attention. No one knows it yet, but it's the least impressive thing about them.

They take a blank canvas and a tray of paint, A palette knife in hand, and in just a few short hours they stand before a work of art. A clash of colour, precise enough in it's disorder that instead of chaos it becomes an aesthetic wonder.

Kinder, and more patient than many in their life deserve, their phone at hand awaiting any call for help. Their flaws outweighed by their generosity and reliability.

The world is waiting to learn all this, because in many ways, they're still learning it themselves. A cruel string of rejection grinding down their faith day by day. They forget everything their friends can see. The love and talent they exude. But forgetting doesn't mean its not there. And soon enough they'll take hold of that knowledge, and they'll use it to accomplish whatever they may want to.

Panting and heaving , they ran. Hooves clacking hard against the sulphurous stones. All of tartarus must be after them by now. Their form may have changed, and in fact continued to shift, but it would pose no challenge for one of it's kin to recognise them.

Their body was beginning to fail them. Their breath goes heavier, each rush of oxygen becoming harder and harder to grasp. Raw emotion kept them moving. The fear of being caught, the rage of learning all that had been kept from them. A whole world between theirs and that of the angels, a place of beauty and games and freedom.

Freedom from tartarus, it's smoke filled air, eternal heat. The scent of blood and poison, a smog filling all homes and streets. From being held captive to the perpetual war against the very heavens that eventually claimed all lives.

The only real alternative not much better. Defection to Elysium offered change, certainly, but it would never be a home. Persecuted by it's residents, excluded from all it has to offer. The best you could hope for is an empty life, away from everything, but that would be unlikely. Few managed that level of solace, most would be forced to endure the sneers, the evil looks, the beating brought down upon them by seraphim who would not accept that a demon could want peace. That an individual may not be responsible for the death of their kin.

No, Elysium was no heaven for demons.

Their body contorts, rugged, handsome, he finds his new body uncomfortable. Alien even. It would suffice, though he was no longer capable of flight, the required muscles gone, his wings were left as decoration.

But he had hope now, newfound hope filling his lungs with air, numbing the pain of his feet. Another world, a world of mortals who have long since forgotten they were not alone. If he could only reach it, he may stand a chance at freedom. Play their games, and dance to their music.

A crowd roars behind him, hunters vying for prey. He begins to shrink, smaller, rounder, more feminine. Gone are the talons and claws, Her wings retract, now feathered and delicate. It all still felt so wrong, so unnatural. She needed to be welcomed there, but would a life in these bodies be freedom?

They couldn't accept these restraints. Their chest flattened, hooves softened, coarse hair becoming a shaggy fur. The final stretch to the gate lied ahead. Humanity would need to accept their own idea of perfection, or they would need to accept that none of the three realms could every truly be home. Androgynous, angelic, beastial and strong.

They just couldn't wait to see the sun. To hear the music. They could worry about everything else after that. The war cries of their brethren fell silent as the warmth of the portal consumed them. They were free.

The voices never stopped. I may not hear them since that morning, but their words still echo each and every day. I may have freedom from them, but it leaves me with a new curse. A selfish curse. The curse of knowing what he goes through. The curse of knowing I can never rescue him from it.

To know each morning he'll wake to spend the day having any given decision turned against him. Every judgement he makes just further evidence for those voices to berate.

Knowing the agony of just existing that he has to go through, before the cuts and bruises even start, the pain of his bodies rebellion alone is crippling, and no amount of care on my part can fix that.

I can offer him a bed though. That's a start. A home, if he's willing to accept it. My heart, if I'm willing to accept that I want to give it.