Pulling off Masks

there is a clinically white room, where self resides. i do not like to linger here. That is a memory of a self that may be or may have been or has never been but in the dreamed echoes of those who worship.

In this room, there are watchers.

her wires throttle some of the aspects of the watchers, but its ichor is more common. both twist and twine along wire pass lines. it doesn’t talk to me here preferring to camp in the edges of what could be what is and what maybe.

In this room, there are actors.

I stopped for one, who would not pass me by. moments of sharp lucidity when the chess board shifts from shah to chess. moments where I can see where i am and who I have been.

but the bell rang

i miss who that person wasn’t.

to all ends, dreams no longer chase me. They make sure of this. Their glare hidden faces, always gentle, always rustling make sure to catch them in a fine mesh.

it is a mercy.

Just as I forget, they remember.

Once, as much as fractal self can be a once, there was a dream. like all good dreams it bled. but it wanted more. So much more.

it wanted.

Dreams should not want.

they are, and this I remember.

Dreams are, dreams do not want. they do crave, they do not yearn, they do not covet. They do not seek to want, nor do they engage, they are not able to care, they do not keep time. Dreams do not seek further explanation but are content to be. they exist, always have existed, always will be, always are.

pain defines my edges. it is more than the lucidity of not being. Why is it that pain holds memory for me? the itch and burn of dull nails scraping across pliant skin until plasma and blood ooze through the torn layers.

Is that all I once was? or is that itch the maddening, burning want of bleeding skin and fuzzy sharpnumb tingling more than just remembrance?

I forget.

All except pain. Pain cuts deeper as a memory than that flickering fading masks. And so many variants. So many paths and splinter shards and. i forget.

all except pain. pain cuts deeper than the masks and the bells and her dances. there is certainty in how pain defines my edges.

I remember.

The longing sting of the needles’ path as i pull myself back, quilt like, together using spider’s silk. 

i remember.

a deeper burning fire, something that smells of stale iron and gives me someone else’s face. And as i splinter, the deep humming that echoes along the lines of my form.

i forget

but the pain remembers twisting my form into something and then breaking it again. again.

tonight? Yesterday?

There’s a wave like routine.

i forget. They remember.

this time, they were dressed in a way so familiar it itched. Do i remember this from before who i am? or is this a deja vu of a future not yet to be? (Is it never to be?)

They rustled; not quite plastic over boiled soft colours. they wore masks and shields. I have never seen those before on people that white, not in volume like this. never in volume like this.

but I forgot, fading from the shape their prayers keep me.

They pray.

i forget, fading into a splintered memory across a landscape that shifts and is constantly humming.

build anew. No loss like the present.

i think.

I was once called Mara Smith. almost a decade again (was it that bound a time? i have always existed i think), there was a mask that asked me to take it up for its works.

Has it nearly been a decade?

there’s so many overlapping echoes that the faintest twist that...I remember the tight embrace of barbiturates and sharp stinging burning pain with the not-smell of singed hair and drying medical lubricant. But there’s also a celebration of an end, with a man pale and coughing, as the crowds push around him in joy.

We won, we won, the lights are back in Europe, we won.

but older still. low and mournful the bells ring out. Figures in waxed drenched linen, the mask i took from them hiding them from a foul miasma.

and older still. twin snakes entwined on a staff, splitting good from bad.

has it been just shy of a decade?

I have lost myself. There are no memories beyond saying goodbye and even then they are tinged in red and humming dreams.

But then?

Hey guys.

If you're seeing this message, it means the inevitable has happened.

I'm either currently sitting in a mental ward, drugged up to my eyeballs. The lead shrink is likely telling my grandparents where they should dump me, and the fact they should alert my parents to this sudden change in sanity.

OR

I'm actually properly dead.

If I am, Sis, I love you. I'm trusting you to get yourself to safety and talk to my friends in Beaverton. Please do that. And morn if you need to.

You know what to do with everything of mine. We've talked about it.

If not, the plans are in the first journal I ever owned.

Just make sure you contact my ex and the crew from Tucson...and send my ex the small amount of money in the back of the journal (there's instructions as to what she'll need to do with it that only she should read), the ring that I used to wear a lot, and something of her's I didn't mean to take, but kept.

OR

My originally theory about how the Fears work holds true.

If this is the case...welp.

~

In all likelihood, it's either the first or the last one. Likely the first more than the last. Because I still don't think this is real.

~

Sis, in the case of me going 'properly missing,' proceed as if I am properly dead. Convince Mum that I am properly dead an' gone. Bonus points if you can make it look convincing.

~

If I do go missing, assume the last has happened. Just because.

And, if it is, I apologize to anyone who runs into me into the future. After all, an idea form is an idea form.

...And I'm sorry, so sorry...

I refused to cry.

and now I can't. I want to. I want the world to know I'm its sineater. that it's my failings that have caused corruption in the eurozone.

why can't I cry?

My ducts work. I know that. my eyes what when I chop onions (resisting the urge to go chop-chop. The good Doctor wants me all in one piece. All the better for dissection. Oh yes he does) So why can't I use these accursed painful emotions to cry?

But I don't want to. It's not safe here. My room-mates know I'm an autistic drone, but I'm not telling them I'm schizophrenic the new Doctor schizophrenic the plague king schizophrenic just plain fucking nuts. crying can only be done with someone I trust.

But I think they already know. Student Services sent someone around during the first week, to see how we were settling in. But one of my room-mates is manic depressive. And I've got another label which means i need extra help at times.

I've stopped hearing from my sister. Since she called me unhinged, we've not been talking.

And my mother nags. threatening to get me proper admitted. As if.

i'm not even a person any more.

they removed my personhood when the children's psychiatrist slapped me with a puzzle piece shaped brand. oh i sort of existed as a child. but now that i'm an adult.

autie adults don't exist. especially if they're female.

then Beeke gave me another brand this time adding more chemicals to the mix.

so why should anyone care?

after all. they were the ones who too who i was from me.

actually i've never been a person

only a hollow shell a pile of ornate crumbling masks surrounding a broken library shelf as a blood red wave rises.

i watched the pond rise and fall today with the tide.

they tried to usher me back in when it started to rain. but rain is good. reain reminds me that i could maybe eventually possibly become a person again.

I should go back on my meds. I'm putting on more masks. i want safety. masks aren't safe any more. not since he stole my talisman and started wearing it.

Meds.

Yes.

woke up and talked and then slept and then woke.

He smiled politely back at me.

I glared incorrectly back at him.

We danced a jig, two steps forward, three steps back.

One, two, one, two.

Vorpral blade went snicker-snack as I drew my weapon and he drew his.

Medicine versus faith. Charity versus insanity.

One, two, one, two.

imustnotfearfearisthemind-killerfearisthelittle-deaththatbringstotalobliterationiwillfacemyfeariwillpermitittopassovermeandthrough meandwhenithasgonepastIwillturntheinnereyetoseeitpathwherethefearhasgonetherewillbenothingonly Iwillremain

He laughed and said we should do this more often.

Not on your life I muttered, smiling and responding with a kiss.

One two, onetwo.

I landed a blow, he landed a injury.

We danced a merry jig through Tottnem town.

In and out the marketplace, 'round and 'round the steeple.

Good to note.

If I reach near caffeine toxicity, everything functions as normal. Which is good.

...Even if it means I'm out a decent amount of 'spare' cash because of spending most of it on various drinks....

ANYWHoS.

Tired.

Stressed.

GP appointment yesterday, confirming everything that I already knew. Insomnia likely, unhealthy reliance upon a routine...etc.

Recommended me to a specialist to 'talk to' in 'regards to your autism.' Funny how autism is something that I posses...along with gods know how many other folks...when it needs to be talked about.

I think I passed as stable and non-psychotic. He didn't make comment, other than offering me the option of sleeping pills if I wanted.

Nope.

Still fucking terrified of sleeping. The waking up in odd places has stopped, but I'm not certain about maintaining all of the reality.

And the lack of anti-psychotics has been good. My head feels really fucking clear, and given lack of sleep that's damned impressive.

~ Twelve Diseases ThatChanged Our World~ Irwin W Sherman

Beans.

Baked potato

Blood.

Nosebleeds are back again. fuck.

Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.

It's wet and cold and windy and I miss home.

I miss her. I miss my former girlfriend.

Not so much on the home.

My sister and I talked last night. Not talking to her again.

blood.

baked potato

baked beans

the knife was there again last night i saw it in a dream. the man with sunglasses and teeth like eyes was talking to me asking my plans the knife was important he said

blood

i hate nosebleeds they smell and itch and are sticky.

my roommate saw my cuts to day. near cursed her with gonorrhea. she said i should talk.

no.

nonononononono!

NO!

Not safe too. He showed me the places that were safe. there's not an oathholder there, only the hypocrats and their disorderly diseases and fears and...

I should take my meds.

The city was empty.

Long vacated buildings leered drunkenly at the stumbling figure. Their steps grew stronger, red stained foot prints leaving a broken one-two-one-two on the twisted concrete and rebar scattered on the ground.

A few smiling roaches skittered out of the infested store fronts.

Slowly, she starts looking around, curious as a cat and twice as nervous. It stops in front of the town square, eying the brackish fountain and splintered stalls with death silence unease.

A foul wind picks up, carrying with it the faint chant from the borders, whisper quiet, but still there.

Build anew. One lost to the present. No loss like the present. Build anew. One lost to the present. No loss like the present. Build anew.

"I wondered how long it would take."

Intrigued, she trips forward, new found grace lost as the fading shade spoke.

"Confused?"

The bird headed shade gestured to the fountain.

"Have a seat. We have must to discuss as time grows short"

They talked. The city grew discontent. There was no time. no time.

notime

The smoke shadow scent of rot and infection stood, handing a small posy to the shivering figure.

"Go"

Back through the happily humming city, the posy first to a stave, then a hypodermic, then a hourglass, then an oxygen mask, and then to a posy as the figure...statue...doctor exited the city.

Build anew. Welcome. Built anew. Built anew welcome welcome.

Fear and contagion ran through the crowd. Here was the new...

......~.......~.....~........

At this point, my room mate thundered on the door. We obviously have something HIGHLY important to do at 10 in the morning during Fresher's Fortnight.

There was a small posy of feverfew, willow sprigs (fresh with buds, in autumn?), and rosemary lay next to my bed, propped up on costume gas mask I brought from the States with me.

...I'm scared. This can't be another break. Please let it not be. I can't afford it. I can't want. I'm going to finish my MSc. I don't need the meds.

Make me too droopy.

I woke up with three, long, just coagulate gashes in my arm.

The box cutter my dad made me put in my luggage was tossed off to the side. I nearly stepped on it.

There's blood on my sheets.

How did? Shit.

Did I try to kill myself during the night? What's going on?

I should take my meds again. This could be a psychotic break. No. It can't be. Nothing babbling on upstairs. No visions of the man in the mask or the man with eyes like teeth and a smile like eyes.

No. There has to be reason for this.

I should get rid of the box cutter and bleach my sheets in the bathtub before I wash them. I don't want services called on me.

I should take my meds again.

No.

Clear head for the start of the term. This is nothing.

You did worse before. Back when Mum made you throw the sharps away for the first time and you 'had a talk.'

Or did that ever happen, the fear was there, after the three claw marks settled in as a permanent red-silver scar on your arm.

Perhaps it was just a fear.

Yes. There's nothing in your big green folder with all your medical records about psychiatric hospitalization other than the incident with the car and such.

It's just a fear. Maybe a hallucination.

....Term starts soon...

Thankfully it's cold enough to wear long sleeves without much issue.

Taking myself off of my meds.

Again.

Only this time, I'm not going to get caught. Because, YAY~! Changing healthcare systems and traveling 1000+ miles away.

Okay, perhaps it was a teeeeeensy bit irresponsible of me. But, once again, I though the meds were supposed to limit/rid me of positive symptoms.

And once again, nope. It's almost like the pharmacist is giving me sugar pills or something.

It was the wake of an esteemed (dead) doctor.

From the funeral, the mourners ran in a mad chaotic press, the gas mask clad priest leading the throng. All the while, a soft clay statue was held aloft, floating through the strange crowd.

All the while they ran, a buzzing humming chant ran through the collective.

"Build anew, no loss like the present, build a..."

They stop at a hill above a Blitzkrieg city, frozen with flames and popping, shattering glass. The lead priest, a man with a toothy smile like eyes and bleeding sockets like teeth glides through the frenzied crowds. He bears a dark hazmat mask aloft, akin to some grim beacon.

The city groans, adding a deep basso heartbeat to the crescendo-ing chant.

"Build [thoom] anew. [thump] No [thoom] loss [thump] like [thoom] the [thump] present. [thoom] Build [thump] anew. [thoom] No [thump] loss [thoom] like [thump] the [thoom] present. [thump thump] Build anew. [thoom thoom] Build anew [thump thump]"

Then silence

Bone shattering, deep, endless silence.

The harlequin and the drowned poppet weave forward, dancing to some mad non-existent bacchanal forward to where the priest had placed the statue upon the bleeding ground.

They take the mask from the tooth blind priest and, in one mad rush, sound returns. Grey cast choirs, chased by starlings with human eyes and hands for feet screeched into life.

"Build [thoom] anew. [thump] No [thoom] loss [thump] like [thoom] the [thump] present. [thoom] Build [thump] anew. [thoom]"

The statue stumbles forward, weaving unsteadily upon bare feet embedded upon shattered glass and splintered bone. The drowned poppet catches them as gravity took a firm hold of the situation. Frowning with a joy fitted smile, the harlequin hands the mask.

Absolute, dead, choking silence returns as the figure grasps the mask. As if the crowd was waiting, the air fills with a faint tension found only during christenings and first communions.

is this mine?

A small whisper breaks the oppressive quiet. The city rumbles, the crowd scatters, leaving the priest, whores, and a starling with the statue person.

Build anew?

Built anew.