Prologue
In the fraught tides of space the door hinges of one particular door rotate endlessly without cause. In one smooth, continuous motion they both spin around their own axis and float lazily towards the direction they’ve been set. It would almost seem the motion from the continual centripetal rotation is propelling the door through space, though it is not. Whatever that place it is gliding towards, that cardinal north, south, east, or west, remains irrelevant in the endless inhale of space. The door is maple, with hand-carved circular flourishes on the margins on its edges, and four depressed panels of rectangular shape near the center. Its handle is one of rusted brass, certainly in worse condition than the wood due to its more frequent use. The space that palms have gripped on the handle can be distinguished from the rest of the dry gold metal. The door rotates around its center hinge so that it would appear as a circularly rotating line from above, tracing a circle. The door is content in its vague direction.
1
As the right side of my head leans against the hood of my sweatshirt, that itself is pressed against the top of a couch cushion, I feel that familiar throbbing in my left temple. It occurs frequently whenever I’m in the position of losing excessive sleep over an extended period, yet I often miss it when it’s gone. I move my head back and forth, on and off the cushion, to a waxing and waning posture of my neck, and frequent cracks accompany any particularly extreme degree of movement. On one of these occasions, a slightly irregular movement of my head causes the folding of my ear against the cushion, in such a way that it remains folded when the side of my head hits the cushion, the top half of my ear folding over the rest and into my hood like a rigid yoga mat. I feel compelled both ways, to both move my head off and immediately to escape this condition, and to remain in my latent state to escape any sort of unfavorable change that may come of such resistance, though I was not exactly sure of what sort of change it is that I fear. Ultimately, neither moves me to action. Of course, I realize that this sort of indetermination is choosing the action of inaction inadvertently, and of course I realize this. If I had previously a nightmare of my ear being sewn off, perhaps it would have moved me to action sooner.
Growing uncomfortable with the potency of the decision that remains in front of me, I decisively moved my head off the cushion and to an upright position. On the wall opposite the couch, there stood a wall with two eyes of dueling windows, a television for a nose, and a fireplace for a mouth. The windows are rectangular with double cross-guards, and a large center panel separating the two halves, so that one window appears to be two. My head inclined me towards the upper left eye, though moonlight could be vaguely seen shining though, certainly more than the right eye, which I confirmed after checking. Through the total darkness, I could vaguely recognize the stairs to the next floor on my right side periphery. The light shone down to only about halfway down the flight, but I figured that the waves spread as to light the whole room to a much more significant degree than I could have figured, and that the room would be considerably more illuminated by darkness should the light be turned off. I vehemently wished that the light could be turned off. This trance of longing caused me to stare at that flight of stairs for the next six hours.
It was now midnight, and my father and sister had gone to bed without so much as a word to me, entirely expected and curated by my previous sharp interactions with them, which I had curated throughout this day specifically for this silence. I grab my phone and flip it in my palm so it remains upright in my right hand, before switching it to my left. As I climb up the wooden stairs in my white socks to the mezzanine, I take a carefully practiced look at myself in the bathroom mirror that is visible though a brief hallway directly in front of the stairs. I look at myself in a manner delayed enough to be able to be sufficiently studied, but not lingering enough to delay any complete denial of my own ego. I switch my phone back to my right hand as my left grips the railing of the stairwell up to the first floor.
My socks march and slide among the wooden planks that make up the floor, and I make my way across the first floor of the house towards the staircase up to the second floor, caring not to take the staircase that continues directly above the stairs from the basement.
I take my first few steps up the carpeted steps, blue and white alternating fluffy stripes cover this set. I pause at the platform halfway up for an intermission. I continue to glide across the smooth and almost greasy wooden floors that similarly accompany the second floor, as they did the first, and make my way to the opposite side of the house again to the side where I started. I come upon the top of the stairs that descend directly down to the basement. I glance over the edge of the railing and widen my eyes at the gap that opens between the stairwells all the way to the bottom floor of the house. I watch the gap fade in and out of perspective as I lean my head forwards and backwards over the railing. I turn to my right and open the glass door to the balcony, the handle to which is so rigid as to never close entirely, only cracking more and more closed when pushed to the point of satisfaction of the closer.
I slide through the small gap I have created for myself in the doorway and step out onto the ice plastered stone balcony and look out at the night sky as I feel the shocking, sharp wind in my eyes, gluing them open. I suddenly recall an aching uncertainty I had felt in my stomach earlier, but it was not potent enough to change a thing that I intended on doing. I precariously grip the underside of the roof as I leverage my left foot onto the railing. I continue to hold on to the roof as I balance both my feet on the iron black rail. I grab onto a thin pipeline sticking out on top of the roof and use the same method to climb on top of it. As my socks scrape against the sharp shillings that line the top, I steady myself and stand full and tall. I move over to the closest ledge, one not over the balcony, I take a deep breath, and step off. The moment doesn’t feel like forever, but as my body flips and I fall headfirst, I catch a glimpse of the left eye window, and through it I see myself on the couch, with my ear folded and pressed against the cushion.
2
My eyes flash open and I am staring at myself. I let loose a guttural scream, tears ran down my cheeks, primal shivers down my spine, and I quiver in fear. I awaken with my head inches away from his, positioned as to be staring directly into his frozen open eyes, as he is crouched over forwards slightly with arms slacked to his side. It is the sort of terror even just the act of imagination may instill with great effect. His eyes are wide and forever, green and sunburst among the darkness. As I back up, I find it hard to take my eyes off him, perhaps in the fear that he may jump on me while I am not looking. He wears the same outfit I did as when I leaped off the roof of my house.
To my collapsing relief, as I move and circle around him, I realize that he is static and stuck, and I am free to observe my surroundings as my mannequin remains near to me. As I become sweaty an overwhelming need washes over me. I trudge through the darkness back over to him, and notice that he is emanating the only light that allows any semblance of sight in this void. I attempt to stomp on the ground, and I hit nothing, yet my foot remains locked on its current plane. Perhaps we are falling. There is no object of reference to be able to tell. I walked back over to my double, as full of life and unblinking as ever. I kicked him in the balls. He doubles over and goes limp, following the submissive path of one who would usually suffer such an injury, yet without any life-like resistance or retaliation. It is as if a rag doll, who was so carefully placed into an upright and stable position, has been hit by a massive impact.
On the ground, I inspected his body to make sure of its exact resemblance. It was perfect; it was me. I took a step back and moved over to the side of his head. I started kicking the left temple as hard as I could. Before I noticed the bruising and cracking in the side of his skull, I noticed the disfigurement of my right foot. My big toe was bent over itself, with the front side of my toe, usually on the bottom of my feet, being visible to me as it was bent over backwards. My other toes were crossed over themselves, with bone sticking out as branches stick out from the trunks of trees. My second and third toes were completely crossed over each other, being twisted around themselves like two snakes around a pole, and my pinky was nearly falling off its base at my foot. Inconvenienced, I had to start kicking with the blunt bottom top of my foot, resorting to more of a stomp as I turned the body over so that the left temple was facing up, so I could thump downwards more effectively.
I must have been pounding away at his head for hours, as I was almost completely through the skull and to the brain when I decided that I was almost finished. Once I got to the brain, I cracked the other inside edges of the skull in order to widen the hole, and started jumping up and down gleefully in the gooey insides of his now bowl-shaped skull, much as a child hops like a rabbit in puddles on a rainy day. Once the remaining fragments were sufficiently scattered, I found that with a little more kicking and shattering, I could fit my face inside of the split open side of his skull, much like stacking bowls. I laid on top of myself, and stuck my face into the crevice that I had created, and closed my eyes in satisfaction. I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the form that was my own, and felt the two sides of hell that led through pleasure to pain, and I took the first step with my deformed right foot, and bent ear.
3
I awoke blinking my eyes rapidly, as a snowflake had landed intrusively inside my eye. I raised my right elbow to my side and steadied my hand on the snowy ground, which seemed so deep as to encompass the depth of my entire body. Using my right hand as leverage, I raised my left elbow and hand, and sat up. I found myself naked in the snow, only aware of my legs’ presence by their numb feeling, and not by their sight, as I found them to be entirely covered in a flaky white blanket. My breath solidified as it came out and my hair was entirely immobile; I felt bare and scraped empty. As I continued to blink rapidly to shake the frost off my eyelids, I looked around at what encompassed me. Similarly bare trees and mountain backgrounds shaped my backdrop, and backdrop seemed to be a quite literal description. As I focused on the scenic mountain scenery in the distance, I found that it may be completely just a backdrop, two-dimensional. As I narrowed my eyes at each pillar of wood, each one seemed to be perfectly made and constructed, with each flaw and deviation perfect in their intention of imperfection.
I thrusted one knee up, and steadied both hands onto my right thigh, one overlapping the other, and pushed myself onto my feet. As I drew closer to the set in the background, it seemed to get further and further away, and so I was never able to confirm my hypothesis of its synthetic nature. I punched a perfect tree in frustration. As I ambled back to the clearing where I had initially found myself, I found a long wooden cabin was now in the blank space’s place, centered precisely over where I had woken up. With purple rapidly setting all over my bare body, I rushed towards the door to the cabin in desperation as soon as I saw it, practically diving for the handle. This elated reunion with comfort was elevated with the sight of a couch and a fireplace as I slammed the door shut behind me. I noticed that the cabin had no windows, all though I remembered them being present when viewing the cabin during my earlier grasping flight towards the door. This was not a fact I took too much intricacy in the consideration of.
I fell into the couch and took effort in warming myself as efficiently as possible with respect to the flame. I found that the cushions were already warm, so with my remaining energy, I pushed the couch towards the fire and ensured that it was as close as possible without any sort of burning that could take place as a result of the protruding of flames. I rapidly passed out, and woke up a blanket around my body and lips on mine.
I opened my melting eyes and stared into hers, inquisitive. She led my eyes with her finger and gently scraped my forehead, and I was filled with memories, memories of our coincidental first meeting, memories of the shared interests and past experiences that made us so exceptional together, and memories that suggested we were destined for each other. I was convinced, and spent the rest of my life with her in that cabin, never bothering to venture outside to explore the two-dimensional landscape or the perfect trees, never to question my circumstance or who I was. I never considered breaking into another house, or to break from my sleep walk. I waddled happily and blindly through my life until the end. On the last day of my life I remained as feeble as I was that first day in this snow, as my body had neared its purple end in the blizzard. That couch had kept me for years on end now, but I wanted to be kept no longer. My paper thin joins buckled under my own force as I bit my cheek until it bled, stimulating my body enough to allow me to stand. My white limbs cracked and shattered under my body’s weight, supported by knees lacking conviction. With my last bit of strength, I lunged forward towards the doors, turning the handle mid-fall, and with a smile on my face I felt my head crack on the cold concrete floor outside, and I breathed my last breath, free.
4
My eyes twittered and flickered, opening to view a road in the desert. I felt power and detached, and it was as if I could be anywhere on the road I desired. The road was homogenous, an endless asphalt path stretching as far into the past and as far into the future as I could attempt to comprehend. Distinguishing features and landmarks littered the road, but I saw no point in traveling along an endless road to encounter endlessly unique, yet pointless, features.
I existed only as a cracked skull, a bent ear, and a broken foot, and I hated everything. For each new wonder I came across, I growled in contempt and disgust, upturning my lip knowing that each awe-inspiring cliff or cave would never be accompanied by an end to the road, a split to it, or a detour. Never had I been filled with such animosity and rage, and with my complete and omnipresent perspective, I ravaged each site of beauty I came upon, exploding arches and devastating cliffs. As I did, I felt myself become more and more grounded, with more sweat collecting over my forming face and figure.
I felt that burning asphalt on my feet, the fury and fullness of the arid landscape on my face and all over my body. I felt my sweatshirt and its hood weigh heavily upon me, and the very last thing I wanted was to take them off. I wanted to feel it all, and I savored every oasis I came across, every rest along this road. I sat down on the edge of an improbable mid-desert pool of sparkling clear blue water and rejoiced. I soaked my feet and dried them, and I did this over and over, hundreds of times. The wonder and wetness of the water never lost potency, nor did the initial relief of soaking. I rejoiced and praised a new sensation each time.
I found that when I bathed along the banks of a river that I found after walking along the road, my foot began to reshape itself. My big toe slowly readjusted itself into place, and no pain coursed through my foot. My second and third toes slowly untwisted themselves. My pinky held itself up and reattached itself completely to my foot. My ear, that had been pushed down by some invisible and impossible pressure, was no longer so weighed down, and rose to its peak once again. My head slowly repaired itself, and I found love in the world again. I cried and laughed for hours, and days, and forever, and I journeyed towards where I was supposed to, knowing my destination was all but set. I stopped, and considered, and broke into houses, and kissed more, and dreamed more, and stared at the stars.
As I went along, I started leaving my own landmarks. I planted orchards and orchards in the fields made fertile by the tears I had cried about things I was no longer sad about. I wrote the initials of hopeful lovers on their bark with a knife. I threw things towards both horizons of the road, far into the future and endlessly into the past, in the hope that whoever receives them will recognize that someone sent them, that another person had. I grew old along that road, and pursued the side of the road for a walking stick. I took my time looking for a stick, and did not look at the stars when I was making my decision, as I knew they were made of the same stuff. I reached my destination one day, a point along the road where I knew I could go on no longer. I had always thought the dessert was completely barren before my own restorative impact, but on that day, in that spot, I found a healthy and colossal oak along the side of the road. The rough, rocky dirt gave way to lush, tall, and green grasses. Sitting among these patches of life, like a face with eyes squinted and smile warm as it looks up into the sun, sat the oak. Though for a moment I was utterly confused as I was positive I had not planted it, I doubled over in laughter when I realized someone else had, that another person had. With the voice of joy still on my breath, I approached the oak and leaned my hand near the base to steady myself down. I rested my back against the somehow soft bark. I did not smile and did not cry, and that is how I died.