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hello. Is this a bad time?
I scratch it until it bleeds, until there’s nothing left of me.
They hold the knife out toward the formless dark, toward the red light shrouded somewhere within it.
I won’t let you walk away yet.
I take those steps as a fucking threat.
The blade is dull.
You displace the host; there is no defense.
They lunge inward, the knife raised in their left hand, driving it toward the malicious object in the glass.
The reflection lunges with them.
The blade turns against flesh.
Force your exit; take the pain away.
Tell me why I’ve heard this all before.
When you do this again and again and again,
it bears witness to your hate.
The eyes of the child see no wrong.
Only then does their own visage come into focus.
The metal falls into the ceramic basin beneath the running water. Their right hand trembles, fingers curling stiffly inward.
Oh God, please tell me it’s not happening again.
Tears arrive shortly after, and then the burning. They fall to their knees, their free hand dragging down the sleeve and pressing the cloth into the gash. They double over, chest to linoleum, coughing violently and sniffling. “Help me,” they eke out, clamping their wounded wrist between their knees. “Do anything at all, please.” Loud, terrible sobbing.
“Mom…” they say, dry-mouthed and low. “Mom…” Their legs contract. A loud cough. A shudder. A cold call from the other side. A long, quiet nothing.
Water meets blade, blood meets drain. There is nothing and nobody else.
Admit one.
They breathe slowly, cheek pressed to the tile, eyes wide and glassy, everything around them gray and abstract. Pain blooms along the left half of their body. Falling onto the tile hurt more than they expected.
This sweater is shot. You can’t wear it anymore. They look down, examining the blood-soaked sleeve, red seeping through the thin threads. A shame, too, because this band doesn’t tour much anymore. They did that song, how’s it go?
From the tone of your voice, to the chills on my skin.
They plant their hands on the floor and push, bringing one knee in to brace themself as they slowly rise. I can feel the heat on my face, raising the hairs on my neck.
“Fuck me,” they say, exhaling as they look into the mirror and clutch their wrist. It hurts. They reach first for the faucet and turn it off. The knife lies flat in the ceramic basin above the drain.
Next, the cupboard opens.
A large square bottle of isopropyl alcohol.
A spool of tan gauze.
The sweater comes off, and for a long moment Kris stares at themself in the mirror: the flat-chested, bony thing always kept beneath long sleeves. Their arms are a tapestry of malignancy against themself - rage, loathing, some marks faded nearly white, others painfully thick and recent. There’s no real telling where they came from or when they started. Some of them tear straight through older ones.
Older ones.
The oldest.
It’s-
“Stop.” They say it deadpan, tired. “Don’t make me… do it again.” They speak clearly, with a frightening sort of intent. “You don’t get to see any of that.”
Very well.
The shower runs hot. Very hot. Hot enough that they turn it backward a little. They cover the gauze with their free hand and lean forward until the water drenches their head. When they lift their face toward the stream, they squint and open their mouth to receive the gift of city water directly from the shower piping. It’s accompanied by an “ahhhh,” too, which is- well, it’s quite you now, isn’t it?
Water covers my face as I stare up at the showerhead. You keep me standing here in this tub on my feet of fragile flesh. It’s not too hot. My back arches. My fingers tap against my legs.
What am I doing here?
Why am I in here?
You wanted me in here?
My clothes aren’t on. I’m just standing here getting wet. Why are you doing this to me?
Because you need a shower.
I’m sorry. She’ll never forgive what I did, at the moment of our… at the moment of being...
I shake my head and blink. Oh, I’m tired. My hand reaches for the knob, but it goes limp and falls away. Some of his soap slops into my right hand, straight out of the container. The abstract orange mess looks back at me as it seeps between my fingers and down my leg. It smells foul. I smack it against my cheek, and a perverse smile creeps across my face. “Okay. Pizza flavor, for the boys!” I lurch, shoulders shrugging. “Okay!” I say aloud. The left hand finds some of Mom’s soap. It lands on the leg and sloshes in a circle through errant hairs, over scars and marks.
I sit down, sliding toward the back of the tub as the water breaks apart higher above me. It’s a little colder down here, but that’s… That’s fine, really. My knees hike up. The tangerine-colored slop coalesces in my left hand again, and I run it from my face down through the morass of hair and skin. Nothing stops me from trying to cram my fingers into my chest and tear at the skin, so...so I must be fine down here.
You are.
I am.
I don’t want to cry in here, but I feel elated. It does indeed feel like a dream. Don’t make me put those clothes back on. Let me lie here in my sin. Leave me here to rot in my own agony. It’s lovely down here.
The oily mop of my hair comes apart beneath the moisture. More of Azzy’s soap gets crushed into it. My fingers embed themselves in the mop and pull, but not the kind of pulling that hurts me.
Why did you put me here?
I just wanted you to take a shower.
Of course.
What do I do now?
Lie here.
Yeah. I can do that.
But what do I do when I’m done?
You just kind of figure it out. I recommend you change into something new.
Will I look pretty?
I don’t know.
A pair of red shorts and a large dark-blue T-shirt advertising fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, adorns them next. The shirt is more like a tarp draped over their shoulders, but that’s beside the point. It drops nearly to their knees. What emerges from the bathroom is an awkward-looking teenager with hairy legs, damp hair, and a bandaged right wrist. The knife lies cold and dormant in the sink. The sweater and slacks remain on the floor, belt and all.
There’s no real desire to retrieve any of it. Not yet. Not ever. But we can’t really do that.
...
It was a really, really long time ago. So far back that everything was fuzzy. You had just finished a mission, a data upload on… it was purple… Turing! The massive MBox controller lay on the floor as you turned to see her sitting on the bed.
“Ah, hell. Guess where you’re going next, Cadet.” Her voice was raspier then. It had yet to rise an octave into the voice of later memories. “Ingmar.” She smiled, then coughed.
“What’s that mean?” you asked, confused but not alone. You remember wearing the blue sweater, the one that actually fit you, with the two pink stripes. When you picture yourself, you can’t even perceive the headband. You know it was there, though.
She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, holding her joint between the middle and index fingers of her left hand. “The Collective, Kris.” You weren’t called that yet, but you accept this alteration to the story. “The robots, little fella.” She grinned from ear to ear. “They shoot back.” She raised her right hand and pointed at you, making a noise like air forced through her teeth. “Best figure out how to aim.”
You can remember hours upon hours of war against the machines in that dark room that smelled like weed, but in that moment you didn’t even know that you could press the thumbstick. Thumbsticks were new and frightening. Leave it to her to introduce a kid your age to real video games, the same way she introduced you to big-kid music. *Space War 3F* was like never-ending cherry waves.
“I’m scared,” you said, looking over your very small arsenal. All you had was the basic pistol, the shotgun, and the basic rifle.
“Aw, come on, kid. You’re not a pussy like Azzy, right?” She loved demeaning your brother. He seemed to enjoy it. Thinking about that makes you feel very uneasy, so you stop.
She asked the question and watched you until she finally said, “Do you want me to help?” Your eyes lit up. She could play it with you? “Yeah, figured as much.” She hadn’t even stood before you began unspooling the wire wrapped around the second controller.
“Well, first of all, I’m player one, so hand it over.” She held out her hand, and you immediately lifted the controller from the carpet and gave it to her.
She sat down and began looking around the ship, opening menus you had never seen before and spending points on something or another. The other controller was caked in a filament of dust. You tried to blow it away before finally rubbing it off with your sleeve. You watched as your character became her character, while your new one stepped out of the strange icebox.
“Heavy armor on Horde. That’s a wild one, if I’ve ever seen it.” She stripped your character of the green-and-yellow-spattered armor and replaced it with the default set. You weren’t P1 anymore. P2 was signified by a blue box floating above your head.
...
Breathing again, Kris exhales and opens their eyes. They scan the desolate bedroom, the pale moonlight filtering through the closed curtains. They pull away the covers and swing their legs over the side of the bed. In. Out. Breathing.
“Okay.” The word echoes through the absorbent room. “Okay.” They run a hand over their chest, fingers pressing against the sternum.
Bare feet meet carpet. The left eye opens sluggishly while the right centers the wobble. The shirt comes off and hits the ground. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Hand meets tap meets water. Kris cranes their neck beneath the metal faucet and opens their mouth to ingest sink water. Steely city water. Tasteful. Replete.
They look toward the bathroom door.
I can do nothing but walk.
A gap in the door.
A separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
...
“So what’s a good weapon? I only have two of them,” you asked, looking at your absolutely beastly default rifle and default shotgun.
“Well, since you spent the point on the shotgun, basically the rifle is all you can use. It has a scope. You can-” She reached over and pressed the right thumbstick. Nothing happened. “Oh. Yeah. Okay, so when you’re aiming, press this, and it’ll look through the scope.”
These sorts of actions couldn’t be performed on the ship. There was no way to test any of the weapons. It’s one of the things Berdly complained about constantly when you eventually played it with him.
“You’ll protect me down there, right?” you asked. You equipped your new character with heavy armor and the girl voice, but kept the shotgun.
“Fuckin’ course I will-” Her voice became very boyish and deep. She stopped and looked at you while you stared at the *Space War* map. To the right, a vast yellow swath marked the Horde infestation. To the left, a single red sector marked the Collective’s incursion. “It’s what I do.” Her voice returned to normal.
“So they’re robots. Are they hard to shoot?” you asked. She didn’t answer. She simply stood. “Dess?” She crossed to the bed and plucked the joint from the ashtray on her nightstand.
Dess sat back down with one palm against the carpet, the controller sliding past her. “Gimme a second.”
She took the biggest fucking drag imaginable. A good twelve seconds. Then she pitched forward, raising one hand over her head as her body twitched and she began coughing uncontrollably. Smoke washed across the LCD display. “Fuck-” A guttural gagging noise escaped her as she slid onto her side. “Fuh-”
“Are you okay?” you asked, leaning toward her.
She lowered her hand to keep you away. “Yeah, I’m-” Another cough. “I-” Another. “Kid, go get me a-” She buried her face in the carpet, hacking loudly. “Drink,” she said, muffled.
“Okay!” You stood with such haste that you still remember the rug burn.
Her room came into sharper focus as you tried not to remember the sight of her lying on her side, twitching and coughing. There weren’t many posters yet. Only a few. The axe splattered in blood on the door, with BURY THE HATCHET scrawled above it, passed from view as the door opened.
...
Downstairs that night is fuzzy. You vaguely remember that it was loud and that nobody seemed to notice you. It was nice, actually.
Your mom, Mrs. Carol, and Berdly’s mom were in the living room. A large box of wine sat on the table. Mrs. Carol held a square glass filled with something else. “Tori,” she said, noticing you trying to sneak past. “Your kid is back down here.”
You sped up and ducked into the kitchen, where your father and Mr. Rudy were discussing what you now understand to have been football. Dad’s opinions on the Baltimore Ravens evade you to this very day, as does the nature of that mythical Todd Heap entity.
You crept up behind your father and bunted your head against his leg to get his attention. “Oh!” He looked down at you. “…I haven’t seen you all night.” He didn’t sound particularly concerned.
“Can I have a drink and some of the stuff?” The stuff in question was brisket Mr. Rudy had made. Both men wore the same shade of midnight green with an insignia on it, though Dad had thrown a Hawaiian shirt over his.
“Sure thing, kid.” Rudy stepped past both of you toward the stove. You followed.
“I’m assuming some of this is also for my dearest December?” He sounded a little flat when he said that.
“How’d you know?” you asked, swinging your arms while idle.
“I would’ve seen her down here by now.” You weren’t sure what difference it made whether she had been down there now or earlier, but soon a paper plate containing an amalgamated pile of beef strips was handed down to you, occupying both your hands.
“I’ve got the drinks. Lead the way.” He sounded happy again. “I’ll be back,” he told your father.
You remember Mrs. Carol staring at you, one arm resting across the back of the sofa and her hand clasped around her glass. You tried very hard not to meet her gaze as you and Mr. Rudy trudged back upstairs toward Dess’s room.
...
Kris walks into the bathroom, eyes drifting as they examine the scene. They approach the pile of clothes, then turn toward the mirror. Then the sink. The knife is still there. Mom came in here and didn’t touch anything. Ain’t that something. They sigh. Never meant for all of this.
First they kneel, sliding their hands beneath the slacks and the bloodstained sweater. Maybe you could wash it out. There’s no reason to discard another thing. Maybe.
They stand and approach the sink.
The knife remains there, pure white steel.
The good old call.
How does it feel?
What do you think?
...
“Do you still hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Dess,” you said. She sat against the bed, watching you mindlessly bite into the brisket held between both hands. The two space warriors idled in orbit above Ingmar, unaware, just kind of staring at each other.
“You should. You really fuckin’ should.” Her face was pale and her eyes were wet. She drank the off-yellow soft drink so quickly that it spilled onto her shirt. Beside her sat two empty cans and her own untouched brisket.
You chewed. “You said a swear!” Then you kept chewing.
She turned her head away from you and then back. “Fuck you, kid,” she said, sniffling.
You sat there eating, bereft of anything useful to say. You just didn’t know. Those glassy amber eyes looked into your own, frightened. “I hope you never know half of what it’s like to be me.” But you already did, in a sense. She closed her eyes. You approached her anyway, scooting across the carpet and dragging your plate of brisket with you.
“Are you gonna eat yours?” you asked, baring your fangs. You may not have had horns, but you certainly had those frightening things.
She turned and snatched the plate into her lap. “These are mine!” Very rudely. Like you. She began savaging the brisket, chewing with her mouth open and swallowing after only a few frantic bites.
Halfway through, she slowed. “You don’t hate me?”
“No,” you declared after swallowing.
She bowed her head, then looked up at you. “Not even a little?” You thought about it because she had asked you to.
“You’re mean sometimes.”
Her face contorted strangely. “Yeah.” She coughed into her fist. “I don’t know how not to be.” The empty paper plate slid down her legs as she pulled them up in front of her. Then she began to sob.
“Can I smoke more, please?” She looked over her knees at you through the vale of tears.
“It made you sick, and Mr. Rudy told you not to.”
“It makes me feel better,” she pleaded, like she wanted what she wanted despite asking permission.
You looked past her toward the two space warriors waiting above Ingmar. Player one stood perfectly still. You looked toward the door. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re leaving.” She pulled her knees tighter against herself. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”
You took another bite before responding. “I’m not.”
Dess looked directly at you, amber eyes wet and unfocused. “You keep saying that.” You scooted closer until your knee touched hers. She flinched. One hand came down against your sleeve, gripping hard. “This isn’t my room.”
“Nuh uh, it is.”
“I know.” She looked around at the bed, the posters, the television. “It just isn’t.”
The two space warriors remained suspended above Ingmar. “Where are we?” she asked.
You pointed toward the LCD screen. “On the ship.” Her breathing slowed. “Yeah.”
She reached toward the nightstand and missed it entirely. For a moment, she stared at her hand. On the second attempt, she found the orange plastic lighter. Its thin safety band had already been excised, a practice you picked up as you aged. “Can you…” She placed it in your palm. “Can you do it?”
“You know how.”
“She does.”
“Who?”
Dess looked down at herself. “Me, I guess.” The joint sat forgotten between the fingers of her left hand.
“Please make it work.”
“Then we play?”
“Then we play.”
“And you’ll protect me?” Her face folded.
For a moment, she looked much younger than you. “That’s what I do.”
In the air we tried to be.
I cannot understand these feelings anymore.
...
Lowering myself to the floor, gazing beneath his bed. There’s the old console from the nineties, the one with *Dragon Blazers* on it. No mistaking that thing for anything else. I stick my head farther beneath the bed and look toward the corner. There it is. Fuck yeah, there it is.
Holding it, it feels much lighter than I remember. I cough smoke into my sleeve. Yeah, figures. I was a kid, after all. I carry it to the desk and set it down, moving Azzy’s keyboard aside. Their throat burns something fierce. Makes it a little difficult to set the console up. “Motherfuckin’ *Space War*,” I say.
I fiddle with the wires behind the monitor. There’s an HDMI cable somewhere back here. I left it plugged in after playing through *Misfit Fantasy* a few months ago. I’ve been missing the time when all I had to care about was my toys. My life goes on, and that’s fine. I’m sure it does.
Kris sits alone in the light of the monitor, watching the amorphous orange blob of the console startup. We good?
Kris sits up, resting their bandaged arm on the desk. Their other hand passes over their chest.
I didn’t do that to you.
I know you didn’t.
But it’s me right now.
Can I stay here?
I can’t really say no, can I?
Next comes the disc case. Four space warriors. One stands at the top with a flag in hand, angling it down like a spear toward the right. Another carries the flamethrower. The one at the bottom raises a hatchet. The one on the right strikes a bug the same size as them with a bare left hand. Fuck yeah. The coolest shit ever.
“*Space War: Fight for Freedom*,” I read aloud. Raw, uncompromising violence. Don’t mind if I do.
The disc is placed in the tray. It closes. The old MBox whirs as the game boots, taking what feels like an eternity.
My eyes meet the startup screen. Save file select. Passing hers. Passing mine. Selecting a third empty slot at the bottom. It’s kind of neat. The form fills out like you’re typing on a terminal, enlisting yourself into the eponymous space war. “Poor kid has no idea.”
I won’t have any fucking guns, either. I can aim. I ain’t a pussy. Might invest early in getting the revolver, though. They smile.
...
The needle punches coldly into the body, swimming beneath the skin with thread in its wake. A set of fingers clasps the end and pulls it through, joining together that which was severed.
Death magic.
There truly is no more room in hell.
Flesh world.
A black-static memorandum.
“There we go,” she says, admiring how she has stitched them back together. “All together again.” She smiles. “Hey, kid. What did you name this little fella again?”
“Their name is Seam,” they explain. “Sometimes just ’Shaw. But only if they like you!”
Pain left below.
The lifeless live again.
She remembers the state they first brought Seam to her in: torn to shreds, gored by a neighborhood dog. That annoying white Pomeranian. The kid seemed to love this little pile of torn fabric and stuffing, so she took it upon herself to put the thing back together as best she could. Hours at the library bypassing search restrictions just to browse sewing forums. Trial and error. The labor that eventually became the stuffed cat’s ragged cloak. All of it just to arrive here.
“Are they still a wizard?” she asks, handing the cat back. They take Seam into their loosely sleeved arms and hug them.
They look up, eyes eclipsed by their bangs. “Of course! The most powerful wizard ever!” The giddiness is palpable. “They can cast Iceshock and Fireshock!” Oh, man. Wouldn’t want to fuck with them.
“Both?” she exclaims. She recalls what the cat originally was: a generic plush, one of dozens sitting on a store shelf. But this one, she supposes, is now the most powerful wizard in fiction.
“Why are they so powerful?” The kid stops and leans back. “’Cause we put them back together.” A wide, toothy smirk accompanies the declaration.
She shrugs. “Yeah. Makes sense.” Maybe it is too much to ask for deep lore from a literal child. Especially this one.
“Hey, uh, be a little more careful with them. Feels like I gotta sew something back together every other week, you know?” To be fair, much of what she does involves making accessories for the cat to wear. The shawl. Even a staff. Like it or not, it has become quite the hobby. Sure beats painting plastic miniatures.
To just remain near shadow;
pull it backward.