Chapter 8
“Marcos I’m scared. Marcos, are you there?” The Woman said, reaching out and grabbing the thin air of her Famined conscious delusion; wanting so much to catch the skin of her lover, to feel him close, to feel far from the threat that seemed all around them as they snaked their way through the quiet night.
“Shhhh,” he said stopping momentarily to take her hand.
Immediately, when she felt the warmth of his strong working hand clenching hers; numbing her fingers, a shot of tranquility; a cerebral endorphin, trickled into her system and her proximate fear seemed like an ill-shaped memory fading quickly in forgetfulness.
There were people moving about in all directions and Marcos was taking her away from the flux. She hadn’t known what to do through any of this at any stage. Even before the blackout; when the meeting of expectation was a certain percentile, she had felt always out of sorts somehow.
She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t fall on Marcos and maybe she resented him for that. She loved him; it was undeniable, but just because she loved didn’t mean she had to like him.
He always made himself so right; making sure his was the last breath to stay in her ear and linger in her mind. Nothing she could ever do was right, no choice was reasonable enough to suit his definitions. Even if she were to choose the same direction, he would attack her reasoning and on how she came to that conclusion because even though she might have been right, she would never be as right as he.
And everything would always come back to that day and he wouldn’t say it and she mentioned nothing of it, but it was the tumor that grew on their love. And every time he said those words and every time he feigned affection to her advances and cast her away like a baited hook, a part of her own heart became diseased.
And every time he left her alone, crying in her hands, she begged to god to have him back. And worse than being made to feel so wrong and inutile, was knowing that he was probably right.
But over this one choice, who would know? Now, what would it matter, how could it better any of this? Better to be a man of this making on a day like this; worse then, to be a man of any kind on any day at all.
“Are you ok? Are you injured at all? Did he hurt you?” Marcos asked desperate, grabbing her arms roughly and patting down her body.
“I’m ok, I’m ok, it was just a brush seriously. What are we doing here Marcos? We should be with everyone else” she said wanting and wishing everything would just return to how it was; that everything would just go back to normal; that all of this insanity would just stop.
“I’m tired. I’m hungry. Marcos, I’m starving and I’m scared. I’m feeling strange, different. And I don’t like it. Why can’t everything just be like it was? It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than this. I miss it. I miss it all. I miss television, I miss the internet. I miss my network, I miss talking to my friends, I miss being connected, I miss knowing how I feel, I miss my morning coffee, I miss the cigarette that followed, I miss talking to you online; sensing the thought behind every word you typed, I miss wanting and receiving, I miss having a reason to go somewhere, I miss the contentment of getting there, I miss wanting things that still exist, I miss being able to get them, I miss being bored, I miss feeling safe; Marcos, I miss myself; I miss knowing who I am” she said speaking into the palms of her hands.
Behind them something stirred. The Woman felt a shiver of fright race up her spine and her stomach felt heavy. She gripped Marcos’ arm, pulling close to his body and dragging him backwards, closer to herself, and back from whence they came.
“Let go of me” he whispered, but she didn’t obey.
She sensed his worry and hers grew alarmingly. She pulled firmer on his arms and threw him off his balance. She was taking him with her, into her conscious breakdown.
“Marcos we shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“Then why did you follow me? If you think you can survive on your own then go, be like the rest of them. But if you want to live, then shut up for once and listen to me, I know what I’m doing” he said.
She sank like quicksand into the oppression of his words. Why couldn’t he just say what he needed to say? Why did it always have to come out as something else? If he didn’t love her, then why couldn’t he just leave her and make it easy to hate him?
“You shouldn’t be here” spoke a voice from somewhere in the dark.
The Woman froze as Marcos froze; they; holding their breaths and wishing to be more invisible than they obviously were.
“We’re just looking for somewhere to rest. We don’t want to cause you any bother” Marcos said.
The Woman could feel the panic in the clench of his fingers around hers. She collected his panic and it bounced around her conscious mind reducing her legs to jelly and making her wish she were a molecule in a glass of water; that she could disguise her form and spill out of the cup onto the floor and be carried up by the heat of the day and rained down upon somewhere kinder than where she found herself now.
“Do you have any news?” asked the voice.
“There’s nothing, everything is still down,” said Marcos.
“What about out there?” spoke the voice.
“It’s chaos. The people are turning on each other. There’s no police, no order, no nothing. I don’t even think there’s even an Industry anymore. It just all stopped” Marcos said.
“It happened then, The Uprising? Has it worked? I’ve been in this shadow for so long now” asked the voice.
“No. Everything is worse and from there, getting worse still” said Marcos.
“Have you anything to tell me?” spoke the voice, this time more concerning.
“What do you want to hear?” asked Marcos.
“I’m scared, let’s go” whispered The Woman to her lover’s ear.
“Tell me something that’s going to happen. Tell me a truth” said the voice.
The Woman wished to herself that her lover would choose the right words; that his thoughts would take them out of this situation and into another. And she thought for a moment about the last situation and then the one before and how every second of every day; since the blackout, had been one decisive moment after the next. There hadn’t been an hour of reflection or a moment to assess the percentiles; basking in the outcomes of one’s choices.
Everything they had decided up to that point had been based upon a reason. Every choice had a good or a bad outcome and it was reflective on a higher ideal. Without The Industry as a marker, it became almost impossible to know what was right or wrong.
What would a planet do if it had no sun? Would it continue to abide by the rule that governed its existence? And if it did continue to turn, would it start the process over again? Would it convince the sun to return and keep everything in momentum? If every planet behaved as such, would the sun listen? Would the universe listen? Would everything go back to the way it was?
The Woman found it impossible to make any decisions. She left this vice for her lover, the man who edged closer to her breast, but further from her heart.
She wondered; if that when a sun died, how would the moon feel about the earth? Would they continue their dance of attraction, she pulling on the tides of his passion; they; washing up on the shores of sensuality. Or when the cause of their existence no longer existed, would they allow themselves to drift in physicality, colliding with the abandon of governance?
Without The Industry, who were they? How could they relate? What would they have in common except for that each of them were now dying; cold and alone?
“If I told you a truth, I would only be telling you a lie,” said Marcos.
“Only if you told me a bad truth. Tell me what you’re going to do next” said the voice.
“Whatever I have to, to survive” replied Marcos.
“What would you give, for one more night?” asked the voice.
The Woman’s heart flashed, pounding inside her chest. Her mind raced with images of her and her lover shouting, screaming vulga
rity at one another, spitting through the air as their words fired like weapons trying to reduce the other to nothingness; absolute submission.
In the silence, while Marcos thought of his next words, she thought of the only words they hadn’t spoken in so long, and she worried. She worried that he didn’t need her anymore. She worried about what thoughts played out in his mind and she imagined him throwing her into the darkness, out into the cold space so that he could have one more night; one more moment alone to contemplate his existence.
“He deserved that,” she thought, “he deserves this time alone.”
She believed she was at the centre of this; that she had made everything go wrong. She had betrayed him and it was upon this betrayal that they revolved. It hadn’t always been so, but for as long as she could remember, it had been their dead sun; and it was consuming them; sucking their existence into a void.
This one event; a choice she made, had changed everything. And she knew that her lover was not choosing his words in his silence, he was remembering how she had flicked the switch on everything that mattered and how after that day; the only thing that held them together was the one thing that was tearing them apart; the dark matter of their amorous infirmity.
And so, he deserved his silence. He deserved one more night, if without her by his side, he could find some peace if he could find himself before he died then she deserved to be cast away from his gravity.
“I will ask you a question,” said Marcos.
“And what if I don’t respond?” asked the voice.
“And why would you do that?” asked Marcos.
The mood fell silent. The Woman could hear the sound of the voice inhaling deeply as if some drug were coursing through its veins, shocking its sentient burden into a blissful conscious drought. Marcos wrapped his arms around her, and a wave of assurance swept over her.
“Why aren’t you like them?” asked the voice.
“What, destroying everything; destroying myself?” he replied.
“Hungry,” he said.
“I was never like them before so why should I subscribe now?” he said.
“It’s your nature. Without light, how can we see, without sound, how can we hear and without The Industry, how can we survive? Why would we want to?” said the voice.
“Existence is purpose enough,” replied Marcos.
“But don’t you crave for family; you know; your friends, your work, your leisure, your expectation and your satisfaction; making right choices. Oh god, I miss that. When I think of it, my veins burn, it feels like I have a million bugs crawling under my skin, scratching their way out. I just want to silence it, to stop this desire. It’s not fair” said the voice lowly.
“Then make a choice,” said Marcos.
“Without a gauge to define a limit, how can I possibly extend my reach? Without a defined wrong, how can I possibly determine what is right? And without applause, how do I know when to stop?” said the voice.
“Is death not enough of a gauge?” asked Marcos.
“Life is not enough of a reward” he replied.
“Then what will you do next?” asked Marcos sounding more in control.
“My choice is already made. It took time for the darkness to descend upon my soul. But I will not live like them; shedding my skin with every scratch of my nail, ripping at my scalp, tearing out hair after hair, clawing at my own eyes, desperate to relieve this feeling inside me; this want, this need that I can’t fulfill. It’s not coming back. They’re not going to fix it. No one’s coming to save us. There ‘aint no Jesus Christ coming here and if he did it’s too late. This is after the end. The credits have already rolled. The seats are empty. The audience has gone home. We are but a flicker on a screen, the brief echo of a switch being turned off that to us; caught in that instant, feels like the rest of our lives” the voice said.
“How do you feel?” asked Marcos.
“Enlightened,” said voice before silence fell upon the darkness once more.
The sound of heavy breathing led to a final gasp that when it fell upon her ears, it had The Woman thinking about her Investors and though it made no sense, she wondered if they thought of her. It was such a strange thing; in the play of death, to cast one’s heart upon something so irreverent and so very inconsequential as the host who would have profited from every choice that you had made and wondering if they missed her, like she missed her morning coffee.
Did she matter to them now that The Industry was gone? What was she to them without a market? Would the choices that she was yet to make, still account to anything whatsoever? Was someone else still responsible and if not; if she was responsible for her own decisions, who would administer the outcomes? If The Industry wasn’t to return, then what would she be without her Investor?
She thought of this and a sadness welled in her heart. She missed them like she missed herself. Every decision she had made was with them in mind; every right and every wrong. Even when she loved her man, the reward of that love was paid out by The Industry, to her investors.
The more she loved, the more she lost, the more she participated, the more she experienced, the more they lived; all the more for her, all the more for them.
Her existence had defined their own. They had lived through her every choice. What then if she failed to choose again? Would they be disappointed? Would they think ill of her? Would they die without her?
What was she; a lover or a product? Which of them would bring her more solace and calm in this industrial apocalypse? The party was surely over, but more guests were spilling onto the dance floor every second, hungry to be entertained; to be told how to dance, what to think, how to feel, where to stand, what to say, what to wear, what to drink, who to fuck and where to leave their coat. And maybe they all felt like this; like how The Woman felt now, feeling so far from their obligation and feeling so scared of what that meant; feeling so universally alone.
She gripped the hand of her lover, feeling his warmth brush against her soft skin. The freezing cold that molested the night could not touch her as long as she held him fast against her body. She thought in her heart and her mind of a contract; all she knew of her Investor, a single white piece of paper; a series of digits that for some reason when she ran them through in her mind made her feel calmer than if she thought of her lover who was her bind to a memory they both fought hard to repress; for the sake of a right choice that was for the sake of their Investors.
“Are we alone?” she asked.
“I think so. I can’t hear any breathing” he said.
“I didn’t mean in this room, I mean in this world. Are we alone?” she asked again.
Marcos didn’t respond.
The Woman pulled herself away from him. His touch made her desire and her desire made her feel lonely and her loneliness only made her want to touch him more.
“Do you think about them?” she asked.
“Who?” he responded.
“Your Investors, your contract,” she said.
“No. Not then and not now. We can’t hold onto something that doesn’t exist. The contract is voided. You owe nothing. Your choices are your own now. You’re free” he said.
“I miss them Marcos; my contracts, my obligations, the effect of my choices. I don’t want to be alone” she said.
“I am with you. You’re not alone” he said.
“I love you Marcos, but you’re someone else,” she said cryptically.
“We are all we have. We are the direct effect of our choices. We are living in the spoil of every decision. The contracts were never real. The Industry made you care for them, but they were never real” he said.
“Then why does it hurt to think of them gone? Why did that obligation make me feel so belonged?” she asked.
“It was a delusion. We were all deluded. It was what The Industry needed to keep us in line. They made us care for something that was not real and disregard everything that was. Do you feel of me how you feel of this contract?” he asked.
“I love you, but only as long as you love me back. It hurts when I touch you because of what I did, I know. And I do love you. When you are gone I desire you, I need you, but the way I feel for my contract is different. The thought of you not existing upsets me, the thought of my contract not existing scares me more than my own death; it makes me feel abandoned and like it, wholly non-existent. Who am I without my contract?” she said.
“The contract was The Industry,” he said.
“Who are we without The Industry?” she asked pensively.
“You are alive. That’s all that matters. It’s the only identity you need.”
“Then why do I feel like something is missing?” she said.
“Something is missing; a weight. Finally, we are free” he said.
“Then why am I so fucking scared?” she screamed, clenching her hands over her eyes squeezing her nails tight against her skin.
The echo of her voice cast out of her mind and into the palm of her hands, what seemed like out of a delusion but when she pulled them away, she could see tiny specks of blood where her thoughts had been. Her eyes were heavy and she felt like she had just woken from a drunken binge.
She gnashed her teeth and gnawed at the air, stretching out the restriction in her jaw. Her eyes were weary and her vision was blurry, but she could see that it was night, but it would have been hard to tell from all the magnificent hallucinatory illumination beaming from every corner of her eye and then her ears opened to the sound of carnival music and bizarre inhuman laughing.
She tried pulling her hands up to her face to wipe her eyes, but they didn’t follow her command. She tried moving her legs, but they too spoke a different language. She tried to lean forward, but her body too seemed to be foreign to her speech. She could feel every muscle pulling and straining, but it was like she was trapped in a body within a body, unable to effectuate a change in her condition.
The sound of laughter intensified as her ear filled with sticky salvia as something coarse and wet ran from her neck, up under her chin, following her jawline until it pressed her inner ear. She couldn’t move, but she could feel it.
It was so very disgusting.
She tried to scream but when she opened her mouth, the lunatic laughter that had been pestering her ears sang deliciously from her chords. When she swallowed, she could taste the saliva that was dripping from her ear.
“Welcome,” said a voice of a shadow dancing about like a bag in the wind.
The Woman’s eyes slowly gained focus. She hadn’t seen such colour; not in a very long time.
“Are we here?” she thought. “Is this the city of light and sound?”
The mix of bright reds and yellows and greens and flashing strobes all burst like a heavenly firework inside her pupils, stinging her cerebral senses, unfastening her rationale and leaving her in a vegetable state.
“Where am I?” she thought.
“The Subconscious Sideshow, of course,” said The Clown Host in dramatic animation.
The feeling started to return in her body as if the effect of some drug were wearing off and the first sensation she had was of cool water. She was so thirsty; her mouth was so parched from the day’s walking. She could feel her toes breaking the tip of the water, causing small ripples to run from the centre and push against the sides of something that by the sound of it; circled her like planets to a sun or the truth to a lie.
She could feel her legs now. She could move them with her will, but they couldn’t move any further than the ropes binding them would allow. She could feel her hands then as well. Her nails were rubbing against and scratching her lower back. Both palms were pressed against one other and the rope that bound them burned the skin on her wrists as she struggled to pull them loose. Her thighs too now felt their bind and even before her sight cleared; as she saw the crazed clown dancing around in the luminescence, she knew she was a prisoner to someone or something.
She could feel every muscle in her body straining to break free from its bondage. She decided to test her voice.
She screamed.
The Clown Host laughed.
What sounded like a recorded tape cheered and clapped.
“Get me out of here” she screamed.
“All things in their own time. First, might I say; welcome to the show.”
The Woman screamed the crowd cheered and The Clown Host took a bow.
Utopian Circus Page 9