frantically searching, the boy looks all around and finally approaches the group of strangers.
excuse me, has anyone happened to see a guy that looks just like me around?
just like you?
yeah...like me... well - what year is this again?
1996.
yeah, just like me. wait. (he looks down at his hands) i'm about, say, 14 right?
uh. sure
yeah. just like me. exactly like me.
uh i don't think so.
okay. *sigh* okay. ummmmm. if you see him, tell him... tell him that his master plan won't work... say - say it'll only make things worse.
he turned around to leave, when a thought occurred to him he turned around abruptly
you say you haven't seen a guy who looks just like me?
right.
but, I look just like me.
well, that's true, but..
. but you say you haven't seen me.
. no, wait, you don't understand...
. oh, I think I do.. I think I do... You must either be lying...
.or blind!
the words echoed from across the yard. a tall, thin figure, wearing a white robe, and bearded like a seventeenth-century spanish aristocrat, stood next to a small shrub. the boy stood in amazement.
how... how did you know?
my son... it is my job to know. and that is where I can help you...
the boy was smitten. he could not believe it was true.
am i dreaming? you're real?
boy, i am very real - that is - in your world.
just me? can any one else see you?
boy, you are specia..
(the spanish aristocrat didn't get to fninish his sentence. shots rang out and the man fell to the ground)
LIAR!, screamed the boy as the police cars approached, "everyone sees now."
the gunman collasped in tears, "i'm sorry"he whispers in a quivering voice. he stutters, "son, i'm so sorry, i thought i was seeing someone else's fiment of imagination. I... I... i didn't know how else to handle it. i just had to know i had to be sure. i didn't think any of this was real. "
the three fictional characters were soon surrounded by police. commanding voices sounded, but none of them seemed to hear.
boy: it isn't real, this is still my imageneray world
gunamn (relieved): oh
boy: did you happen to see a kid that looks exactly like me around?
the gunamn shoves a mirror in the boys face. the boy gasps in horror...
all that is around the boy seems to coalesce and sepearate in a huge multicolored swirl. that is, all except the boy's face.
if it were his face. but it was not. the boy knew what he looked like. he had seen himself before, in rivers and windows. and this was not his face. it was paler, and thinner. and the nose was completely wrong. it just didn't make sense. the swirling stopped, and the world returned to its previous state. the boy looked at the gunman.
i don't understand... how can... he stared at the gunman, and for the first time noticed. the gunman looked like him. not the him he was looking for. and not the him that he saw in the mirror. but it was surely him!
you.. you...
the gunman pointed down at the body of the bearded being
and him too..
him?
yes.. look closely
the boy glanced down. he look straight into the man's unmoving eyes. the boy, perhaps, was beginning to understand. and as he gazed into the man's eyes, they moved. the boy looked up at the gunman.
what is he doing?
he's dreaming..
i don't understand.
of course you don't. there's no way you could. and there's no way I could. alone.
then.. who will help us to understand...?
the police were closing in on them, condensing their confusion within their small sphere of reality. a loud speaker declared their authoritative presence again, but this time - they heard. They heard and boy was it loud. The boy and the gunman then made an unspoken, tacit aggreement. The gunman grabbed the boy and held his gun against his head.
stay back, he screamed, tears threatening to fall, if you cared...
the circle of justice broke allowing the brothers to be released into the rest of the institutionalized terrain. they invaded a parked UPS truck and sped off: into the sunset, which of course glared cruelly into the boys eyes. so, he pulled down the sun visor on the car to block the rays, but when the sun visor came down, so did the vanity mirror. mirror, mirrow, in the car, am i existant afterall?
NOOOOO, wailed the boy. you're mocking me! don't! stop! STOP IT!!!! he saw a face yelling back at him, wrenched in agony. go away. you're not here. you're just my imagination. you're just my imagination. he thought to himself, if i just look the other way, it'll disapear. just look away. the other way. he attempts to again speak to the reflection, accursed, recursvie reflections!! ihate you. you, you, and all of You. stop mocking me! he takes a deep breath.. okay, i'm just going to look away. i am not looking at you. i don't care about you. i am putting the mirror away. i said, i am putting the mirror away.
and the mirror was thus put away and the boy smiled. then the sun got in his eyes again. he looked to his brother, make it go away, he implored. can you make the light go away?
i know! said the ever helpful gunman, you can color in the windows.
are they windows into reality? or just pictures on the wall?
uh.... here! i'll get you some crayons1 wait right there!
the gunman hopped sprightily out of the still moving vehicle and ran into the nearest Revco. ah yes! 64 colors box! he, in his excitement, hurredly tore open the box colored wax and peered inside with hungry eyes.
.. all the crayons were black.
meanwhile...
the UPS truck sped dangerously out of control through the quiet town of Dowagiac, supplying the excitement of the day to the town and alarming the baby piglets (redundant?). the boy manuevered his way into the drivers seat, but his attempts to bring the vehicle under Control were in vain for the sunlight was blinding.
the gunman stared in disbelief at the freshly opened box of crayons. it couldn't be. the box clearly stated that there would be several colors, yet there was only one. unfortunately, a sales clerk also stared in disbelief at the strange man, holding a gun, staring in disbelief at the box of unpaid crayons which was just opened. the gunman didn't notice that our Friendly Neighborhood Clerk reached under the side of his desk, and pressed his finger firmly onto a pushbutton.
the boy screamed in agony, as his eyes were stung by the strong light in front of him, and his brain was frightened by the horrors which await. his vehicle flew down the road, and his only connection to the outside world was the squish and high-pitched sounds made by things being pressed under the wheels of the truck. these sounds, however, were soon replaced by a loud crumbling, crashing noise, as suddenly the truck stopped, and the boy flew head-first out the window, into the brick which ceased the truck's movement.
the officers looked on at the mangled array of blood, glass, metal, and boxes full of Jelly Belly brand jellybeans. slowly, but surely, they approached the front of the truck. resounding clicks could be heard as pistols were readied.
the boxes crashed around the store. already the floor was covered in crayons, the wax causing anybody left in the isolated Revco to trip while fleeing. already the entire supply of crayons was depleted, and the gunman frantically searched through markers and other things, only to come to the same conclusion. outside, a siren could be heard....
the boy slowly floated into consciousness. he had no idea where he was, or how long it has been. it felt like he hadn't existed for over a month -- simply devoid of any activity. this of course, could not be the case. he tried to open his eyes, but it was too much effort. slowly, his senses came back to him...
caught in between the two forces of the air and the water, the boy felt himself being thrown helplessly throgh the air.back and forth, back and forth, back forth the hands tossed him like the bean bag doll that he had become. they were saying - no! they were chanting, singing, somehting. he checked through his gingham pockets and found two slices of pickle, which he afixed to the side of his grain filled head. hearing was much sharper now. they were saying - was that his name? - "Grover" then one of the children missed catching Grover and he fell, slipping throught the abysmal crack to hell.
water and air had fought over him, but neither could win. it would be the forces of fire -- the grisley forces of beelzebub which would triumph in the end. all the boy could think was 'where is the earth?' as he plummeted into the lake of fire
splash!
he collided with the surface, and continued to slowly drift downward. not being fully aware, though, our boy forgot one thing -- humans can't breathe fire. as he descended, he felt his insides burning up, being engulfed by the flames in which he was submerged. his stomach wretched -- his lungs stung -- and his head felt as if it were swelling to amazing proportions. he also felt a strange sensation, as his system began to use the fire in his lungs as a life force, in the absence of air. the flame mingled with his blood stream, as ...?
maybe he wasn't falling. maybe the flames were climbing. yes of course, he concluded, he surely wasn't falling. he was soaring. oh beautiful hell, he whispered breathlessly. he began to sing.
every word falling from his sensuous preteen lips ignited what was left of space around him. everything was backwards. he fell up and the fumes flew down. his song mourned for the loss of logic and order - yet the tune carried the sense of reverence for his long awaited return to the chaos he was born in. the grey smoke of the fire was upon him now. emmerising the manchild in it's blinding soot.
blinding. a stab of memory pierced him. blinding. the sun, the blinding sun. he gasped, flames, the passenger side vanity mirror. ah the vision the vision the face the dream.
coming back? all things come back. only what was never there may disapear and only under certain circumstances. that is the memory. that's why you're back here.
the boy's stae of mind whipped back to the present. his eyes opened, green centered pearls in the midst of his black soot stained face. a light. so dim. No. you can't be here. not the both of us. No.
the spanish aristocrat face softened. he looked away. trying to remember. trying to find the words.
he didn't need to, though.. the boy was further ahead than the spaniard suspected.
you were killed. i saw you shot. but here you are. that man said that you were dreaming. am i..?
dreaming too? no, i'm afraid it's not that simple. but it is. come, let me show you. stand up.
the aristocrat's reply was disheartening to the young boy. there was something not-quite-right about it. it reminded him of public school cafeteria food. this slipped from his mind though, as he stood up. he noticed that he was able to lift himself with amazing ease. as he looked down, he noticed he had changed. his limbs, once boyishly weak and smooth, were now darkened, muscular, and somewhat hairy. he seemed to tower further above the ground than he had remembered. and his clothes -- he had no idea where _they_ had gotten to!
uninterpretable shouts came in from outside of the store. the confused, and angry gunman stood in the shop, armed only with an assortment of crayons and magic markers. he had to act. he had to act now. he had to act fast. looking out the gigantic store windows, he could see officers crouched behing their vehicles, holding both weapons and radios. then - an idea. but it would be a big chance.
the boy followed the aristocrat down a long corridor. at the end he could see a large blackness, enframed in gold. the aristocrat declared "it is almost time."
after what seemed like an eternity, the gunman's feet carried him as quickly as they could towards the nearest window. it cracked up with a tremendous sound. glass scratched his face and arms, as his blood trickled downwards, mingling with the already-soiled oil and water of the ground. then - an explosion. and a piercing pain in his chest. "no. it's not supposed to happen this way. no...." the gunman fell to the floor, splashing in the puddle below. his last breathe was not of air, but of the oil and waste which lived in the streets on a rainy city day.
brightness.
the boy stood next to the aristocrat, not understanding what was going on. "yes, the time is now. look. look deep into the pool of darkness"
the boy gazed into the blackness. he noticed an image, as the frame surrounded not a black void, but a mirror! as he looked into the mirror... he could only say one thing.. 'that face.. that face...'
the townspeople crowded around the mess of carnage and black wax sticks. they pointed fingers at each other. some broke out in aimless sprints. running, searching for some kind of reason, some kind of truth. but the they all went home empty handed - except for the transient fragment of memory - to their empty boxes. little cardboard coffins with the promise of brightness inside. but. this wouldn't be the end of the fated gunman. he himself could never have known the reason for his escape from that world. he never knew the reason for his birth. in the lack understanding, there is nothing of him. charred garments emmersed in the poison of filth he had lived on. these were sealed away in plastic as the reports of further evidence on spontaneous human combustion were documented. they search still through darkness.
a red light. an alluring shine. the gunman reached out.
the boy gazed into the mirror. this is what i am. a new voice. even his inner voice was different. he tried to speak aloud. but it was imposible to make sense of his noises.
it's okay, the Spanish aristocrat told the boy with his eyes. i understand.
i think i'm beginning too... to understand. the boy wa uneasy with mirror. it didn't seem right. it's reflection just wasn't... something was missing.
the aristocrat went on. he motioned to the mirror with his head. so you can see. see how much you've advanced. this, son, is what was intended for you.
the aristocrat's teeth shattered. he tried to feign comfort but he was freeezing amidst the fires. come, son! come. i have a purpose for you.
the boy's eyes were fixed upon his surreal countenance. he stared into the continual reflections in his eyes. feeling a part of a centerless regression and progression had always comforted him before. but in this mirror, he couldn';t find that recursive blanket. nothing glared at him from the depths of his eyes. it was a lie. how could be communicate with these. he wasn't a man. he wasn't a boy. the evolution of homo erectus came to his conciousness. the regression of the cowaards who clung to the past.
the boy tore himself away from the delusion and began to weep. the tears washed away the facade. dirt stained tears. he felt himself dwindling back down to the familiar human scale. his ability to speak returned.
the devil stared the boy in the eyes.
and the boy stared back at the devil. he noticed that the face of Lucifer was cold, in contrast with the extreme warmth which surrounded him. it was cold, and at the same time very hot with desire. and there was something else. the boy sensed fear in the devil's eyes.
a blood-stained hand reached out from where the mirror had been. the boy was startled - confused - and quickly turned around, running as fast as his legs could carry him. down a long corridor, up stairs. up more stairs. up more stairs. futility. he sat down.
what had happened? why had the mirror changed? why did he change? why was the devil scared? and what was that hand that tried to grab him? more importantly. if that was truly the devil, then why was the boy still alive? did the devil have some terrible plans for him? what wa..
the though was interrupted by a sound.. or rather.. the cessation of something very high-pitched and constant which you only notice when it stops. the boy felt calm. were it not for the other, more menacing sound which came in from behind him.
terrible shredding noise was coming from the ground behind him. it was sickeningly soft at first. he strained his ears. he didn't want to turn around. he didn't want to see. the boy knew there waas little hope in getting to the top of the stairs. but he had to run soemwhere. he didn't even need to look. he knew what the sound was. it wa unmistakeable and heartbreakingly familiar. as the ground crumbeld and cracked behind him, he broke into a run. the stairs melted into a smooth ascending mountain. his run became a jog. the sun came up. he would run right into the stars. with a sudden burst of energy, he began to skip. higher and higher, the boy skipped. the abysmal crack to the lower level of hell was now far behind him. once again, he began to sing. the lines of oppression and dispair engraved upon his face by the hell he had emerged from faded into smmoth, supple new skin. his song ended abrubptly when he suddenly noticed an elevator stood open and waiting .
the woman in the who had cowered behind the counter in the drugstore wept quietly as she stared at what was now but the mangled remains of the gunamn. the others would come in a matter of moments. these momnet were the last they she would ever have in solitude before questions would come and she would have to create more lies in response. my baby. she knew he wasn't gone. maybe from of this place, he was no more. but somewhere. he was. she needed something tangible to take away with her. more than confused, distorted memories. she took his gun and put it in place of one of her own guns. there. no one wold be able to tell.
there was still hope, she told herself. she could only pray that the boy had gotten there before the doors closed. she thought make and remembered how she pressed the the button with the arrow pointing up while the gunman ransacked her store. or was it the right button. or perhaps, she pressed the one with the arrow pointing west. and did she do it in time?
her head hurt. these memories. the police crowded around her. someone was speaking.
the boy glared brazenly into the carpeted , elegant elevator. You. there in the shape of the spanish aristocrat stood the devil. beside him, a sleeping red lion. ............ hey little boy, need a lift?
the gunman thought he had seen the precious boy trough the brightness. through the all the miles of water that separated them. battlingly below in the stream of fire with himslef. the gunamn saw the boy look up. right at him. searching. he knew touch was forbidden. but, the boy's incessant stare lured him. his hand, freed from his once ever present gun, shot through the waters. sharp and piercing. the spell shattered. the world transformed around him. bringing him back. the scerams of frightened little ballrerinas assaulted him. his bloody hand hung limp through the one way mirrors of the dance studio. he had to escape. he had to reach the boy. he was whole again. but something was different. he looked into his pocket. who's gun is this?
the boy stared at the aristocrat. he felt at ease. calmness, in a sea of fright. calmness which subsided, when he the noises from behind him made him realize what was going on. the cracks approached him faster than a speeding bullet.
water filled the gunman's lungs. a strange kind of water. sharp pain. stabbing, scratching his lungs apart. fusing his lungs back together. yet he didn't even notice. staring at the gun which he now held in his hand. he had no idea where it came from. but it was not the gun which was his -- the one he wanted -- the one he needed. he had to get the gun. his life - and his mission - depended on it!
the boy quickly placed his one left foot into the elevator, his other still resting on the stairway.
gunman's arms propelled him at great speed. his hand quickly healed to beyond its normal status. he pressed on and on, through the strong drift current, towards the light. he had to reach the light. then he saw it. another light. which one did he need? he closed his eyes, pressing with his water-efficient limbs, hoping, hoping that he would approach the correct way. pressing on. he was nearly there. he felt a surge of power rushing through him. it enveloped him. it became him. it was too much. he reached into his pocket.
the boy stood perched on one leg in the elevator. the mounting abyss approached from behind. the smiling aristocrat pressed his hand forward, in a gesture of peace. the boy clapsed his hand readily. he clapsed it with both of his hands. he stared at the face of the aristocrat, no longer bearded, but goatted into a fashionably evil creation. he glanced down at the lion. he recognized it. he had seen it before!!
swim, swimmy, little fishy. the gunamn became accostumed to his aquatic environment and soon relaxed into a leisurely floating earthling. he swam on and on. deeper and deeper. the little dancers cowered behng their mothers.. the screams were incessant. he's got a gun! someone call the cops! the gunman's eyes stared into the sea. happy happy smiley fishey. what's wrong with him? he's crazy. Crazy? suddenly everything changed. he was out of the water and looking ino the clear liquid. at his reflection. I'm not crazy... I'm a dinosuar. the screams cresendoed. increasing in volume and deepening in pitch, merging into one terrible cacophony. the gunman, unable to ithstand the noise began to scream as well, in hopes of drowning out the ruckus.
trust me, son. the aristocrat's gaze was enchnting. the boy, caught between the two natural forces of fire and air, looked back over his bare, creamy white shoulder. the earth was falling apart around him. he took was last breath of the pure air and stepped into the elevator. the doors began to close. where are we going? up, down, it depends. pick a reference point. the aristocrat held out five playing cards, backs facing the boy. within the confines of the devil's prison, the boy felt his insides liquify. not an unpleasant feeling. in fact it was hardly even noticebale because his whole body was melting and he had no basis for comparison to be able to tell a difference. none at all, except ... for his tale which was sticking out of the closing elevator doors.
blub
blub
blub...
blub blub blub...
the screams encircled our gunman like crows, and he knew, all too well, that he was the carcass. the deceased meal which awaited the hungry birds. his scream did little to help him . He wasn't focused. He had to focus.
the boy knew that this was wrong. he saw the playing cards shifting and bending in shape. but it wasn't them. it was his eyes which were warping. his whole self. he saw his ear drip to the floor, and the become a pile of gunk. he knew he was in trouble, when he felt his brain melting, his consciousness becoming a strangeness to him.. he felt everything fade away, as he grabbed for the card in the middle. the fourteen of clubs.
a tail wagged in the elevator door.
the bash to the side of the gunman's head was all that he needed. he grabbed his gun with both hands. arms raised towards the sky. a scream emitted from his lungs. a scream so incredible. and with it, an incredible force shot out. focused. at last. he screamed so loudly that his lungs felt as if they were underwater. the pain incredible. and he saw the water shooting out of his mouth.
a tail wagged in the elevator door.
ah, the fourteen of clubs. my dear,dear boy. how did you know?
the boy stared fiercly at the aristocrat and sppoke not a word.
oh! well then, i suppose, how could you not know?
clubs. club. glub.
the gunman stared into the water that wasn't even water. he stared into his own eyes which were liquefying as the boy's had liquefied. dimensions. what dimension am i in now?
the same dimension you've always been in minus one.
the gunman looked deeper into the water. through it he saw the shimnmering outline of a vulture. the vulture had spoken with the lovely voice of a women.
but, this can't be the second dimension. i can see you in front of me and i can see the you're deep in the water, submerged. i see depth.
she quietly laughed to herself. i thought you would know already. i hate to have to be the one to explain. but there, there you are, like all mortals, believeing what you want to believe. believing that htere is a difference. and then believing that you could tell the difference.
the gunman thought. of course there's a difference between the second and third dimension, stupid. i'll draw you a picture. he drew a cross and then he drew a cross with a a diagonal through it with his blakc crayon in his notebook. see?
oh yeah? well i'll show you a picture.
Rana Chang, Alex Lozupone, 1996-1997