Day 22

Although this is over a day and a half later, I stayed in the cavern for 30 fucking hours; the last seven were me sleeping, so I'm showing up now. Keep in mind that’s what I was told, as feeling well rested is not an experience I’m familiar with, now or ever. I woke alone on one of those cots in that eight-by-ten-foot bedroom/workshop. A light shone from the ladder hole, one that fucked with my migraine personally; it must be hell. The feeling that I could piss a new waste system in this cavern, outside of the hole I watered the first tree that was remotely at the top of a slope to get the least as possible on my bare feet. The sun was attacking me with solar lemon juice, so that was more out of my piss-outside-etiquette than I could concern myself with. Not that I could see at the start of my eyes adjusting, but this was a jaw-dropping sight to behold of the swamp glowing to life in a flurry of insects and birds bursting into the sky for the hunt. My frontal male nudity may or may not have been part of the shock for the others. However, once I regained my vision, my quest for the missing 30 hours began, not due to the nudity but— “What the shit happened to my god damn arm?! Bandaged like my stroking out trigger their stroking.”

          Snow-woman Shawna approached slowly as I turned around to the arriving relief crew setting up the surrounding encampment. She was all shh-shhh, you’re safe, and ‘Drink the water; relax.’ I didn’t feel like panicking in her claustrophobic bedside manner until I heard Harvest-woman April huff while gathering her med-bag contents. I tried to ask her, but all she gave before leaving between six-foot-high tents was ‘at least he’s speaking English.’

          “Okay, a lot. Start with the time, please.”

          “Over 30-hours—You can sit here. You have to hydrate. And where are you gonna go,” Snow-woman Shawna said. I'd find a place...

          “Surprised you are staying, but next: the arm. This is a big bandage.”

          “Finish the bottle, and I’ll tell you.”

          As I chugged, Wolfman Patrick entered, gleaming with questions that Snow-woman Shawna had to guard against while Blue Moon June grabbed a fold-out camper chair and sat near opposite me in front of the fire pit. Just sat there and sharpened her standard-issue pocket knife. Wolf and Snow argued. I almost fell deaf again to all of it, no focus but on the abundance of information settling me back to an overwhelming existence. A passionate journey of sound turning a redlining 2-stroke into a misty dew of glistening lawns, pitter-patter of full vermin retreating to the alley of tree. I find the hollow steps on soft leaf-covered turf; I have to shove my way through the loud pack to hear them hit the wood planks with moistened girth. “I--but they left imprints.”

          “Hey, back down, you’re doing great; here’s another water.” Snow-woman Shawna is insufferable.

          Her deep breath behind made me brace. I didn’t like that. You did it yourself, you nut sack—we weren’t fast enough with the paint. You—it’s what they started with and got aggravated that the blood wasn’t showing up enough as it dried. What was this night terror this time?” Blue Moon June asked.

          “Holy shit and seconds, hang on, Bluey Moony, why did you have me enter first? You knew something was up. Hurry up, I’m forming a list of ways to butcher your name.”

          “You should’ve talked to me first,” the Snow-woman started. “But until we saw what you were writing—I don’t think your problem is a brain malfunction—”

          “—or not the sole contributor to the ailment. Iceman Xavier, actually, seemed the most keen on getting you started. Compelled to bring the right set of eyes to the words that must be finished. He’s back at the cove still unwell himself, plagued by what we’re temporarily calling a low-level dual occupation. The Growing-woman is in tatters,” Wolfman Patrick said.

          “Great; something tracks,” I said.

          “An entity consumed you—took every fiber of your essence for one mission, and we believe it would be completed by any means necessary. Somehow, you have been chosen to be, or you are the most susceptible to full conduit occupation that wore you as a powerful specimen,” Wolfman Patrick said.

          “You said there wouldn’t be another experiment—”

          “It was a goof. Iceman thoroughly said, let’s fuck with you. It wasn’t until the second lap that he started repeating, she must see, she must see. By the time he was himself again, it took him 30 minutes to get up the ladder,” Blue Moon June said.

          “June—”

          “Where were you when he was shitting himself and attacking anyone that tried to pull him from the Atrium? That ‘entity’ loved looking for uses of his blood—”

          “Kept from the ordeal because I suggested chloroform. Noo, you want to say ‘she might have a gun—’ I would have strapped him to the cot,” Snow-woman Shawna said.

          “What the fuck is happening to me—everyone shut the fuck up but Blue Moon for a second. Theories welcome, counter-clockwise, after her, Coldman and so on—I don’t care that you weren’t listening. The Snow-woman finishes with recommendations. I need some god damn order.”

          They each went through their B.S. write-ups, and truly, lie or not, it’s all bull shit to my ears that made the whole experience feel like a lie to disguise a rape or a draining of my bank account. Too late, bastards. Per my bedside therapist’s orders, I’m laid up on my bunk while she talks about the rumors I’m soon to hear. I did need to recover. Staring wasn’t the half of it. While I lie there, I let the Snow-woman space each theory lesson out and let their enlightened spirit(s) that dictated those orders. Easier to do after they wait for me to bathe. No one had a problem with claiming the shower room once the smell acted as a nose ring that got infected. The Iceman decides he’s in…

Exploring the Causes of the Second Occurrence:

Theory one: Iceman Xavier; police force in the sky.

          Opening with an apology was a bit much, but— “It—you, well it was a pressure to pursue its wishes.”

          “Me to the 2nd Atrium.”

          “Yes. I don’t remember when I could no longer hold myself until I tried to read the file—”

          “File?” I interjected.

          “What, did they go for—whose case file was that? I want a name—”

          It was at this point I was attacked, and Snow-woman Shawna escorted him to quit where his fit’s duration of EVIL intent wouldn’t interrupt our interviews. I stood up both of our chairs, found her pen and pad, and stacked it atop the notebook; mine (you four pages ago) sat next to my drying jacket spread out on a milk crate tabletop. (Cardboard sold separately, my ass) Next.

Possible Message Delivered amid the 2nd Occurrence

Theory 2: Hay-woman Donna; Nether Realm

          She spent enough time checking her work, more than enough I’d say because she was a bit overzealous….

          “I don’t know contextually what it means I—I keep misremembering words because of the protective nature of it.”

          “Intentional?” I asked.

          “No—oh wait, yes, there is a consistent trail you’re meant to go along; it’s just—these languages. A line starts ‘deux l'Audacieux  彩虹霧中的司機 χρυσό στο πορτμπαγκάζ не нужна темнота—  But you get these that no matter the origin, it appears to be from. No past usage, no era to link it to but torturer in red.”

          “The color?”

          “In different forms—you know I’m sorry, there are more noteworthy. It’s just that it’s very violent—also violence, case, Detective and their insufferable demise. The last words you wrote. “

          “Thoughts?”

          “A warning. Something coming into our frames to inflict us with oncoming facts—no truths. Take in the challenge that’s coming. It’s difficult to keep it straight when it starts jumping centuries in dialects between the comas.”

          “Makes sense. Explains the ferociousness of the hijacking.”

          “What I want to say is I know that you’re not directly responsible for the occurrence. Say that you’ve been channeling the complimentary energies—forces that you are drawn to involuntarily. Other places in your life must have been hit with other realmly influences. Now you’re standing under the antenna. Shit, you might be the antenna.”

          “Thanks for coming.” She left a bunch of her notes with snippets of my writings on the wall. Snow-woman Shawna collected it, claiming the sight of it may have a triggering effect, proof that Harvest-woman April wasn’t above dealing me advice via proxy.

The D.A.S. Argument; the debate inside Occurrence #2

Theory three: Blue Moon June: Possessed by D.A.S. itself.

          When we took too long saying next, which I don’t understand how that was possible, and claimed whatever excuse they gave was bull shit. She took the folding chair and stared at me. Right into my eyes. She stopped Snow-woman’s interjection as it was raised. Looking away didn’t help because by the time I did, I could feel her gaze—you know that primal feeling you’re being watched that drives you a little paranoid until it passes or you see the matching eyes? Every time looking at the rest of the enclosure with its collection of sprawled-out laundry—clean and dirty, and the lamp light bathing us in orange, deeper than any 100-watt bathroom fixture, I was pulled back to them. She blinked like a normal 80s doll with the one droopy eyelid, so, great. Then she ask/demanded for my hand, the right one. The Snow-woman leaned forward abruptly, but I broke contact to reassure her it didn’t hurt that bad. I winced a bit, but it was the only time she broke contact to see the length of the damage. I wanted to say wrist to elbow, how’s the show? Except all she asked was, “Left or right-handed?”

          “I’m no heathen,” I joked. When no one laughed, I signaled to the correct one.

          “You’re going to be okay. Look at me,” Blue Moon June said, gently lifting my gaze from the blood-stained bandage to her eyes. She went from massaging the bandage on my arm, continuing with, “I’ve been thinking about what you’ve been through, and let me just thank you for you—your patience. The likes of us here must be pitiful compared to ‘home,’ and I appreciate your dedication; it can’t be easy with your condition and how it has interrupted your plans. If there’s anything I can do, Ms. Scarlett—”

          “DE-TEC-TIVE!”

          “Nice to finally speak to you. We’ll talk later, detective.”

          She left the second I spoke and dropped my arm hard on my lap. When I screamed, off in the distance, I heard her shout “Careful with the arm,” like a kid experimenting with forks and light sockets, but it isn’t your kid.  

          “Shawna, I—I, um…”

          “What?”

          “I don’t know why I said that.”

A Shifted Psyche; Occurrence #2

Theory four: Harvest-woman April: ‘There’s something in your basement.'

          “You should be resting.”

          “And why is that, doctor?” I asked.

          “Haha.”

          "And you know what it’s like if I’m not tuckered out, I can’t perceive the excuse to shut my eyes. I do wonder if the last 34 hours have had a dizzying effect on you. Metaphorical or otherwise. I can’t be the only one—”

          “Don’t.”

          “But I’d listen if—”

          “We’re good.”

          “Alright. What do your field notes say? I was hooked up to something, right?”

          “Yes. After and in hour-long stints during the occurrence. EKG was normal, temperature was high, but I’ve survived worse fevers. Your breathing was shallow, and you drunk wobbled a lot, but that’s not where things stopped being within acceptable levels and got wonky.”

          “What a word, right?” the Snow-woman asked.

          “The images are color correlated with brain activity—this is from the Magnetic Resonance Helmet we’ve been meaning to test, something we only manage to put on and take off once. Green to red to white color scale to demonstrate the intensity of brain activity. As you may know, different regions of the brain handle specific functions. Excuse the color pencil recreation; we need ink next time we go to land. Red and oranges are the most apparent; as you can see, this was persistent, as long as you were glued to the writing. A lot near the memory portion is burning red and a redder burn where the Pineal gland sits, all constant. This fits that of Obsessive-Compulsive Behavior. However, at brief moments for 17 seconds, you would pause—freeze in an untampered halt out of your body’s control. Whether you were fighting it or digging deep for more to write—I mean, you burst a blood vessel in your eye or developed serious nosebleeds during these periods, do you get this? Orange dip to white-hot Pineal gland and a deep red surrounding, frontal, occipital lobes, and it pulsated like you had a red alert light for a brain. The closer the center, the closer to white, then back to green and reds, back to writing.”

          “Conclusions?” I asked.

          “You were remembering those events—think your Terror Walks except living them live. You weren’t just in something’s memories, you were a part of the action. I’m thinking whatever it is uses the human brain to translate data, and the memories are coming from something that is not—can’t be bound here.”

          “That’s where people are getting the idea the nightmares, old and recent, are connected.”

          “Unrelated, in a sense. It may be the cause of your susceptibility…. What we did see but haven’t been able to print a word were the blue waves of brain death as you started to wind down. From your last line ended and 30 minutes after those dark brain-dead waves bursting from the Pineal gland fading to REM sleep patterns maybe a bit shallower. You were coming out of it whether the entity wanted it or not.”

          “Regardless, you believe an outer force, an unrecognizable to the measurement of either of us, swayed me to this reaction.”

          “Or you’re crazy and adopted our organization into your delusion, and we’re desperate for a win.”

          “So, tell me about this green carpet—”

          “Please, that room is god damn infuriating.”

          “What, green carpet, what room?” Snow-woman Shawna asked.

          Harvest-woman April froze as she put her equipment back into her stabilizer kit. Her sigh spoke, but the Snow-woman couldn’t hear what we were saying. She didn’t want to talk at all, but I had insisted, “We are going to have to figure this out, Doctor.”

          “Rest up—I’ll check back in a couple hours.”

          “Thanks.”

          “How about staying away from first contact next time? You’re allergic.” Then she left.

High Counsel of CULT; (Communers Unified in Litigation Trans-dimensionally)

Theory five: Wolfman Patrick; Getting the Sigil for the Trial.

          “…Each sign linking to the next on fire but not burning, we sit in the exhaust of its brilliance. We’ve made it, Chap, to and through the thickness of our most sorrowful moments. I know you only recall the first three or four laps—”

          “4 and 1/3rd.”

          “Thank you—even as it took hold of you then vanished into the night leaving behind a true-blue scientist. Clear descriptions, sensations, how it looked—felt to you; you were inspiring in there. And the endurance—for a man of your age unable to leave the wall for 22 hours and 36 minutes. Every moment spent painting the words from a memory theorized not to be your own and something you may have been living based on your brain’s heightened sense of situational awareness, especially when it came to anyone who touched the wet paint like Growing-woman Gwen, for example. What those messages looked like in their uncoded state must’ve been astounding.”

          “Do I just conclude that you don’t have a theory?”

          “Do you remember the four words you whispered to the Growing-woman?”

          “Go ahead and put no on that, Snow-woman Shawna.”

          “How would you describe the place the entity put you?”

          “A bouncing violet-red that’s burnt to a crisp, flat visually and physically. The only movement signifier I had was an infomercial mini trampoline. That’s it. I felt no gravity. I felt no exhaustion creeping on; the air seemed to breathe me, being a different me every exhale. I’m not sure I remembered to blink. At times, since I could perceive no depth, I thought I could be reaching for the ceiling in all directions. I could tell no distance—I could have been close to some sort of roof, but I could hear noises of outside worlds like I was flipping through channels.”

          “Astonishing. Arms, legs?”

          “Had them, only….”

          “Yes, Storm-man?”

          “I couldn’t move them—dead weight, although the higher I bounced the more I could reach with my hands. What did I say to Growing-woman Gwen?”

          “Don’t really know. She won’t say.”

          “No, no, you’ll ask her tomorrow. Rest time. Make sure the Harvest-woman checks your arm.”

          “Your thoughts, Snow-woman?”

          “Psychotic break—and you remember the Brochure. A few of the lines looked like they were pulled word for word from there.”

          “Something from the first page or paragraph. That shit gave me headaches trying to get a message; I only really remember the map clearly.”

          “Did he just change your title?”

          I shrugged and lay down.  

Diner in bed

Nightmare addition:

Clearly I’m in the wrong room, but no one is making a fuss about me setting up the camera. I don’t know who thought I would know how to use a flash bulb from the late 19th century, but I’ve got my subjects in their natural habitat. The gymnasiums AA meeting sat on half court, and where I stood under my cloth got every one of the faceless group. Although a polaroid was spat out, the image needed to be developed then I noticed the carpet. It wasn’t there in the photo, and the meeting already seemed to adjust and sit on the floor. I aimed for the dark room I knew was on the opposite side of the court, but this was fine until I shrank or the grass-colored carpet grew with every step. I stopped to counter this action. I didn’t feel overly harmed until I remembered the spark from that old timey camera, one of a fucking plethora, started to engulf the carpet. It chased as any blaze would on shag carpet, and as I suffocated in greenish smoke that filled my lungs, I was drowned by a sprinkler system, tangled like an ant in the weeds. Then repeat.