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OOC: A reminder for those on computer that if you see coloured animal sounds, you can hover your cursor over them to translate. If you’re on a phone, you’re on your own!
4A: Hi, My Name Is
##It is good to know
That you can count to seven
Last time you fucked up##
“Let’s just get the first name thing out of the way first, shall we? Since you just ‘thought you’d mention it’? I’m not gonna pepper any extra emphasis on it, Lou. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure as shit not opposed to picking at some of that low-hanging fruit, more on that later - The Future! Tomorrow! Saturday! May Day! Oh no! … I just don’t think showing off like that would add much, because Lou…
Okay, that one was just for shits and giggles.
That’s not really a ‘you’ thing, my man. Granted I’d alternate a little around speaking like that when it came to The Two Chrises. For Pete’s sake, I’ve never met two people who shared a name being so damn indistinguishable even with some added contextual cues. Perhaps though, that made it less obvious for you in my last affair. I can see you need something as simple as this spelled out for you. Here it goes then: Centurion’s name is Andy; Morbid Angel’s name is Kyril; Thaddeus Duke’s name is Pathetic Cunt; and so on and so forth. I’m pretty sure that I’ve used them all. Granted, even beyond Page and Chaos, I’m not exactlyconsistentwith it (how boring), but uh… I even did this last time, my man. I went back to double-check, and I tended to say ‘Louis’ more back then, but it’s kind of a natural progression to just keep shortening things from there, isn’t it? Lives. Careers. Championship reigns. Ooh, how ominous! Point is, this isn’t anything special. Nor is it anything new. Does saying your take away some of your power? I dunno. It probably has more to do with me having a bit of a thing about names, but let’s go with the power thing. You know, like why you’re not mentioning mine - nickname or not. Besides, you seem so eager for me to understand how much ‘power’ you have in this situation.
Behold The Great Power of Lou! When he falls on his face, he somehow is giving someone else napalm. And through the power of his failure, those who conquer him are simultaneously turned into a magical being worthy of him reaching down into the deepest recesses of his bootyhole to bring forth his very bestest evilest self… and also turned into nothing more than a tasty little snack.
Takes one to know one.
Tell you what, Lou, if you want to chow down so bad, then I’ll pour a little chocolate syrup on my hand so it tastes better for you this time. Oh no, last time doesn't count! You think that May Day was just a one-off, don’t you? It’s not like you’ve had another shot since then. It’s not like you still weren’t able to get the job done. No, that one doesn’t count for realsies. Maybe a quarter of a point, at best, if anyone was keeping score.
Still more than what you’re bringing to the fucking table.
You’ve got a reputation, Lou. I’ve never dismissed that. Not then, and not now. No time-skipping needed to answer that question. I haven’t come out here and pretended that this will be easy. I sure as shit haven’t acted like the last one was.
But I have a reputation too.
Do I have to say the fucking ‘S’ word again?
You know what it is. You know that I do it, Lou. Every single fucking time, I do it.
Every.
Single.
Time.
There is no ‘what if’. There is no ‘what about’. I don’t have a Chris Chaos. I don’t have a me. Yes there have been failings. A grand total of three of them. I can count them on one mangled hand. But each time I’ve fallen, I’ve survived.
There it is. There’s that fucking word.
Maybe I’m just setting the bar low enough that I can clear it whenever I do spectacularly crash and burn. Or maybe I’m just fighting for something different than you. You know… like I’ve always fucking said.
A part of me wants to see it, Lou. The ‘Off With His Head!’ I’d be curious to see how history would repeat. To see what the next level is. Last time I phoenixed my ass back here, I took the Universe itself. What more could I take? Or perhaps it would be more of the fucking same. I’d take what I already have. Reincarnation as the Master of the fucking Universe.
By the Power of Grayskull!
I imagine you’d actually get a kick out of that. You putting my head on a pike while my body runs around like a headless chook. It’d be even funnier when my hand still worms its way inside your shit-kisser and the outcome doesn’t fucking change. Again, that’s not me doubting your reputation, Lou. I very much appreciate that you’re talking about ‘fighting’ rather than ‘wrestling’ like Chris Page did. I absolutely agree. But you had that reputation last time too. No matter how you want to run the whiteout over it. It didn’t help you then.
But come on, man, a Chris Chaos comparison? That’s the fucking line that should have the trigger warning on it, because OUCH! That’s low, even for you. I mean Chris may not look you in the eye, but the bitch couldn’t even utter my name in the build up to War Games. Not after what I put him through. I guess you get your back up a little when someone stands their fucking ground against you.
Oh, I know, I’m just like all the others.
When you say that, you actually become like ‘all the others’ on my end.
It’s always the same. ‘End of the line’ this, ‘looks like I hit a nerve’ that. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not particularly bothered by any of it. Saying ‘fuck’ a lot doesn’t make me triggered, boo. You should try it some time. Nor am I fussed by… let me get this straight… how long it took for people to realise what was coming? Like… no shit I was just the guy who beat Reggie Estrada when that’s about as much as I was offered. What the fuck else was I supposed to be? The guy who beat someone I didn’t fight? The fuck? You’re conveniently overlooking Star of the Month that month though, so not quite sure how strong that idea that my name wasn’t at least on some people’s lips is, but I won’t hold that up like it’s something to fucking brag about after Oswald (ooh a first name!) was given it this year too.
♫Hate me today…♫
Makes for a better story to spin though, doesn’t it? Like essentially boiling your failure last time down to ‘I wasn’t trying hard enough’. That’s really what you’re saying, Lou. At May Day you didn’t know how fucking good I was, so you didn’t show up ready to be… well… to be you. Errr… I call bullshit. You had me for a moment there, but that narrative that I supposedly want to control, keeps changing on your end. Are we done blaming Corey now? And are you over what you literally, LITERALLY said about me proving nothing in the Universe could stop me? Toss all that out with Atty’s Bust and the circus pants, I guess. Now it’s that May Day was a… fluke? Jesus bed-shitting Christ, you sure you don’t want to walk back that Chris Chaos comparison? Just like Chaos, that right there, Lou, is textbook fucking BITCH.
I opened the book to you. You forgot to read it. That’s on you. Now YOU are out here asking ME for a session, and we’re all supposed to act like I’m not your fucking mountain? Are we supposed to pretend that this book of mine is so worthless while going out of your way to try and check it out of the library? Twice. Sure, that tracks, if you live in one of those fucking bizarro-worlds I’ve been telling stories about. Tell you what, if you forget to read the book again, I can print a fucking copy. You can put it on your mantle next to that line about how you’re the ‘one shot that can drop me’, ‘cause if we’re talking about copies, that sounds pretty close to something I said. About you, Lou. AutoRebuttal: ‘Yadda yadda yadda nO U R dA cOPycAT’!
You’re the ‘one’, right? Fuck me.
Surely you realise that you’re not the first one to say that. Hell, if you want to bring Chaos into this, then I only need to point you that far to give you a prime example. I know he said it to you too, but when he said to one of us there was a hint of rationale behind his megalomania, wasn’t there? At least at first that is. I whole-heartedly acknowledge that the ship has long since been sunk on that front and the captain went down the loo with it. Still, the other of us never even had that folly, did we? For a reason.
Let’s not forget, Lou, that the doctor’s door wasn’t open. You closed it. For From me. And yeah, I wanted to get in. But if you consider turning to the side and reaching into my bag of tricks to be a mighty inconvenience - I just had that BFG lying around, I promise! - then you’re going to be pretty damn irked by the end of this one! Riled up like you’re me whenever ol’ Lou talks about metaphors or whatever. Or whatever, all right. We’re going to need to get Chris Chaos back and ask him to bring his dictionary, because I don’t think you and I have the same definition of ‘anger’. This is kind of my default, man. I use naughty words and raise my voice. Such a bad, bad man! I also just find it funny whenever someone points to anyone else and says anything remotely similar to them having yanked ideas from another. Hence the mockery a few minutes ago. I mean, it’s not like Chris Page said something eerily similar during our little tongue-wags either. If the glove fits the Freddy Krueger looking-hand, then maybe there’s a point, but if Page is on that kick too it’s probably the wrong direction for you to look for inspiration in. Pot. Kettle. Cunt.
We can take it a step further if you want. I’ve been chinwagging for a while here, and after all of this my tea’s gone cold and I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all. Maaaaan, been there, done that, wrote the fucking metaphor. TRIGGER.
Subtler and smoother too. Uh-oh! Looks like we’re comparing dicks! Slinging mud over something as simple as who walked down a corridor first. This seems to be something you’re perseverating on. Maybe make another mark on that trigger board, for you! Who’s keeping score? And will they let me fucking know if War Games counts?! I’d really like to do a little extra face-rubbing. Oh, shit! I did it again! And now I’m yelling and have all this overdriven rage which is just another pull of the fucking TRIGGER! I can’t talk about anything over here without Lou getting stroppy. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re not ‘stroppy’. Could’ve fooled me, but we all know Lou never gets ‘stroppy’. Whatever you want to call it, just keep your fucking heart rate down, before you have a cardiac event.
I get that you’re old, man, but it doesn’t mean you created Everything though.
Hey, this low-hanging fruit tastes DELICIOUS. Eat The Fruit.
Sure hope you didn’t try to catch me in a contradiction! You said you weren’t going to do that!”
“Liar.”
“Oh…
Welp, it looks like you just stepped on a rake and it hit you in your nether-Lous. Is that a more preferable use of your name? Have a bite of dem apples for yourself, Lou, and tell me how you like them.
You’re mistaking absurdity for anger, and my determination for foolishness. Well keep not reading the book then, Lou. That shit’s on you. Better yet, go on and roll out B.O.B. again. That sure showed me last time.
Just make up your fucking mind. Is the book going in the garbage or not? Is it nonsense or is it something that you’re craving? Or is it both, even? That’s cool, we can get as loopy as we want. Because you’re out here asking to come back into the labyrinth. And if that’s the case, oh mama, now you’re speaking my language! Come get lost in me! Don’t worry about the doors, the windows, the fire escapes. I think Charlie Nickles is still stuffed in the chimney, so that way is blocked too. It’s all Greek to me today, anyway.
Let’s do this fucking thing. I got you on your entrance. For this session, Lou, just lean in a little. I’m just gonna wrap you up tight in a nice warm fiery embrace, and bring you on in the old fashioned way. Who knows? Maybe that’s where Vinnie Lane is!
I sure hope THAT is going to be a metaphor of your own!
I think I saw the man in black in my brain dead nonsense.
Tell the detective if you see him.
The doctor’s door might not always be open. Not anymore. Not to me. The patient’s door though? I done blew it off it’s fucking hinges.
Come on in.”
4B: XX_Progress Notes_210918
Patient Progress Notes
Date: 09/18/21
Therapist:
Facility:
Patient:
Age:
◻ Female ☑ Male
Session length: 60 min
◻ No Session: _________________
Treatment Issue: Severe paranoia and antisocial behaviour. Threats to commit harm to others.
☑ noncompliance (medical care)
☑ restlessness
☑ sad/pained/ worried expression
☑ self deprecation
◻ sleep disturbance
☑ socially inappropriate
◻ social withdrawal
◻ suicidal ideation or plan
◻ thought disorder
◻ other:
◻ other:
Diagnoses: Undetermined
Intervention strategies implemented and session focus or theme: Naturalistic, patient-led approach. Indirect confrontation regarding accuracy of delusions.
Patient Response:
◻ Marked improvement
◻ Some improvement
◻ Same functioning
☑ Symptoms worsening
Evidence of patient response: Delusions progressed to detailed auditory and visual hallucinations. Still, patient able to distinguish reality from fiction with respect to particular hostile stimulus.
Future treatment/Follow-up: Discrimination between reality and fiction may indicate breakthrough is imminent. Continue course of action.
I walk a road that nobody can follow. In depths nobody can know. Onwards I travel, for all eternity. Never lost. Never wavering. Never doubting. The trail runs cold, but each time the end draws near, I find another sign. A deadened fire, an abandoned canteen, and at times, simply a broken twig. There should be no twigs here. There should be nothing. No light. No air. No man.
But there is.
I exist.
As I did, so I shall. I walk this forsaken road, chasing my elusive dreams. I, the fire.
In the face of the vast expanse, the emptiness becomes comfort. And that becomes an expectation. It makes any change stand out like a neon flashing sign, no matter how small or near-imperceptible. One such change makes itself known, peaking ever-so-slightly above the horizon. As I near, it grows. It’s width stretches across my entire vision. A cold stone wall rising, far beyond the height of man. Above the treeline, above the mountains even (including my own one). A monolith of mythic proportions. But there is no way through.
I study the nature of this question. The tips of my fingers identify the wall as exactly how it looks. I run my hand along, just as I had done, imprisoned by Kieran King in that sphere. My breath all of a sudden grows heavy at the recollection. How long ago was that? How long have I been travelling? Seeking.
There are mortar-filled grooves between sections of the wall. Rather than being a continuous structure, this is a series of bricks, implying that this was constructed. That’s… interesting, I think. Important? I don’t know. What I do know is what I need to do.
I need to continue my journey.
With a tap of my fist on the hard surface, I quickly recognise that brickwork or not, the wall is too thick to penetrate. Similarly, it’s too high to climb. Only one choice then, to go around. Maybe a little wobble in the forward progression.
The same principles as before help me make my decision on which way to go. A discarded diaper lies wedged to the left in the joint of the wall and whatever ground this is I walk upon. I can’t help but marvel at the juxtaposition. A symbol of new life against a symbol of the other. Even more base, waste contrasted with worth. The muscles in my cheek twitch in recognition of the humour in it. And then a creeping thought worries whether Kieran King has been able to change the girl’s clothes. For a fleeting second my heart does a double-pump, before I convince myself that I can let that concern float away. Somehow, in this place, I don’t think it really matters.
The journey lasts an age again. As I travel, entire kingdoms crumble to ruin, and no one mourns them. They just go about their day. As I go about my saga. Eventually, another change in the landscape draws my attention. The colour of the ground seems to change in the distance. With an extra kick in my step, I soldier on, noticing the wall begin to change as well.
And then I am upon it.
Uninviting though it may seem, I am drawn to it. I see a shining light. I hear a ringing bell.
But I am no fool.
And I am not unarmed.
I reach through the abyss and pluck the dagger from its altar. Each time I hold it, I find myself repeating the same pattern. I observe the cross on one side, turn it over, and stare at the inverted pentagram on the other. This time is no different, in that sense. Very different in another. The symbols are glowing. They’ve done this once before, when first paired with the map. Gosh, that was so long ago. When I was on the outside. How long has it been? Back then, it startled me. But now I know what it means.
I’m on the right track.
You’ll see. The universe is rooting for me.
For me.
With a newfound conviction, I glide the blade over my hand, not even wincing at the pain. Droplets of blood trickle down to the ground. And they connect. Given my experiences in the hospital, that’s a significant relief.
I clench my hand and force a little more out onto the ground. Taking a few small steps, I check that its intent is being met. The blood trails behind me. So I take a larger step, and the labyrinth swallows me whole.
Through the twists and turns, the entrance soon becomes but a memory, lost in the yesterday save for the drops of blood that would lead me back there. Every now and then I pump my fist to keep the blood flowing. After the third, fourth, or twenty-seventh time, I honestly wouldn’t know which, the reason why I bled myself becomes apparent.
The labyrinth winds further and further, and all hope of keeping track of how many turns I have made vanish. My blood continues to drip, when I hear a low growl. The first time, it was quiet. The second is much, much louder. The Nemean Lion leaps from the annals of history, and proudly stands before me.
“I killed you,” I say, holding a steady gaze. I completed my labours, and the Universe paid me my goddamn due. “I slayed the fucking lion and wore its hide upon my back!”
It growls again and though I don’t hear it in my head like I have with other creatures, I still understand the meaning entirely. Stories never die.
Baring its teeth, it leaps forward to strike. Deftly, I duck to the side, quickly withdrawing the dagger once more, and set to work. I stab and I stab and I stab and I stab.
I kill the fucking lion. If I have to do it a thousand times over, I will kill the fucking lion. DO YOU HEAR ME?
But the lion isn’t alone. As soon as it utters its last pitiful whimper, the daunting shadow of the Lernaean Hydra looms from around a corner. Seven snapping heads bear down upon me.
“I fucking killed you!” I remind the beast. But it doesn’t care. Each head attacks in a frenzied rage. The dagger is still mine, however. I cut and I cut and I cut and I cut. Six heads fall, and for the last - that immortal head in the middle… I let it bite me.
I, the fire.
The hydra burns.
As its ash mixes with the blood of the lion, the next foe makes its move. A horrid squawk signals the arrival of the Stymphalian Birds. The swoop from the far reaches up above, closing the distance fast.
“Fuck it,” I say, knowing they don’t care about their prior death. I charge to meet them. The numbers are a struggle, but I’m the guy who survives a whole fucking armada. I don’t even use the dagger. As each bird draws near, I wring its fucking neck.
Discord reigns. Bodies strewn everywhere. I pump blood from my hand once more, and continue on.
Until I come to a dead end.
“Shit…” I mutter. Just as I’m about to turn around, I notice the wall move a little. Stopping in my tracks, I watch it a moment longer. There it is again! What is this?
With my bloodied fingers, I touch the wall.
“Paper?” I ask, not expecting a response. Naturally, I try to rip my way through, but somehow the paper won’t tear. The blood from my cut hand paints lines across the wall. As they drip down following unknown paths, they suddenly begin to glow. Just like the dagger had! I look down to the mysterious dagger, still in my hand, but the symbols are not lit. “Hmmph…”
There must be something I can do. I stare at the wall as I try to plot my next course, and then it hits me! Reaching through to that swirling kaleidoscopic abyss, I put the dagger back on its altar and withdraw another artifact.
The map.
Holding it up to the paper wall, I instantly spot that the blood lines match segments of the path drawn on the map of my own journey, criss-crossing across America and the Atlantic. Not caring how much blood I’ve lost or still may lose, I clench my fist several times more to get a good flow, and I paint a replica of the pattern onto the wall. The glow spreads, no longer limited to just the lines. Soon, the entire paper burns bright!
Almost immediately upon making my choice, something begins to feel wrong. The air grows thick and coarse. In the back of my throat, I feel a tickle, then a scratch. I cough, broad and aggressive, trying to clear out any and all invaders with one foul swoop. Fine flakes of residue tumble out of my mouth in a cloud of sneaking death, and my eyes begin to see the particles floating around me.
Progressing through the maze, the source becomes apparent. The stone of the walls begins to crumble away, the smallest fragments of which turn into that powder that thickens the air. The larger fragments fall to the ground, as pebbles, then rocks, then boulders. And the walls, they change. Splotched paint fails to coat plasterboard walls that poke out from underneath where the rock once stood. The labyrinth itself changes, and becomes no more.
I’m back in the hospital. The long walk. Down that eternal corridor that totally tolerates no breaches. Not a tree trunk, just a corridor. Void of doors completely.
The more things stay the same, the more things change.
Or whatever.
That’s not how that saying goes, is it? That’s not how any of this goes. Nothing about this has been right or normal. It just is the way it is. The way it was. And if I have any choice in the matter, it is the way it will be again. At least, metaphorically.
Que séra. The final word isn’t needed.
Heh… of course it’s fucking metaphorically. When is it not? The hospital corridor exists. And inside it, a man does too. I do. Always and forever. A traveller in my own mind.
Many steps I take. So much ground I cover. The choking dust leaves a mist behind me, but I step out from the obscurity and continue on my path. This has got to be a wrong turn. This feels like I’m going backwards. Or maybe that’s the point? With every wayward step I take, the chance for it all to fall apart only grows greater. And I’m an all or nothing kind of guy. I’m not usually one for contingencies.
It’s ironic, then, that I check down on the ground for signs that my trail of blood continues. The drops are thinner, but still there, so I ball my fist once more and squeeze until the juice starts flowing more freely. And I continue on my journey. Where will I stop? Nobody knows!
Probably at a door or something.
Or two.
Ever forward. Until it’s over.
And I can pick a colour, any colour! Reds and whites, blacks and golds, anything else that I could imagine! The doors are. All at once, or none at all. Their existence at my mercy. Wedged into frames at the end of the endless corridor. Whatever form they take, it is identical. The only difference is...
Heading towards the left once more, I muse at my own fate. Here I am, at the mercy of reductionistic choices once more. It’s that age old adage playing out in unreal time: the more things change…
Did I get the saying right?
Only half will understand the question.
The hypocrisy of revisiting past motifs and tropes, all while lambasting another for doing the same, isn’t lost on me. Doors; choices; hospitals; whatever will be, already is. To me, right or wrong, the difference is in the goals. These are the fields that I have traversed. To Elysium and back again. These are the reasons that I’m here. This isn’t a desperate search to try to find a solution to a puzzle that has yet to be cracked. This isn’t a recent thing. This is the Everything. My meaning for being. So I will face these choices, new as they may be, with more vigour and aplomb than any I’ve been presented with before.
And there’s not much about the choice outcomes that can surprise me.
So when the labyrinth guides me from its winding, rocky gorges into a wider open space, I’m not surprised to find more reflections of the past.
Trotting up a craggy lump in the middle, the majesty of the Ceryneian Hind stands as a lavish centrepiece.
There is a shining light.
From its position, the light spills down to where the tusks of the Erymanthian Boar root through the mist-coated ground. A braying snort draws my eyes to where the fire-breathing Mares of Diomedes chew upon the bones of souls from aeons before. Further across the space, the three-bodied giant Geryon lumbers about amongst his cattle.
The giant turns its head, and its eyes fall directly upon me. I brandish the dagger, preparing for history to repeat. But the giant just turns away. With lurching steps it trudges towards a bed of hay in the corner, and leaves me to my devices.
I know what to do. I reach into the abyss once more and withdraw another of my artifacts. The infinite rope of woven blues, blacks, yellows, and silvers. The strands entwine in a formidable tensile display. And as I had done before, when tasked with my labours, I capture the creatures.
The cattle are bound around their bodies, the mares around their muzzles. The boar puts up a fight, but I hoist it up above the ground, dangling it from the tightened threads that stretch between the other creatures. I wait before I approach the hind. Last time, I chased it across mountains and over expansive seas. It had nearly been the end of me.
The hind approaches me instead.
“Hello swift one,” I say, careful not to frighten it. It bows its head and touches my cheek with its wet nose. A sticky tongue then laps its point of contact.
Stroking the side of the hind’s neck with my bare left hand, I am able to gently loop the rope over its body. It gives me another kiss, and it urges the rest of the beasts to follow its lead as I guide the rope over to the side of the space and fasten it to a post, cutting the end of the interminable thread with the dagger. The Ceryneian Hind’s bright light martials the others to order. Geryon watches from the side, and I nod in his direction as I had done once before before going to war. Perhaps I am again. But not with him. Not today. Sometimes war is never ending. But there are times when it can be resolved.
I am free to press on.
The space narrows again until it becomes a solid wall. No path through. I consider following the trail of blood that still drips its way behind me, but a peculiar shaped notch in the wall catches my attention just before I commit. I brush away a small coating of dust and grime from the surrounding area, and see two symbols marked on either side of the hole, etched in charcoal.
Left.
Right.
No chaotic, muddled mind.
An upside down pentagram.
A Christian cross
What better clue do I need?
I jab the dagger into the side of the wall. The wall rumbles and groans, before it begins to crack. It changes what you see. The entire thing falls down in a rain of sand. Unlike the paper wall that fell before it, the remnants remain.
Truth. Defined by my experience.
I collect the dagger from the rubble and face the inevitable on the other side.
I don’t think it’s lost on anybody that the word ‘right’ has a double meaning. I chose the direction, but it’s quickly revealed to me that it was anything but the ‘right’ choice. Sure the path continues to wind, but there’s nothing to break the monotony. It’s just another turn, another corner, another straight path surrounded by these high, unassailable walls. I can’t explain why, but something doesn’t seem ‘right’ about any of that.
A dead end confirms my suspicion. Reaching the point in which I can traverse no further, my natural inclination is to fight. A wall, a door, a window? I always find a way to bust through it, and by now, I know myself well enough to predict how I would react.
I’d move forward, wouldn’t I?
But it’s not just a wall I encounter. There is no door or window either. Embedded in the solid stone, is a large square mirror framed by an ornate design of expertly carved obsidian.
Obsidian. I recall the last time I saw that volcanic glass mixed with mirrors. It was the night that I discovered Kieran King’s location. And the night I began needing to make my way through this world alone.
“Find him. Find me.”
Gosh… if only the Salmon-Coloured Minotaur could see me now!
If only Lou could see how grateful I am for the mirror thing.
The silly git.
Examining the carvings around the reflective surface, I see a story being told. A man builds a city. It’s extravagance is only matched by the formidable defences he surrounds it with. An invading force arrives, and despite the defences, conquers it anyway. The man leads an army to take it back.
He fails.
That’s how it happened. I know that. You know that.
Below the frame, the mirror churns. The surface is not obsidian, just regular old sugar lime coated in silver. But what it shows me is something far beyond regular.
I see myself, having taken over a city. The Universe sits within the palm of my hand. A man comes with his army.
And he takes the Universe back.
Discarded onto the street like a used cigarette, I tuck my tail between my legs and slink out of the city. A vagrant, I wander. Trying to find my way in this world. But without the throne; without the power; without the Universe; the answers that I seek are not forthcoming. Every now and then I see glimpses of them. But before I can even extend my arm towards them, they’re gone. Fleeting promises that never amount to anything.
Every now and then I watch myself come out of whatever hole I’ve tucked myself away in and try to have another go at it. I manage a fair bit of success, slaying mid-level villains and dukes. Even the occasional vampire, as the mirror shows me. But I am never the same. I am never welcomed back into the city. Occurring this close to the end, my failure was a disaster. And that is the truth.
Outside the mirror, as the me who watches, I run my tongue over my teeth, and think of all I’ve done. And all I stood to lose along the way.
I’m even closer now. Everything I’ve ever sought is almost tangible. I can’t stop it. A mirror can’t either. Sure as fuck, a memory of outcomes that never happened couldn’t either. So fuck you! I spit. The saliva splats against the vacant mirror and begins its gradual descent down the surface. Down. Down. Down.
Not the direction I want to go in. Not the direction that I will.
I squeeze my hand, keeping the trickling blood fresh.
Sure I go forward, but anything can be forward if you just turn around.
Sounds like a cop out, I know. But it makes sense, because this… this is the wrong one.
“Where were you?” I ask myself, a child talking to a man. In those shifting blue eyes, I see another story. Another version of what came to be.
Of how I did.
There is no altar at the top of a mountain. No addict caught out in the rain. I wasn’t plucked from the arms of Momma Me and Papa Me after their heads were separated from their bodies. No. This version of me was made.
I see it all unfold. I see the doctors in their labs, mixing together all the ingredients. A little bit of them, A LOT of a few others. They churn it all together in a vat, and voila! It’s a younger me! And he twitches in front of me. Both his arms raise, and the weight shifts from his hands onto his shoulders. In his hands, the hair of both his parents intertwine around his fingers.
Blood drips from their severed necks.
“I didn’t do that,” I offer, as if it means anything.
“You will,” the younger me growls. Haphazardly, he tosses the heads over his shoulders and they disappear back into the muddied memories. So long! I hope to see you soon!
From the look on the younger me’s face, that might just be the case. A twitch in his muscles gives him away. But he doesn’t transform - there is no added beast this time. Just him. A grubby little creature with an appetite for more than his wee stomach could ever hope to handle. I could always follow the trail of blood back to where I came from. I could always run. But I’m a fool {{too}}. I don’t run.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” I say to the boy. Perhaps there’s another option, aside from fight or flight? “I can help you get out of here.”
“Back through the maze?” the other me snarls. “Where’s the fun in that? And what would I do with all of these toys?”
He has a magic satchel of his own. It’s full of wondrous artifacts of another type.
A map lead pipe. Existence.
A dagger wrench. Truth.
A rope revolver. Life.
The orb candlestick. Hope.
The Universe. Everything. Nothing.
That’s a joke.
I’m short on those particular toys myself.
No matter, I can still blow your fucking brains out.
Should have gone all-in with a Pokéball.
Joke or not, the boy does have toys. Big ones, small ones, sharp ones, blunt ones. Things that go BANG! in the night.
“Where were you?” asks the girl. Though she’s aged, I know it’s her. Her arm raises, barely bothered by the weight it carries. In her hand, the hair of her new father intertwines around her fingers.
My head.
Blood drips from its severed neck.
“Where were you?” she asks again. Her unblinking eyes don’t tell me any stories. In turn, that actually tells me more than enough in its own right.
“What do you mean?” I ask, careful of how my voice may rise or inflect. I try to keep my focus firmly on her emotionless face, searching for any hint as to what led her here physically, and beyond. There’s a lot that I still don’t know about her. Her parents are no longer with us, gone the way of my head in her hands. Though I have tried to find anyone else she may be connected to - a tale I’ve admittedly avoided telling - thus far I’ve come up unsuccessful. Aside from that, the only other distinctive things I know about the little one are that she’s very fond of mulched guava and cries whenever anyone other than me tries to connect with her.
I wonder if I cried when she took my head?
No. I’m not looking at that! I’m looking at her!
“Where were you?” she repeats, frustrating my efforts to understand.
“I’m right here. And I can stay. I don’t have to go anywhere.” I don’t know if that’s what she needs to hear, but I mean it. I’m here, and I’m willing to stay. “Was I… was I not there when… you know?”
The girl doesn’t respond right away. She looks down at the head of mine in her hand, blood still dripping from its neck just as it drips from my own hand. I tighten my fists to will the flow of life to a stronger current, knowing I may need to find my way back when all this is done. I could take her with me! I should…
“You should have stopped it,” she speaks once more, interrupting my thoughts.
“Stopped what?” I press, desperate for understanding. “Stopped you?”
“Where were you?” she reverts back to the start.
“I…” I stammer, trying to find the words. “I had my blinkers on. I was fixated on solving my own problems, that I didn’t even think to try and help anyone else. Where were the others?”
“Dead,” she says. My gut twists as if she had a grip on either side of it and was wringing it like a towel.
“You… you know who I’m talking about, right?” Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe in her time, there are ‘others’ that we’re closer to. In this, I only have a few. People like, “Corey?”
“Dead.”
“Dolly?”
“Dead.”
“Betsy?”
“Dead.”
Shit… I have to draw pretty deep to go any further.
“Andy?”
“Dead.”
“NK?”
“Dead.”
It’s like a broken record. What about on the other foot?
I am carried deeper into the labyrinth. I can scarcely recall what it was even like before I was here, surrounded by these daunting walls.
Walls and doors.
Repeat.
What was the world like before I entered? What would it be like when I emerge? What will have changed? Will I? Will it all have been worth it?
My blood continues to mark where I have been. For a moment, I humour the beginnings of a metaphor in that, before recognising its ultimate folly. It doesn’t mark Everything. Not yet.
The wanderings of a mind attempting to rationalise the absurd are interrupted by a squelch under the mind’s foot. I glance down to where a small pile of dung squishes out from underneath the sole of my shoe.
“God damn it,” I lament, lifting my leg up to inspect the damage. It’s not so bad. One of the stone walls is within reach, and it offers a sufficiently abrasive surface on which I can scrape away the manure. Satisfied by the size of the brown smear along the grey, I bring my foot down ahead of where it had first fallen.
The ground squelches again.
“…The fuck?” I look down and see another pile of shit. That definitely wasn’t there before. Suspicious, I scan the ground ahead of me and it looks perfectly clear. Before I wipe off the muck again, I bring my other, clean foot forward. I place it where I know that the ground was unsullied. It still squelches.
The third time is the charm. On that final step in shit, the vision of the labyrinth shifts. The wall opens up to reveal several more openings than had first been there. But they aren’t choices. They’re stables, reminiscent of those of the Augean. Billowing out from behind carved timbers that swing out onto the labyrinth path is an ocean of pure shit. It flows like lava, stopping mere inches from where I stand on now completely faeces-free ground. In the middle, upon a bullshit stone altar, rests a girdle, Hippolyta’s by vision, surrounded by three golden Herperidian apples.
More remnants of my labours. To find an answer to these myths, to force my own meaning from it all, the map points me onwards, straight through the heaving mess. I doubt even I could conquer that much horseshit. I quickly surmise that like both the wild and the domesticated beasts before them, I must tidy up these ends for good.
After the map provides limited options, I sift through my magic satchel of metaphysical artifacts for another answer. The solution has to be in there. It has to be!
The dagger is as useful as the shit that coats the ground. I could probably loop the rope from one pillar to another and shimmy across it, but that wouldn’t address the concern directly, so I suspect it wouldn’t resolve the issue. I know there is another artifact in there, but that would be as helpful as the dagger, so all I’m left with is the orb. I withdraw it into this world, and it hums in a brilliant blue. When in the hospital, or even in the concrete ball of darkness that I awoke in at the outset, I had been hesitant to use this. Through its power, it had brought Betsy Granger to me just before Leap of Faith, providing me with a way out when there was no other. But I don’t want to bring her here. I don’t even know if I could, impossible though her skillset may be. This place is different. It feels beyond the space and time that she skips so effortlessly about. And all the same, it feels infinitely smaller. Could she make it here? And if not, what harm would befall her in the attempt? Or befall me. To top things off, with her recent dalliances with Lycana, I'm not sure that even if she could, it would pay off for me. Still, perhaps this orb has a few extra tricks up its imaginary sleeve? When last I cleaned these stables, I diverted the flow of a river. What if I could divert the very ground itself?
It'd need to be delicate operation, and admittedly that doesn't tend to be my strength. But I most certainly have the requisite force, all it needs is a little fine tuning.
Gripping the stone tight, I shut my eyes. I change the rules. And I change the fucking world.
The filth-blanketed floor begins to rise on one side, hinged against the stable entrances. The dung begins to slide down back into the stables themselves, revealing a ground underneath identical to the clear path that had originally been laid before me. In the middle of it all, amongst the cleaned stables, the altar remains. With a half-skip in my step, I move on in and gather Hippolyta’s girdle once more. I take a bite of one of the apples, and restore it all to its place in myth, before continuing onward on my journey.
As expected, something blocks the way. Scraping metal slices down and then draws back up before slicing back down once more. The map tells me to keep going, but there isn’t enough time between each hacking motion of the guillotine to dive through, nor enough space between the supporting beams and the stone walls to slip past.
Let’s be real here, this sort of barrier is to be expected by now. Lucky I have that rope, eh? It’s almost like the use of these artifacts is occurring in the chronological order that I obtained them. Funny that.
It doesn’t take me long to jimmy up a rig that can hold the chopping blade in place so it no longer moves. I don’t even need to use the whole rope - endless as it is. I snip the end and place the rest back upon its altar in my mind. I then step through the frozen apparatus.
Life. Defined by my survival.
Before the fork in the maze presents itself, I can already predict it’ll be there.
I am carried deeper into the labyrinth. I can scarcely recall what it was even like before I was here, surrounded by these daunting walls.
Walls and doors.
Repeat.
Quips and phrases, repeat.
Down this lonely path, I feel history unwinding. I’ve fought beasts and I’ve survived. And then? I fought those fuckers again. How many times would I have to do this? What would the world be like if I decided not to? If I just… gave up.
The trail of my blood still dots the path behind me. I could take the ‘out’ now. I could recognise my folly and just go back to wherever the fuck I came from and pretend that none of this ever happened.
Or I could look into the mirror.
Thanks, Lou!
The path comes to an end. Hanging from a metal peg that has been drilled into the wall, is a long, rectangular mirror edged by a thin obsidian rim, the significance of which is felt elsewhere. At the top, it extends upwards, telling a story from left to right. A throne with a king upon it. A man swinging a flaming sword. Off with his fucking head. The king is dead.
But below, the mirror tells me a different story. In its reflection I see myself draw a sword. Or my hand. Or a molotov cocktail. Maybe all of it. Honestly (here we go again), I just see the fire.
The fire that snuffed the flames.
The king takes his vaunted gauntlet and pinches out my puny flare. He brings his index finger onto the inside edge of his thumb and flicks me like I’m an ant. I fly, beyond the realms of known memory. Back to whatever rock I crawled out of. Whatever cell I was locked up in.
And I’m gone.
I’m gone.
I’m gone
Forgotten, like I was before.
The king takes another treasure for his trophy cabinet. Five times forces came to overthrow him. Five times he held them back. Soon enough, he gathers himself and decides that one kingdom isn’t enough. He wants them all. And he fucking takes them all. My life is forgotten.
I know what it is I’m looking at in the mirror. I know that’s what could have been. But it wasn’t. I made sure it wasn’t. There were plenty of points along the way that I could have given up. There were plenty of times that I could have handed over the reins. But I knew what I was. I knew where I was… no. Not ‘was’. Where I am going.
It’s not here.
It’s still not here.
“It’s still not here.”
There’s a trail of blood that led me here. There’s a trail of blood that will take me back.
In a way, I suppose it makes sense for my tales of gods and goddesses to come to life again, here of all places. I remember whose faces were attached to each myth. I remember the lot in life that I gave them. But now, as I experience it all once again, those faces don’t seem to bubble their way to the surface. I’ve completed ten labours so far in the time it took to complete just one the first time. I guess I’ve learned a lot about myself. And what ails me.
There’s a sense of finality to all this, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s the end. One way or another. But of what?
Or of whom?
I know the road I travel. I know how bright I burn. But when all the fuel has been eaten, the fire will die.
One way. Or another.
Two labours are unaccounted for. Conveniently, two labours I come across. Together.
It’s a scene I won’t soon forget, as I round a corner of the labyrinth to find the Cretan Bull mounting Cerberus itself. My presence is quickly discovered. Three-headed Cerberus, for all its fearsome reputation, scurries back into the shadows. The giant white bull squares up in front of me. It digs at the ground with its front hooves, and lowers its head in preparation of charging.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” I say, raising my hands in defence. The bull stops its movement and ever so slightly lifts its head. It studies me through unlinking eyes. I take a half step forward, open palms still on display. “It’s me. Do you remember?”
There is a long and drawn out pause, and I hesitate to approach any further until I receive a clear sign of safety. After a while, the bull lets out a short, sharp snort.
“I don’t know,” I admit, lowering my guard and moving in close. “How did you wind up here? All of you?”
I gesture back towards the hidden corners of the labyrinth, where shifting shades of black hint at Cerberus’s pressence.
Hot air puffs out of the bull’s nostrils as it lets out a notably audible breath.
“You said you would tell me everything,” I say, “if I safely took you from the shores of Crete.”
The bull grunts in response.
“Save me the cryptic bullshit. I’m over it.” That came out harsher than I intended, but I meant every word. I have a funny feeling everyone is getting over it.
The bull doesn’t reply. Not at first. It turns in half a circle, and nuzzles itself into a corner of a wall, much as Geryon had done earlier. As it lays down on the cold, hard ground, it lets out another distinctive snort.
“Your… son?” Oh. That makes so much sense. The Cretan Bull fathered…
The Minotaur.
Rolling over onto its sound, the final sound I hear from the bull is haunting. Were I not looking at a beast the size of a small truck, I would swear that the yawn sounded like it came from a human.
“Although? Although what?!” I demand, but the bull doesn’t answer.
It’s asleep.
Great…
Slinking back into view, Cerberus makes himself known once more.
“I don’t suppose you know what he’s talking about?” I ask the mangy mutt. Before me, it crouches, offering its back as if asking me to mount him.
Not like that.
“Huh… maybe you do.” I climb atop Cerberus, and as I did months ago, emerging from the mouth of hell itself, I ride.
Cerberus barrels down the labyrinth, taking hard turns at full pace, using every limb it has at its disposal to keep its speed up. Left and right we go. Right and left. Not through forks, but merely following the path. This may have taken me a lifetime, but with my trusty steed I make ground at an otherworldly pace. It carries me to a dead end and stops still. For half a second I wonder why we’re here, but then I feel a rhythmic vibration from within.
I pull out the orb.
Brilliant as it was, now it glows beyond belief.
Cerberus lowers itself, allowing me to dismount.
“Thank you,” I say, giving each of its three heads a rub on the nose. It bounds away back towards its lover, and I stand at the end.
I am the end.
And with this orb, I change space and time. The wall at the end is dismantled, brick by brick, without me touching it. Each brick is stacked tidily against the wall. And before me… an opening.
Walls may as well be fucking doors.
With one artifact unused, I step through.
I don’t find Kieran King. I don’t find the girl. I find exactly what you would expect to find in the middle of a labyrinth.
Hope. Defined by what comes next.
I see a shining light. A marvelous pinkish hue.
I hear the ringing bells. Chains that clink together.
Across my body, the hairs prick up. There’s something in the air. Something… final. This goes back to where it began. Through all the myths and legends, the childish effing games, back to its basic elements. It makes sense to me. I know where I’ve come from. I know which direction that I’m going.
Twisting through the whatever, the labyrinth leads me on. The air around me chills, it’s different. In my mind, that only means one of two things. Either the outside is trying to find its way in, or the inside is about to find its way out. No matter what, that’s an end, isn’t it?
That’s what this is all about.
An end.
The end.
Like the end of the road.
The end of the path.
The end of the labyrinth, even.
That’s not what this is, though. It’s a circular mirror poorly glued in place. The glass is framed by obsidian, and ornamented by a story.
If you’ve gotten this far, you know the deal. Of course it fucking is.
There is a mountain. Just a mountain.
There is a flame. Just a flame.
There is a throne. Just a fucking seat.
All the stars are there. But they are just stars.
Underneath the sky - vast, expansive, indefinite - a cold rock streaks across the sky. Its temperature changes. The pressure of its arrival sets it on fire (here we go again) and ablaze as it is, it careens on towards the ground.
The little boy that I see, looks up in awe. His parents… my parents… beam at the wonder upon my face. Moving from their position under the awning outside our tent, they take a seat on either side of me, sitting on a worn-down log. A hand, unscarred, is placed on each of my shoulders, and together we marvel at The Universe. Oh how it is beautiful. I gaze up at the sky. We gaze up at the sky. Here, hope is real. Without the drama, without the fire, without the blood…
But the blood exists. It trails behind me.
Mirrors are wrong. My reflection is wrong. The time that it takes for light to travel from my face to the mirror is far less than a second. What was it Lou had said? No matter. I am beyond. And that memory, or whatever it was. A possibility? What could have been?
What would have been?
Fuck.
I…
…
…
...
I, the fire.
Though if I were not who I am, would I still be?
But I am.
Though if I am not who I was…
Would I be at all?
The sands in the hourglass are rewinding before me. I can see whatever this glass wants to show me. I can let it pull me into its elysian echoes.
But I can also stand my ground.
And I can turn around.
To realise the end of it all. To be that prodigious force.
☑ noncompliance (medical care)
☑ restlessness
☑ sad/pained/ worried expression
☑ self deprecation
◻ sleep disturbance
☑ socially inappropriate
◻ social withdrawal
☑ suicidal ideation or plan
☑ thought disorder
☑ other: Triggered by dumbasses
Diagnoses: Undetermined
Intervention strategies implemented and session focus or theme: Metaphor-based talk therapy utilising established interests.
Patient Response:
◻ Marked improvement
◻ Some improvement
◻ Same functioning
☑ Symptoms worsening
Evidence of patient response: Patient manipulating all intervention towards prior traumas. Significant concern around the mention of a mythical pink creature.
Future treatment/Follow-up: URGENT CHANGE NEEDED. External practitioner recommends focusing on triggers, but patient not responding to any intervention. Extreme restrictive practices to be considered.
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