Wednesday, 4 June 2014

Deus Ex-Machina Chapter Five: Regression

Deus Ex-Machina 
Chapter Five

R   E   G   R   E   S   S   I   O   N

 ‘If I could smell, I’d smell jasmine, only jasmine!’ – Spiderfingers

    I charge down the muddy crater in St Martins Gardens, the under-passage that leads to America, back to Lance. The dawn chorus of my transatlantic surroundings are smile inducing. No Rooenn the Terrorsmith in sight. No blue red or yellow people to confuse or manipulate my take on what's real or fake about me. An image in my inflates:
It's like a balloon at the funeral of someone dear and departed. I imagine popping it. But the picture and the inane text accompanying it won't go away. They just get bigger.

And bigger...

I try shrinking it, deflating it till the image shrivels. Inconsequential nonsense. Fan art of my real life, the comic book?


I know where I've been. I know who i am. It's not a memory, it's a non existent remnant of Mr Lime's plan to send me crazy. And it's gone.

    Lance Caesar Young sways in front of me. This rain-drenched fool who wants me to go all Colombo, run him through the whys and wherefores. A diet of mystery for you Mr Young.

    I turn my back on him and begin the walking away although not for long. I’m unable to play the complete bastard, not now that I’m back in L.A and Rooenn has disappeared with the dusk. I revolve to face him, his eyes full of pleading, his wet shivering body falling, right knee then left, anchored into the slush.

He’s really quite exhausted as he mutters, ‘I need to understand what happened to me.’

I cannon a stern look replying, ‘Don’t be so sure about that. Listen, Lance, tell the police a bear did it.’

    ‘A b-bear?’ he stutters, confused, blinking the downpour away.

    ‘Fuck Lance, you’re an actor right? When the L.A.P.D come by and ask about the disturbance, you tell them about the bear.’

His confusion takes a back seat as he follows my finger pointing to the wreckage of the trailer. His befuddlement stifling the oncoming sob-fest that’s begun to ripple through hunched shoulders. His eyes, pale blue duds blinking through the bucketing rain, they’ve latched onto a frozen grey stare.

Lissie, blood soaked and mutilated. She lies several feet from us crushed under Lance’s trailer. And Hollywood’s new kid on the block begins to wail his sorrow. Lance Cesar-Young, his tanned features so visible now beneath the make up the rain’s washed away, his face rashed from the fake beard that’s been applied and reapplied this last month.

After he’s lied to the police about his girlfriend and his trashed trailer home, after using his actor’s imagination to lie about the size of the bear, Lance might then consider scripting what really went down. I’m sure he will, cash-in sort that he is.

That would be a seriously unfortunate move on his part. The wisps trailing around here aren't the kind of natural phenomenon that would appreciate any of this pointing towards my existence. These sneaking smoke-like minions are in collusion with Gaia. Collectors. They'll take over your life Lance. Better tell the police about that bear.

    I ask him who Lissie was. y'know - I'm curious. He looks up at me like I’ve never seen Star Wars. You know – that “Have-you-been-living-in-a-cave?” look.

    ‘Somewhere Girl? Pants America?’ Lance asks as his sorrow morphs at shutter speed to a seething, a burning, a glare of pure anger directed at yours truly. I’m sure I’m the perfect portrait of dumb. Needless to say I find his tone offensive. I detect the burning in my eyes.

    ‘She was in 8 mile part two?’ Lance rants, ‘Rave reviews...Don’t you own a T.V?’

    I shake my portrait from side to side as his gaunt cheeks roll with hot salty droplets,

    ‘Lissie Hinde,’ a gulp of nothing, ‘She was cast as Courtney Love.’

    I’m living through the kind of wail that isn’t explicitly about pain, the kind of attention balling that only a mother’s hug can cure. She isn’t coming.

    So, I find myself crawling out, I’m trudging around in this fake London night till I meet a snow covered statue to talk to. It’s a statue made of bronze bricks and for my use it’s perfect. I take off my long coat and hang it over its Arctic shoulders, considering for the first time that I've never worn clothes - I wear a costume.

    I crumple into a ball beneath it for god knows how long, alternate realities pushing in on me. Variant events, they push me out of the way, challenging my right to feel unique...

Variant takes on my time in L.A. The scripts try to tell me what they consider to be fact. and I squeeze the life out of them. The images though, they expand. They want to be seen. They need the attention. They crave it, like food.
    ‘If I could smell, I’d smell jasmine. I killed my first human friend and I decided to erase my taste and smell. If I could smell, I’d smell jasmine, only jasmine!’

    I go on with this until the words become this mumble-fest I slowly become aware of. When my throat grows sore I start groaning a tune. The groan becomes a whistling.

Black material floats out of my recent recollection and soon I'm remembering the whistling during lime's work in progress. That whistling.

    'With the lights out, it's less dangerous.'

    Not long ago, a dead rock stars lyrical garbage became my life-line.

    How can I not be aware of the stage boards underneath the grass, the distant mountains being paintings on a wooden set? The morning sun is a clever blend of ten or more theatre lights hanging above me and the beautiful morning sunrise will forever be a cycloramic lie.

    There is no Lance Ceaser Young. There is only this guy that looks like a guy from a movie my creator has seen. One of my favourites which is really her own. This guy that this land has sent to keep me doing what I do within it, he’s not bad an actor. Still, I’ve seen it all before. There is no choice but to get myself together.

My only choice is to warn Steph of Aronson’s plan, maybe even help her escape from a bad place so that she may save a very real, very unique planet. Then I notice something. There’s a statue, very similar to the one I’m slumped against. It even has a red trench-coat hung up on it. Naturally, the surrealism heightens as there is a black man sitting in front of it.

    This guy is covered in clothes that share my colour scheme. He has large red dreads waving of their own accord above his head. Blood red follicles soaked in deaths that have yet to occur. His hair is memorial to a past rebellion against selfish deities. Tyrannical idols will loathe him, this semi-conscious guardian. I know all of his past just as surely as I know my own. I turn down the paranoia volume in my head and I'm over there in a flash. I’m reaching out to touch his face as a thin strip of sparks begins seeping out of his head, floating to meet my own. I shiver. I look about for witnesses.

    'We're just drafts, you and I.'

    I could kill this replacement if that's what he is but I've so much murder in my life. So, I'm back to my own statue, I'm grabbing my own coat and I’m moving as I holler over my shoulder, Stay away from any theaters.'

    I slip and I slide on the snow as I run away from my sibling.

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