Diner World

11/ EPILOGUE

 Watch: the match strikes the sandpaper, the flame exploding in an instance of heat and expulsion. It drags the abyss into its grasp, the light licking at the sore of the world, sucking in the dark. Listen: the crackle, the way the flame paws at the air, rubbing against almost nonexistent particles until the friction of its essence becomes too much. It must say something to beat back the night. Feel: the warmth it brings into the world, the spitting way it plays at the fingers, making one want to drop it to the ground in agony. I am holding the match. The mirror is not too far away, the flicker of a person can be discerned in the dusk, lit only by a single pinprick of light. It is so small yet so powerful, able to evoke the majesty of the world when all else says otherwise. Is it right to rebel against the word of the night?

My footsteps echo as I walk down the cellar steps. The click of heel upon stone is satisfying but unnerving, every other step seeming to come from another person. A single drop of water leaks from the ceiling, my match quenched by this small entreatment upon its person. Darkness engulfs the staircase, my breathing becomes the breath of another, that breath in turn another still. The room is filled with a thousand versions of me, each defending herself from the others. I strike another match and everything returns to as it was, damp yet manageable. I need to bring a lantern the next time I venture so far into the ground. Most individuals who gather their wits long enough to transplant themselves this far into the damp interior of a cellar do so with the express intent of gathering food for an evening meal. As much as it pains me, I am not searching for an abandoned jar of marmalade or a dead rat being consumed by beetles. I have to find something much deeper. The staircase winds ever further down. The marmalade and rat are far above me now. Everything is far above me. I have to keep going if I am to arrive in time. I suppose later that this did not matter so much as I thought.

I hike my dress up with one hand as I traverse the steep, ever descending staircase. It was not a good idea to garb myself as I had but I suppose that was not entirely my fault. It is hard to receive coordinates regarding the location of my missing mother without immediately wanting to go find her. I managed to snag some basic equipment for my trip and a slight pack of provisions to keep me from growing too famished on the short hop from here to nowhere. It is possible that I will have to witness my mother's death from a thousand different vantage points and a thousand different realities. Maybe I will become my mother... maybe not. I have enough baggage already to weigh me down on the journey, I do not need any extra material possessions to keep me grounded. It was enough to be clever, resourceful, and in immediate control of one's surroundings. I tell myself daily that anything can be accomplished with enough heart and mental will power. Hopefully I will have enough mental willpower to see this one through alive and well. My mother is waiting, somewhere out there. The staircase rushes up to greet me. The dark grows denser and with it, my spirits.

The steps stop moving beneath my feet. The ground is here, the end in sight. I have arrived. I undo the satchel I have suspended on my shoulder, letting its contents spill out on the ground for my inspection. Everything is as it should be and yet something is missing, something has been misplaced. Frantic, I inspect the objects again, wanting it to be there amongst its brothers and sisters, waiting for it to show its face to the world. I look again and there it is. It shouldn't be here but yet it is. The hand, outstretching from the nothingness beyond nothingness beyond nothingness. The hand reaching from the void, frozen in time yet always moving restlessly through the cosmos in its never-ending journey of self defeating madness. I clench the hand to make sure that it doesn't leave me, doesn't leave before it is time. It had appeared with a note in its hand, the coordinates scrawled in rote script. Its grip, once bristling with energy, now hangs lifeless. I can sense it fading away, back into the nothingness from whence it came. I have to work quickly. There is not enough time for me to dally on trivialities such as thought. The Engine is expecting me.