Volume VI: And Introducing Harley Morrow As - Herself

15. Lullaby

        Define sickness and I’ll draw you a picture. Define sickness and I’ll paint you a portrait. You tell me the words and I’ll make up prettier ones. You explain to me exactly what comprises disease or disorder - you tell me. Tell me, in precise terms. Make sure that there’s no room for misinterpretation.

        And then tell me - what am I?

        Am I sick? Am I mad? Insane or...otherwise? Is there otherwise? Is there space between real and surreal? Is there a gray space where the imagined and the actual meet, where the lines blur and you can stand between the two great precipices? Is there such a place? Or a time or anything related to the aspect?

        Or am I just mad?

        Bizarre. Eccentric. Weird. Strange. Unusual.

        I could keep going, but what’s the point?

        The same point that there always is - None.

        So again, you tell me. Who and what am I? What am I here to do and why? Do you know?  Do you have the vaguest misconception? Or do you merely think you do?

        You don’t have a clue, do you? You’re out of luck, and out of league. You won’t win this one, there’s no way in hell. I’ve stepped up to the plate and there’s no way you’re taking this from me. You won’t deprive me of this, this is Me - this is myself, this is who and what I am. And if you have anything different to say about it, I’ll turn your own words against you. Why?

         Because this is my life - no one else’s. And I’ll have it as such.

         No dictation from you.

         These are the thoughts that sing me to sleep. These are the promises that keep me moving. Now and forever. Always and never. This is who and what I am. Take it or leave it. This is what I am and what I’ll become. Where I was and where I’m going.

        Do you like what you see? Come get it.

        The dust settles and either you get up and keep moving, or you die. My role was held by someone else in my stead. I was given a good deal of time to unwind. And I was given pieces of truth and story to live on. I was given just enough to get by.

        I woke up at home, in my own bed. I remember being groggy and out of it, but I was here. I was alive and breathing and this was very real. I sat up and looked around. Requiem was sitting in a chair next to the bed, sleeping soundly.

        I was home. How the hell did I get home? I remember pain, but little else. I slipped out of bed and moved to find a mirror. My face was covered with colors and tints that faded into one another, a map of black and blue. My eyes were dark and circled - they looked like they’d been open for ages. I hung my head down, avoiding my beaten self in the mirror. I knew what happened, I remembered. They’d merely drugged me to the point of sleeping. So I could rest without it. A tap on the shoulder shook me. I spun around and grabbed...realizing I had Requiem.

        “It’s okay...I just came over to check in.”

        “Right...what’s gone on?”

        She pulled away from me. “Don’t worry about it.”

        “It’s my job.”

        She tilted her head. “Since when? Says who? You’re the child - you’re not supposed to worry. Ever. Daddy Doyle and Uncle Gothik are having a talk. It’ll be fine.”