Volume X: The Industry of Chemical Artistry - or - The Age of Rockism

11. Done With Promises

Ever had a chat with Uncertainty? Spoke to Melancholy? That was what it was like talking to Dusk. Jekt didn’t love me - he loved my body. Red loved the idea of me. But Dusk, he loved the abused puppy, the rabid dog. He loved it all. Completely. Entirely. And without prejudice.

I wandered into the room, looking around idly. The place hadn’t changed all that much in years. He was pacing around, keeping a safe distance away from me. I kept my sight moving, eyes avoiding his own.       

“So, what brings you to the depths?” His tone was filled with irony and contempt. I didn’t harbor hard feelings - a lot had happened, changed.

This was us - older and wiser. Bitter and relentless.

“Dusk, I need to know what’s what.”

He smiled. “Why? That takes all the fun out of it.”

“I don’t have...”

“Time?” he interrupted, smiling widely. “You’ve got a lifetime. You, above all people, should know that the hand is always quicker than the eye. Always.”

“Come on, can we cut through the riddle bullshit? People are dying in the waking world.”

He smiled. “People are always dying. It’s what we’re born to do.”

I sat down, trying to figure a new approach. Dusk had been here for a while now. Even after his brother died, he remained. He was content here, below the vulgar masses. Since Colt’s death, he seldom left his world of fantasy and fiction. Dusk and Colt Brogan - they had power and influence everywhere. But Colt’s been dead a year or so by now. Dusk’s still here.

So am I.

He refused to forfeit. To change. The circus was first run by Harley Morrow, then there was Maven Merrick. Dusk Brogan is the third leader, and the only male, thus far. The crowd doesn’t really give a damn who plays top dog, they remain nonetheless. Dusk’s personality was perfectly suited for his post though. He loved the idea of people looking up to him. And he was a natural actor. Through and through. He had that sort of charm that made you want to get closer.

And that’s what people did. Get closer.

But there is such a thing as too close.

That was how we, Dusk and I, used to be. Key word - used to.

I think we’ve gotten past all that. Then again, I could be wrong. I have a tendency to be.

There was no other way to attack this. No new angle - he would be sarcastic and counter productive no matter what. I shook my head, getting up slowly.

“Leaving so soon?” He tried to smile, but looked upset instead.

“You won’t give me answers, why should I stay?”

“Perhaps you’re asking the wrong questions.”

I rolled my eyes. This was pointless. He wanted to play; I didn’t have the patience for this game anymore. He frowned.

“You come charging down here; so demanding. Whatever happened to small talk?”

“I don’t have time...”

“We were just over this,” he interrupted. “Come on, sit - talk awhile with me. Please?”

That last word caught me off guard. There was a tone that accompanied it, a soft, pleading tone. He was asking me to stay. I owed him nothing. We were even. It was just a civil, human request. Nothing bound me to him. No obligations. It had been a long time since things had been so informal. I edged away from the door, returning to my chair. He pulled up one close to me.

“So what’s on your mind?” I questioned.

He shrugged. “How have you been? Things a little hectic right now?”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Dusk bowed in the chair as best as he could, smiling wide. “But of course. I pride myself on being on top of everything.”

“And everyone?”

The smile faltered. “This’ about Riley, huh? Hard feelings? I couldn’t get you, so I made due otherwise. Are you looking for an apology? Let go, move on. Besides,” he paused, “I’ll take real good care of her. You always knew how things ran; you refused the family. Hence - here we are.”

I was stricken, unsure of what to say next. He was confident in his position, pretending to be older, wiser. We’d both played the game, somehow coming out alive. Now we had a new dilemma, something else to trouble our already disturbed minds. I should have left when I had the chance. I desired solitude, any place that I could reach, granted that it was away from here. Away from him. I shook my head, getting up again. He jumped up with me.

“Where are you going?”

“To my tower, sir. To my tower.”

And I left. I was referring to church towers where the misshapen are kept, where monsters live and their only requirement for life is to ring the bells. Nothing more. Just ring the bells. How simple it seems at times to be so monstrous.

Direction? Home.

I went home, and I passed out and slept. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know to put my life back together. I didn’t know anything at all. I curled up and slept for days, desperate to put the pieces back together, anywhere. Dacien had a hand in anything, I needed something of my own, anything to use to fight her. I had no backing of any sort. I was stuck in this moment.

A lot of time was devoted to suicide. I thought about ending it for hours. It would just be that simple. Nobody would miss me all that much. Nobody would be upset. It would just be that easy. Just drug it all away to the point of endless sleep. Or get a gun - click, bang. The options were limitless. There was a mile long list of things to do to end it all. I just needed the initiative. I just needed to be a little stronger. Just a little.

After a week, I realized that this wasn’t getting easier, and I’d have to do something with my time. So I started creating. The pictures, paintings, drawings, anything I could get a hold of. Anything I’d made while stoned, drunk...I tore them apart. I tore all my old work apart and made something new. I made tons of new work, using the old as background or foundations for ideas. I created for days straight, without food or sleep, desperate to keep moving. I was scared to stop. Stopping could be the end of me. I put all the pain, the fear, the desperation, into my work. There was a period of time where I was sure a phone was ringing somewhere. I only heard it subconsciously, hours later. The phone was no longer ringing. After two days or so, I saw and heard Brie, offering criticism and advice. After another day, I started talking back to her.

Days to weeks, weeks to months. I stayed like that for ages, secluded. I created, sleeping only when I passed out. I might’ve eaten, but I don’t remember when. I was like a zombie. I maintain that I went insane for that period of time. That’s why Brie seemed so real, why I told her everything. Why I created so much, so quickly. I wanted to get it all out, my whole life, down on paper, on canvas, anything. When I ran out of materials, I started on the walls. I painted everything I had. All my work was mixed media - I had taken my past and put it into a blender and this was what I was left with. I kept working until my body ached. My joints were numb. At parts, I was bleeding. But this was art. My heart and soul. Here. On display.

My heart. Raw. Still beating on the table.

When I ran out of material, I picked up my guitar and played until all my fingers bled. Then I wrapped them up and kept going. I wrote dozens of songs, completely with verses and choruses. And still it wasn’t enough.

After a few months, I’m not sure how many - I stopped.

There was nothing left.

I had no more ideas, no more of my past to tear apart. It was as it was. I looked around, at what used to be my apartment. I had fashioned myself a new life, a fresh existence. This was my new start. I thought back, on the drugs, the drink. I thought back on everything. I had taken it all, tore it apart, and made something new. I had successfully reinvented myself.

Now what?