Ad Schism

Book I • Return To Paradise

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There is no great genius without some touch of madness.

​​— Aristotle

Downtown Chicago, 3:12 PM
Amidst Hallucination

Whispers all around. Why were there whispers? Where was he? All of the walls were white brick, glossy... uncomfortable; frozen and analytical... like a hospital —  could he be in a hospital? Still more whispers. Whispers? From where?

Then he blinked, and the hallucination was gone, he was sitting back in the apartment.

His mind was silent and his eyes were glued to a record player in the corner of an empty loft. A glossy vinyl was spinning; one could make out 'Rat Pack' on the inscription.

The music echoed eerily through the clear, sun-lit room; sounds of big band, Dean Martin's raspy croon, Sammy Davis Jr., and the infamous Frank Sinatra all joined in, their intoxicating jamboree reflected off the blank white walls.

Peculiar white streams of consciousness still floated above him wearily, they were slowly drifting as if they were lingering from his vision just a moment ago. It was hard to discern which was real and what was real these days. The world went on still and some things persisted more than others, in order to stay the latter, he had to be mindful.

Seldom was it easy though, to say the least.

Surrounding him were beautiful paintings, half-covered, intricately scattered throughout the room; but like a web of misfit toys they all sat still, rejected, dead even.

The same wisps of energy clung to them too, like lovers who wouldn't let go. All of the paintings sat unsuspecting, forgotten even, trapped under large white tarps that draped over them in a dust ridden, dreary kind of way.

The room felt full, but somehow leeched of life, only movements from those strange tendrils of mana which rippled in the wake of echoes. Otherwise it was stagnant and grey... this vibrant world was veiled and diluted; stored in boxes and closets, or left in shelves high above.

The man blinked as if forced, holding a stern, contemplative gaze. He was nervous and vexed, something had taken his attention. There was a dull glean that shined in his brown eyes: a reflection of the phonograph perched before him, but more than that.

An infant, well, a charred skeleton to be exact, which stood to the side of the table where the record player sat, it too was enjoying the progressive sound.

He shifted his gaze back to the record player in a "controlled" panic, watching as the Rat Pack record wobbled and bobbed, continuing 'round and 'round, playing those old unforgettable classics that he couldn't remember the names of.

The skeleton nodded to the rhythm, too.

The hallucinations were pretty visceral sometimes, it was only recently that he became strong enough to face them directly. The young lion must prevail at all odds.

This man wore a blank white tee with dark black joggers that were ripped at the knees. Never mind that old corpse, nor the ones staring at the wall, his world was filled with spirits that came and went, some he could put a name too, and they used to speak with him when he was at his nadir.

It was best to let them do so, and not respond, like bullies in school. Nowadays they didn't do so much talking, but they still lingered, and he wasn't sure if he liked that any more than the conversation.

At least they always had something interesting to say. A spectral figment of your mind had better not waste your time after all...

He was sitting on a couch of black linens and pushed his hair back behind his ears; there was no grin, but the face was shaded warmly with wavy brown locks, they were nourished and framed his visage superbly. He was well groomed, despite this mess in his head.