Re: The Great Belligerency [Round 4: Static]
10-27-2012, 10:53 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
Soft lay on her back, listening to the Narration about her lying on her back.
The Narration seemed sensible once more, so that was nice. The whole thing had been tearing her head apart. Unpleasant.
But she still felt horrible.
She thought she knew everything. She thought she could get everything under control. In the middle of a prolonged escalator ride down towards the realm of confusion, she thought she found a way to get back up again by like, I dunno, jumping over the barrier to the up escalator or maybe just running back up faster than the escalator could move down but then it turned out the escalator was part of an Escher painting in the first place and there was no way out and damn this metaphor was horrible.
Just like her.
The thing was, for a while now she had been steadily snowballing into a realization that this shit was her fault
“Yup.”
and that there was something wrong with what she was doing
“Yup.”
and that maybe, just maybe, there were things beyond categorizing, which she constantly did
“Yup.”
“Please leave me alone,” said Soft, voice rasping with the weight of Bad Life Choices. Crow fluffed himself and continued standing on her forehead. “How are you even here? I killed you.” She didn’t actually need to ask. She already knew because of the book. It just seemed narratively appropriate to ask at this time, since the readers didn’t know. God, was she actually considering herself a character now? An honest-to-God, fallible servant of the narrative, rather than the judge?
“I think I’m like a representation of your own guilt or some bull like that,” replied Crow. “Except made real because of all that shit that was going on in that place back there. You can call me your Conscious, though. Or Crow.”
“Like you would even be remotely close to a good Conscious.”
“I could peck out your eyes instead. Hear they’re delicious.”
Soft kept silent this time, too apathetic to hold up any decent conversation. Her entire world view was degrading, or even maybe shattered, and she didn’t know how to build it back up again. She wasn’t even sure if she could trust or follow the Narrative within the book, if it could actually go haywire like that. This wasn’t much of a time for conversations. More of a time to lie down for a long while and then maybe die.
“Well, Conscious or not,” said Crow, staring ahead, “I have a feeling you might want to move? Now?”
Soft could feel the vibrations in the ground and hear the crunch-crunch of boots approaching. The book was already telling her who they were, what they were doing, why they were doing it, but she didn’t care. The Fake-Crow flew off as soon as they got near. They nudged her, kicked her, asked her questions. They talked amongst themselves, argued about putting a bullet through her brain, then started dragging her away. She could have answered many of their questions, even questions they hadn’t asked. She knew the history already, she knew the trouble, and the Narrative was already foreshadowing possible ways to solve it. But she didn’t care.
She just didn’t want to meddle again.
Soft lay on her back, listening to the Narration about her lying on her back.
The Narration seemed sensible once more, so that was nice. The whole thing had been tearing her head apart. Unpleasant.
But she still felt horrible.
She thought she knew everything. She thought she could get everything under control. In the middle of a prolonged escalator ride down towards the realm of confusion, she thought she found a way to get back up again by like, I dunno, jumping over the barrier to the up escalator or maybe just running back up faster than the escalator could move down but then it turned out the escalator was part of an Escher painting in the first place and there was no way out and damn this metaphor was horrible.
Just like her.
The thing was, for a while now she had been steadily snowballing into a realization that this shit was her fault
“Yup.”
and that there was something wrong with what she was doing
“Yup.”
and that maybe, just maybe, there were things beyond categorizing, which she constantly did
“Yup.”
“Please leave me alone,” said Soft, voice rasping with the weight of Bad Life Choices. Crow fluffed himself and continued standing on her forehead. “How are you even here? I killed you.” She didn’t actually need to ask. She already knew because of the book. It just seemed narratively appropriate to ask at this time, since the readers didn’t know. God, was she actually considering herself a character now? An honest-to-God, fallible servant of the narrative, rather than the judge?
“I think I’m like a representation of your own guilt or some bull like that,” replied Crow. “Except made real because of all that shit that was going on in that place back there. You can call me your Conscious, though. Or Crow.”
“Like you would even be remotely close to a good Conscious.”
“I could peck out your eyes instead. Hear they’re delicious.”
Soft kept silent this time, too apathetic to hold up any decent conversation. Her entire world view was degrading, or even maybe shattered, and she didn’t know how to build it back up again. She wasn’t even sure if she could trust or follow the Narrative within the book, if it could actually go haywire like that. This wasn’t much of a time for conversations. More of a time to lie down for a long while and then maybe die.
“Well, Conscious or not,” said Crow, staring ahead, “I have a feeling you might want to move? Now?”
Soft could feel the vibrations in the ground and hear the crunch-crunch of boots approaching. The book was already telling her who they were, what they were doing, why they were doing it, but she didn’t care. The Fake-Crow flew off as soon as they got near. They nudged her, kicked her, asked her questions. They talked amongst themselves, argued about putting a bullet through her brain, then started dragging her away. She could have answered many of their questions, even questions they hadn’t asked. She knew the history already, she knew the trouble, and the Narrative was already foreshadowing possible ways to solve it. But she didn’t care.
She just didn’t want to meddle again.