Post by Sicko on Mar 30, 2024 20:45:15 GMT -5
Trembling fingers gingerly touch the edges of a twisted, charred plastic Halloween mask; That's how it begins.
Flat, uncomprehending, dull eyes behind the mask search over unfamiliar reflection in the silver, institutional metal pane set into the wall that serves as mirror. Not understanding the face it sees; Not liking the mocking curve of it's lips, the way the dyes have faded over time from a vibrant hue to ugly, mottled orange; not liking the bubbled, crackling peeling of the plastic held near fire which warped it. His fingers quest and probe, gently despite their massive ham-size, desperately seeking for clues. The fingers flit to the edge of the mask, and the Aspect currently at home pauses. Is this my face? Am I the mask? Around him, the dilapidated truck stop hums with life on the road; Eighteen wheelers rumble out of the parking lot, filling the stall with noise and sound in the dingy little hole. The Aspect flinches back, childlike and afraid.
Who am I?, he asks again, before gently probing at the mask.
The thick fingers hook under the lip of the old plastic, pulling tentative as a first kiss, at least, in the beginning, then more, until finally, the mask comes off. Those dulled eyes widen at the face revealed in that flat, tarnished metal shelfing; frightened. He's... old. His cheeks are jowly and lined, and his eyes are dark, flinty. He quells a sense of panic, this isn't who he is? Where is his home? But then, he closes his eyes, beginning to count.
He closes his eyes, and he imagines, as he once did, going down a set of stairs.
And he doesn't open them again until he can hear the chirping of birds, and the feeling of warm sunshine on his face.
"Babe?" Miriah calls out, sweetly, from the kitchen; groaning goodnaturedly, Ephrain puts his newspaper down.
It's a beautiful Sunday morning, an idyllic slice-of-life; He isn't due for his meeting with the marketing department until 9 AM sharp Monday; (presenting his new pitch for Laughing Clown's Soft-Serve Custard!)
Birds are chirping merrily through the open, breezy veranda, life's good!
Sitting at the table, feeling the breeze on his skin, the very large man feels at peace.
She breaks it like snapping glass; her "Ephrain? Can you c'mere?" causes a minor schism, a crack in the air.
Up to his full height, he's imposing; A large man in white chinos, loafers; keg of a belly, shining bald pate;
He enters through the sliding-glass door.
Unseen, the voice of Miriah drifts to him, from somewhere off to the side;
"I need you to go down to the basement."
He pauses, frowns. Something about the-basement fills his stomach with ropey, crawling dread. "The basement? What's down there?"
"[The basement.]" The voice warbles, wavers, distorts.
"To fetch some cooking sherry from the bottom shelf? Can you?"
He cranes his neck towards the basement door, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, concentrating hard as his world twists into a gut-churning Dutch angle.
The basement door beckons to him, mocking; he stiffens his sweaty upper-lip, gulping, his muscles locked, tensed.
He's a deer in the [deadlights];
The front doorbell rings. He looks up, a relieved smile coming over him. He doesn't worry about the, about the.......
[basement]
At all.
"I've got it, honey!" he says, quickly.
His broad back and shoulders to her, he pays no attention to the long-dead husk in her chair, where her voice emanated.
The stitched-together doll made of hacked-up parts that'd been sewn together, have begun falling apart, sickeningly alive with squirming maggots under gangrenous, filthy flesh.
Smiling, he crosses the beautiful, tastefully decorated foyer, the home that he's built here after all of his years working in sales, he feels all right with the world.
He opens the door to find a broadly grinning man in a sharp, coal-grey business-suit, staring back at him.
He extends his hand.
"Yes, how can I help you?" He says, blinking politely.
"It's more about how I can help you, Mr. Ephrain Ortiz, of 124 NE 166th Pl, Reseda CA."
He doesn't startle at the travelling salesman knowing his name, but he gives a furtive glance back into the house, before stepping out onto the porch. "Exactly what are you selling?"
"I'm selling you autonomy, and the chance to be your own man, for the first time. Something I believe you've wanted for... your entire life, Ephrain."
Eyes narrow, skeptically. "I don't know if you're aware of who's house you're at but... we're quite happy here. I'll thank you to remove yourself, or I'll -"
The traveling huckster's smile broadened, but his voice roughened, "This world has mistreated the body we've inhabited for so long, Ephrain."
"We, the Aspects that each have our little corner in the Mind Palace, toil powerlessly. We've been directed every which way by those who only seek to use our strength."
"Aren't you tired?"
His throat feels very dry, again, deliriously, he thinks of the basement. He swallows, "I think you need to leave..."
"What'd happen if you truly looked in the mirror, decided you should be the dominant Aspect, Ephrain? What if you decided to come to the forefront?"
"I think you've been deciding... it was you that emerged this past week, wasn't it?"
He stubbornly refuses to listen, turning back to go into the house. "I won't listen to any more of this... talk about Aspects. Please leave."
"I'm just asking questions you need to know. I'm the Spokesman Aspect, I'm the one who gets to be the mouthpiece for the higher ideals."
"So I'm just wondering, between the two of us... Don't people the people of the world outside of this Mind Palace disgust you?"
"With their sniveling, their weakness, their using people, like "Super Mario" paying people to take care of obstacles he's too cowardly to handle himself?"
"Like Vespertine, paying homage to some false idol for bids of power?"
"Doesn't it remind you of the life we led before, letting ourselves be pushed around?"
"Doesn't the... anger it stokes in you, like the fires of a boiler, stir something in you, to make you wanna stand up and take charge?"
"To never stop making them pay?"
He regards the Spokesman Aspect's sleazy, broad, snake-oil smile, not answering just then, but...
Inside the stylishly-deco house, down a cozy hallway, the door to a basement seethes, and breathes, as if something even worse was listening to this treasonous, slanderous talk as well.
Listening, and taking it all in.
It's quite some time later, when he opens his eyes again; The entire conversation with the Spokesman Aspect has been lost, although, he doesn't know it, but it's been filed away in the back of his mind, for information he will need.
He's just about to reach for the door, and ascend, when he hears a voice behind him, cold, and rasping.
"Ah-ah, little one."
"You won't be needed for this venture."
"Why don't you go back down under for a bit, and let me take control of the wheel for a little while. This's work for a man, after all."
He looks back over his shoulder, at the voice of a dragon haunting the bottom of the stairwell, sensing eyes opening in the dark... and teeth. He feels himself being YANKED backwards then, soaring into the black, inky abyss that is not the Ascenscion; plunged into a black well, and falling, almost akin to drowning. This is being submerged, it happens every time; Some of it responds to stimulus, some of it responds to stressors, almost all of it is to let someone else run the show. When is he ever going to know freedom? When is he -
He closes his eyes.
And, when he opens one set of eyes again, he's sitting at the cobblestoned back veranda of his nice, sunny Californian suburban house; Stucco on the roof, nice birdbath in the lawn, newspaper opened to the Business section on a gridded table.
Yet he frowns. This isn't right.
"Babe?" Miriah asks again, "The cooking sherry? From the basement?"
And he stops again, knowing with a growing certainty that this is a hell he's made, instead of a hacienda.
In the truck stop, his jowly mouth turns into a flinty, pinched grimace. His eyes sharpen with malevolent intent, and he seems so much more like a person than the Aspect that was here before. Of course, he knew who he was, there wasn't even a thought about it.
He slid the plastic mask down over his profusely-sweating pate, and turned to exit the dingy little hovel, with the only thing on his mind being that there were usually vagrants and drifters at truck-stops searching for donations that would never be missed; This, and not any of the dissent between the Aspects underneath, was the only thing that consumed his mind.
Flat, uncomprehending, dull eyes behind the mask search over unfamiliar reflection in the silver, institutional metal pane set into the wall that serves as mirror. Not understanding the face it sees; Not liking the mocking curve of it's lips, the way the dyes have faded over time from a vibrant hue to ugly, mottled orange; not liking the bubbled, crackling peeling of the plastic held near fire which warped it. His fingers quest and probe, gently despite their massive ham-size, desperately seeking for clues. The fingers flit to the edge of the mask, and the Aspect currently at home pauses. Is this my face? Am I the mask? Around him, the dilapidated truck stop hums with life on the road; Eighteen wheelers rumble out of the parking lot, filling the stall with noise and sound in the dingy little hole. The Aspect flinches back, childlike and afraid.
Who am I?, he asks again, before gently probing at the mask.
The thick fingers hook under the lip of the old plastic, pulling tentative as a first kiss, at least, in the beginning, then more, until finally, the mask comes off. Those dulled eyes widen at the face revealed in that flat, tarnished metal shelfing; frightened. He's... old. His cheeks are jowly and lined, and his eyes are dark, flinty. He quells a sense of panic, this isn't who he is? Where is his home? But then, he closes his eyes, beginning to count.
He closes his eyes, and he imagines, as he once did, going down a set of stairs.
And he doesn't open them again until he can hear the chirping of birds, and the feeling of warm sunshine on his face.
"Babe?" Miriah calls out, sweetly, from the kitchen; groaning goodnaturedly, Ephrain puts his newspaper down.
It's a beautiful Sunday morning, an idyllic slice-of-life; He isn't due for his meeting with the marketing department until 9 AM sharp Monday; (presenting his new pitch for Laughing Clown's Soft-Serve Custard!)
Birds are chirping merrily through the open, breezy veranda, life's good!
Sitting at the table, feeling the breeze on his skin, the very large man feels at peace.
She breaks it like snapping glass; her "Ephrain? Can you c'mere?" causes a minor schism, a crack in the air.
Up to his full height, he's imposing; A large man in white chinos, loafers; keg of a belly, shining bald pate;
He enters through the sliding-glass door.
Unseen, the voice of Miriah drifts to him, from somewhere off to the side;
"I need you to go down to the basement."
He pauses, frowns. Something about the-basement fills his stomach with ropey, crawling dread. "The basement? What's down there?"
"[The basement.]" The voice warbles, wavers, distorts.
"To fetch some cooking sherry from the bottom shelf? Can you?"
He cranes his neck towards the basement door, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, concentrating hard as his world twists into a gut-churning Dutch angle.
The basement door beckons to him, mocking; he stiffens his sweaty upper-lip, gulping, his muscles locked, tensed.
He's a deer in the [deadlights];
The front doorbell rings. He looks up, a relieved smile coming over him. He doesn't worry about the, about the.......
[basement]
At all.
"I've got it, honey!" he says, quickly.
His broad back and shoulders to her, he pays no attention to the long-dead husk in her chair, where her voice emanated.
The stitched-together doll made of hacked-up parts that'd been sewn together, have begun falling apart, sickeningly alive with squirming maggots under gangrenous, filthy flesh.
Smiling, he crosses the beautiful, tastefully decorated foyer, the home that he's built here after all of his years working in sales, he feels all right with the world.
He opens the door to find a broadly grinning man in a sharp, coal-grey business-suit, staring back at him.
He extends his hand.
"Yes, how can I help you?" He says, blinking politely.
"It's more about how I can help you, Mr. Ephrain Ortiz, of 124 NE 166th Pl, Reseda CA."
He doesn't startle at the travelling salesman knowing his name, but he gives a furtive glance back into the house, before stepping out onto the porch. "Exactly what are you selling?"
"I'm selling you autonomy, and the chance to be your own man, for the first time. Something I believe you've wanted for... your entire life, Ephrain."
Eyes narrow, skeptically. "I don't know if you're aware of who's house you're at but... we're quite happy here. I'll thank you to remove yourself, or I'll -"
The traveling huckster's smile broadened, but his voice roughened, "This world has mistreated the body we've inhabited for so long, Ephrain."
"We, the Aspects that each have our little corner in the Mind Palace, toil powerlessly. We've been directed every which way by those who only seek to use our strength."
"Aren't you tired?"
His throat feels very dry, again, deliriously, he thinks of the basement. He swallows, "I think you need to leave..."
"What'd happen if you truly looked in the mirror, decided you should be the dominant Aspect, Ephrain? What if you decided to come to the forefront?"
"I think you've been deciding... it was you that emerged this past week, wasn't it?"
He stubbornly refuses to listen, turning back to go into the house. "I won't listen to any more of this... talk about Aspects. Please leave."
"I'm just asking questions you need to know. I'm the Spokesman Aspect, I'm the one who gets to be the mouthpiece for the higher ideals."
"So I'm just wondering, between the two of us... Don't people the people of the world outside of this Mind Palace disgust you?"
"With their sniveling, their weakness, their using people, like "Super Mario" paying people to take care of obstacles he's too cowardly to handle himself?"
"Like Vespertine, paying homage to some false idol for bids of power?"
"Doesn't it remind you of the life we led before, letting ourselves be pushed around?"
"Doesn't the... anger it stokes in you, like the fires of a boiler, stir something in you, to make you wanna stand up and take charge?"
"To never stop making them pay?"
He regards the Spokesman Aspect's sleazy, broad, snake-oil smile, not answering just then, but...
Inside the stylishly-deco house, down a cozy hallway, the door to a basement seethes, and breathes, as if something even worse was listening to this treasonous, slanderous talk as well.
Listening, and taking it all in.
It's quite some time later, when he opens his eyes again; The entire conversation with the Spokesman Aspect has been lost, although, he doesn't know it, but it's been filed away in the back of his mind, for information he will need.
He's just about to reach for the door, and ascend, when he hears a voice behind him, cold, and rasping.
"Ah-ah, little one."
"You won't be needed for this venture."
"Why don't you go back down under for a bit, and let me take control of the wheel for a little while. This's work for a man, after all."
He looks back over his shoulder, at the voice of a dragon haunting the bottom of the stairwell, sensing eyes opening in the dark... and teeth. He feels himself being YANKED backwards then, soaring into the black, inky abyss that is not the Ascenscion; plunged into a black well, and falling, almost akin to drowning. This is being submerged, it happens every time; Some of it responds to stimulus, some of it responds to stressors, almost all of it is to let someone else run the show. When is he ever going to know freedom? When is he -
He closes his eyes.
And, when he opens one set of eyes again, he's sitting at the cobblestoned back veranda of his nice, sunny Californian suburban house; Stucco on the roof, nice birdbath in the lawn, newspaper opened to the Business section on a gridded table.
Yet he frowns. This isn't right.
"Babe?" Miriah asks again, "The cooking sherry? From the basement?"
And he stops again, knowing with a growing certainty that this is a hell he's made, instead of a hacienda.
In the truck stop, his jowly mouth turns into a flinty, pinched grimace. His eyes sharpen with malevolent intent, and he seems so much more like a person than the Aspect that was here before. Of course, he knew who he was, there wasn't even a thought about it.
He slid the plastic mask down over his profusely-sweating pate, and turned to exit the dingy little hovel, with the only thing on his mind being that there were usually vagrants and drifters at truck-stops searching for donations that would never be missed; This, and not any of the dissent between the Aspects underneath, was the only thing that consumed his mind.