Spiral Into Nothing-(699 Words)
Mar 7, 2021 23:48:00 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, Trey Bouchet, and 2 more like this
Post by Regan Voorhees on Mar 7, 2021 23:48:00 GMT -5
“There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of…”
Red camellias frame the screen to present Regan Voorhees, sitting at a coffee table surrounded by an expanse of whitespace, stretching in every direction.
“Me.”
An invisible pen scrawls golden calligraphy across the screen as Regan sips daintily from a black cup.
She sets the cup down on a matching black saucer, creating a gentle clang. The table and saucer are in the same pitch-black obsidian. Regan’s own wardrobe is a black suit tinted with white accents. A black vase on the table holds a bouquet of red camellias. Regan herself, the flowers, and the tangerine-tinted liquid in the cup are the only traces of color in the endless tract of white.
“Hello again, Void. For the sake of thematic consistency, I’ve created this…”
She gives a theatrical gesture behind her.
“A ceaseless, uninterrupted plane of nonexistence. An homage to your namesake and to this cycle the two of us seem to be caught in. How many times have we faced each other now? Triple-threats and four-ways and tag matches, we’ve already become so well acquainted, as we each keep vying to claw our way to the top of this division and unseat the champion. As the cliche goes, it seems we’re destined to do this forever.”
A haughty chuckle escapes her throat, but she cuts it off, shaking her head at the idea.
“I think not. No, quite frankly, I find that idea offensive. To do the same thing over and over again and, expect a different result, is insanity. As the indisputably saner of the two of us, I refuse to fall into such a fruitless, self-destructive cycle. The responsibility of bringing things to a close falls upon me. But don’t think I’d be so thoughtless as to leave you without a parting gift, before we bring this chapter of our careers to a conclusion. Voilà.”
Red camellias frame the screen to present Regan Voorhees, sitting at a coffee table surrounded by an expanse of whitespace, stretching in every direction.
“Me.”
An invisible pen scrawls golden calligraphy across the screen as Regan sips daintily from a black cup.
She sets the cup down on a matching black saucer, creating a gentle clang. The table and saucer are in the same pitch-black obsidian. Regan’s own wardrobe is a black suit tinted with white accents. A black vase on the table holds a bouquet of red camellias. Regan herself, the flowers, and the tangerine-tinted liquid in the cup are the only traces of color in the endless tract of white.
“Hello again, Void. For the sake of thematic consistency, I’ve created this…”
She gives a theatrical gesture behind her.
“A ceaseless, uninterrupted plane of nonexistence. An homage to your namesake and to this cycle the two of us seem to be caught in. How many times have we faced each other now? Triple-threats and four-ways and tag matches, we’ve already become so well acquainted, as we each keep vying to claw our way to the top of this division and unseat the champion. As the cliche goes, it seems we’re destined to do this forever.”
A haughty chuckle escapes her throat, but she cuts it off, shaking her head at the idea.
“I think not. No, quite frankly, I find that idea offensive. To do the same thing over and over again and, expect a different result, is insanity. As the indisputably saner of the two of us, I refuse to fall into such a fruitless, self-destructive cycle. The responsibility of bringing things to a close falls upon me. But don’t think I’d be so thoughtless as to leave you without a parting gift, before we bring this chapter of our careers to a conclusion. Voilà.”
Following a double-clap from Regan, a black and white picture drops into the frame. This one is ink on canvas, a take on Azami from Junji Ito’s seminal spiral-based horror manga Uzumaki. The reimaging has Regan in the character’s place, a spiral of black and white taking up half of her face, as one eyeball dangles precariously on the edge, ready to be absorbed into the infinite spin.
“A more contemporary piece, but one the suits the two of us. As much as I want to move on from our rivalry, the thought of besting, beating, ruining you just won’t leave my brain. I have spiraled into my own void; focusing, fixating, obsessing over exactly how I might finally get past you and prove my own personal prominence to everyone else in this company. People find you frightening, I’m sure. But nothing chills my blood quite like the icy tendrils of mediocrity, always grasping so hungrily for anyone that they might yank into the abyss, to turn them from something to nothing. The only thing that saves us is success. The only thing that dooms us, our failure. That’s what makes me afraid, Void. If you are the embodiment of nothing, then to conquer you is to conquer my greatest fear. To do that, I make you my obsession. You are, as they say, in my head. But unfortunately…”
She takes the cup in her hand, but stops herself, a barely-there smirk playing on her lips.
“My head is the last place you want to be.”
Regan sips and the scene fades to a black pig sitting alone in the void. Behind him is a swirling spiral of black and white, its movement hypnotic. Words flash across it, there and gone in an instant, burning their way into the viewers’ subconscious, rewriting pathways of taste and morality and the value of life.
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