False Vacuum Decay

It's like nothing he's ever felt before, yet still his mind attempts to explain. It struggles, strives, in its shattering state, to place ill-fitting piece into ill-fitting piece, until his broken brain bleeds out a concept; a kaleidoscopic aorta to be peered through, words and feelings gushing free to stain the floor in shades of silver.

What is this...?

It's sludge; shifting, squirming, pushing its way into his body. It liquidates and consumes what it does not need, spilling into the space left behind. All that is unnecessary is discarded; all that is wanted is kept. It's not what he wants, of course, but what he wants does not matter. What he wants has never mattered.

Poor, pre-programmed mess.

The kaleidoscope turns.

It's light; something pure and pristine punching through him, something with purpose. It pursues him through his corridors to his core, corners him, watches as he scrabbles at the walls. There is no escape from it. He cannot hide in his shadows; the light washes them all away. It pierces him, dissects his every inch, and judges him wanting.

It's cruel. Others may think it a good thing, but it isn't. It can't be.

Can it? Can anyone deserve this?

Can I?

The kaleidoscope falls.

It's like paper and glass; illustration, illusion, refractive, reflecting. A picture is hung on the wall. It resonates with his empty heart and plies his memories to mimic—so familiar and warm, so familiar and warm. 

No. Don't look. Don't listen. Don't go. 

But he goes. The world falls away beneath his feet and he is there on the beach; a boy in silver, with a boy in bronze and a girl in sunset red. There are other friends, distant, but their voices fade away. They're not important, not to him, not anymore, maybe not ever, and already the sunset is sinking. Hazy morning light takes her place, the most delicate of mists falling in a wispy veil over surf and sand; fragile spiders' webs at dawn. It glitters; shooting stars and promise charms and sunrise scribbles, sword fights on the beach shimmering amidst the fog, the fog, the fog—

No, that's too much. Too many changes will break him. He'll shatter. I have to go slow.

—said that? Please stop, has to stop, please—

A pause. You weren't supposed to hear that. I'm sorry. But please remember this; glass shatters when it goes from hot to cold.

—Who said that? Who—

A warm touch, so familial. You have to turn the lamp down slow. 

Who said that? His mother? His father? But I don't have—

But I do. I left them behind.

But the glass lamps didn't crack like that; the fire was never hot enough and the Islands so rarely cold.

It was just a story, a superstition. Don't look at it too closely.

—you have to turn the lamp down slow, or the cold will make it shatter—

Glass, broken; fire, ablaze; light flaring and shadows dancing wildly, his reflection in the sludge catching and burning to nothing.

The kaleidoscope breaks; just like the one he made when he was five, the one he dropped into the fire pit, the one that burned and shattered and bled its colors into the flames.

Burning. I'm burning, shattering, bleeding, I'm—

He's breaking; his body, his soul, his heart, his everything. She's in everything, her empty eyes bearing down on him. No, not empty. As empty as mine. A false emptiness. 

Of course it was false. Everything about them was false.

He'd pitied her.

Now, he despises her.

Soon, he will love her.

No!

Yes, please, be kind. Be kind to her. She's suffering. She's lonely. She's trapped here. You forgot her. You all forgot her. Protect her. Don't hate her, don't hate her, don't hate her.

Don't hate me, please.

Love me.

No—yes—who—

Who put this here? Was it him, or was it her?

Take it out, take it back, stop, please—

But there is no stopping. It is hers; every piece inside him is hers. There is so little of him left. Soon, there will be nothing. The room is flooding and he will drown.

He knows nothing he feels for her will ever mean anything. He knows, but cannot stop it. He knows that even if one day it does mean something, he can never be sure, never be free of what is being done to him now. Even if he remembers who he is—what he is—his feelings will not change. He is broken. The gaping holes in his life will be filled with falsehoods, but even if he knows it, he will love them as he hates them. The illusion of fire is warmer than nothing, after all.

I will never be free of what she does to me. She has carved out my everything so perfectly that the only choices I will have are to be with her, or to be empty.

Hate. Love.

Empty, empty.

He is empty.

He screams and he pleads and he begs, but no one hears him. Of course they don't; the only suffering that exists to them is their own. They have no ear for the pain of others, no heart to feel it.

Does he have a heart? If he does, then he soon will not; all that will remain when this is done is her.

Voice in his throat, he sees them, feels them; the others crowding round. The room seems blinding white, then dark; flashes of lightning, a too-sharp smile. Laughter spills from its forked tongue, sparks from its teeth. It looms over him, the storm's imitation of pleasure thundering through his tiny, trembling world. Yet for his size, it seems the insect; a wretched, creeping thing. It strikes mercilessly, over and over, a thousand pinpricks piercing his skin. Worse, though, is the way it croons, rich and sweet as the groan of grand trees bending in the maelstrom. It would be beautiful, did it promise anything but the eventual crack and tumble of his soul.

Humiliation. 

Beyond it, ice blusters, cold gaze set upon its sacrifice; the curse of a creator upon its creation. It lays him upon the altars of observation and analysis, eyes leaving chains of frost as they trail across his body, chill links searing deep, connecting all the pieces inside him like a most fascinating puzzle. Expressions shift wild as the winds of a blizzard with each new discovery, but even then it is a numb thing, all emotion a facsimile carved into ice with no promise of snowmelt or spring. There is no true joy at what it learns, and no love beneath its frozen exterior, least of all for him.

Abandonment.

Finally, in the corner, fire spills, licking its lips; a glutton seeking any fuel to keep its meager soul alight. It treads its oil-slick path, web planned and planted, ensnaring all who take even a single step into its lair. It is too distant, too incorporeal, to derive much from his display, all smoke and little flame. Yet what does exist curls too close to deny involvement, its expression curious as the fly struggles in its tangle of gasoline strands. Eyes glitter as it watches him writhe; the perfect bait for greater prey. He knows this, but cannot stop it. His body is already branded with the spider's mark.

Objectification.

They watch, but their hearts do not hear. He screams and cries and pleads, and when nothing is left, he hopes. He hopes and dreams and hopes they will suffer. He hopes their hearts return to find the docks of home dashed, to find their safe harbors rendered in driftwood and debris. He hopes disaster remains deaf to their cries, unhearing, uncaring as it tears them apart. He hopes guilt clogs their throats until they choke on it, stings their eyes until they melt from their sockets in vile tears. He hopes his hex will find its way into the things they love—the people they love—hopes it will crawl beneath their skin, dissolving, digesting, until there is nothing left but that same skin to be sloughed into the sea. He hopes they will be able to do nothing, nothing, but weep and watch as all they hold dear turns to foam and washes away.

He hopes they are treated the way he is.

But he does not believe in hope. He does not suspect; he knows. He knows they will forget him. He is not a person, but a tool, and one does not mourn a tool. They will not mourn his self, his will, his heart. They will not mourn it, for they do not believe he has one, and even if he did, they would not care.

Still he curses them, because he cannot curse her. Even if he did, it would not matter. Already the noose tightens, the rope dangling from the end of a star-shaped charm. It digs into his throat, steals his air, leaves his knees wobbling as he balances on the edge of the knife.

He wants to cry. He can't.

I'm sorry, she says.

Then stop. Give it back. It's mine. Give it back to me.

Give me back to me.

But she will not. He knows this. She does not believe she is real, and he is less than her. In her attempt to become real, he must—

I'm sorry . I'm so, so sorry. But I can't give it back. I can't. You have to go—

—so she can live.

He knows, he knows. He can't cry, he can't scream.

He no longer cares.

He shivers, shudders.

He is gone.

There is nothing there now except her. Her shape; wilted, faded, lonesome, and fragile. He will see her, pity her, and he will promise her everything. He will protect her, treasure her, love and die for her. He will forgive her anything.

And she will never believe him for she knows he cannot. Even if he knew, he could never know. He could never choose, because the choice between the nothing she carved into him and the lie she put in its place is no choice at all. He could never choose, because she already did.

So when he forgives her, she knows, in the end, she is only forgiving herself.

How she wishes that was something she had never felt before.