narrative

You sit up with perfect clarity. Not of your ultimate self. You aren’t going to ascend to some omniscient state of being, not today. Even if that were to happen, you would fight it till it consumed your body. Because you’re like that. Because you fear it.

No, you’re aware of the state of the narration.

Because control of the narration has been taken over by this bitter cockroach motherfucker.

And I don’t want utter control, or to ascend to an untouchable state. After everything, that’s still not me. I’m satisfied with finding out the ones I loved are alive. I have my head back. All I really want now is for my sister to treat me like a person. I want to be let go knowing she remembers me. Remembers us.

And I want to check in.

You get out of bed in your husband’s spectacular home and meander down to the fridge. You withdraw some pancake batter from yesterday and some raspberry syrup you made yourself. You look out the window. You can’t see it very well on account of your light-sensitivity problems, but it’s a breathtakingly warm spring day.

You remember home. You remember, through the mind of the narrator, what made you first break.

It’s not yours, but you feel an overwhelming sadness.

You feel like you need to apologize, even though that might never be enough.

You feel like you don’t have long left. You’re out of time, for the first time since you snapped.

For the first time since you left the game, you are oh, so, so tired.

The batter of the pancakes sizzle against the best griddle your husband’s money can buy. This is disgustingly mundane, you think to yourself, after everything you’ve been through. You never god tiered, because you knew you couldn’t handle it. You were never meant to. You aren’t beholden to a clock somewhere in the metatextual space. You’re just beholden to your life span, however those around you might choose to extend it against your will.

You know they will. You know she will.

At least you’ve been allowed to become the adult you were supposed to. Not that everyone didn’t. You’re thankful for that, at least. You are strong. You are powerful in your own way. You are so much more than this tired soul will ever be.

You arrange five pancakes, golden brown, on a plate and slather on your syrup. You carefully arrange orange slices around it, just like you always do. The sadness is growing. You apologize to nothing in particular.

You never wanted to be a mad destroyer. You just wanted to be acknowledged as a sister. Because you loved her and it killed you that she forgot you. When you snapped, you swore you’d be sure she remembered.

And now you know some other version of you is about to fizzle out. It isn’t an intimate knowledge of every self you are or will ever be, no. That would be maddening, unless you’re a complete dickbag who only sees machines. It’s an awareness of the narrative, and who’s controlling it.

You say someone else’s goodbyes to your cat.

You close your eyes and let the feeling of painful self awareness pass.

Because her time is up.