Phantasmaphilia - to love the creation of one's own mind

Allegorical Memorial

--

You're such an inspiration for all the ways

I will never, ever choose to be.

Oh so many ways for me to show you

how your savior has abandoned you...

Judith -A Perfect Circle

There was indeed an opening in the wall, large enough for the inches-tall Edgar to squeeze through without much fuss. On the other side, the sun shone brightly and the grass was a healthy, dull green. Thank God.

He fell sprawled on the ground beside the stone, longing for his glasses in an abstract way. They made him feel more… protected, even if his vision was almost twenty-twenty by this point.

When had it gotten that good?

Ever since he woke up, the world had been nothing but questions wrapped up into questions and tied with more questions. It had started with a 'where am I' and quickly derailed into a mire of musings and confusings. Wait. 'Confusings' isn't a word.

"Damnit," Edgar groaned.

And now he was cursing too. Brilliant. Tell us Edgar, can you break any more personal rules today?

And what had Scriabin gotten so mad about? He hadn't even done anything—all he'd said was that they needed to talk. It was a completely innocent demand. It wasn't like he'd said some sort of rude, provocative thing!

On the other hand, Angry Scriabin had truly scared him on a base level. It wasn't like the carbon copy could do anything to him… Edgar could probably hold his own in a fight, if it came down to that… but that wasn't what worried him. What was he scared of?

More questions.

Somehow, he found himself on his feet and walking, at that. Rocks slid into the distance and grass stalks flew by, and he realized that he was running. Running away from… something. Why bother naming it?

Suddenly, the grass was behind him, and a dusty plain stretched out before him. He tilted his head up to see the sky, digging his heels into the dirt to stop his frantic dash. The blue (thank god, blue) above him was unbroken from the wall he'd escaped to far ahead, empty of even a sun.

If Edgar had been the type, he would have fainted. The only thing worse than running in circles was running forward into… that.

But the thought of Scriabin kept him going somehow—what if the man showed and found him curled up in surrender on the ground? He'd never live it down. So, though his feet hurt fearfully and his brain was short-circuiting, he trudged on.

That, too, felt natural.

Unbidden, words spun themselves into his thoughts, and he was appalled to find that they were in verse. Poetry, and he hadn't even been trying. And he wasn't sure whether it bothered him because it was self-indulgent and frivolous, or because it meant that this strange place was affecting him on such a deep level.

"If you'd just let it in, this would be a lot less painful."

Edgar whirled to find the intruder—who had to be Scriabin, of course, by now he would recognize that voice blindfolded and hung over a bonfire—but saw no one at all. The plain was completely empty, just as it always had been.

"Great," the lost man sighed, "Now I'm hearing things. What's next, talking to myself?"

And then he realized that was exactly what he'd been doing, and shut up.

Minutes stretched into hours like fluffy wool spun into yards of thread, and still there was nothing in sight. He turned to look behind, and even the wall was gone. There was, quite literally, nothing to be seen in any direction.

The dark earth was straight as a razor, and even the sky seemed sharp, like you could cut yourself on it if you reached too high. Edgar turned slowly, taking in the full panorama, feeling once again like there was something eerily familiar about this place. More steps forward, or maybe it was backward, and a dark spot appeared on the horizon.

Insatiably curious, he hurried towards it, watching it grow from an ink blotch to a tiny Y, to a full sized tree. He stopped in front of it and slid off his shoes, climbed into the joint where the two main branches met. From that spot, he could see that on his left, the land rose gradually into the sky like a ramp to the sun… and that the sun was just over the edge of it, obscured at ground level.

This, too, was familiar. His eyes landed on the patch of smoothed bark under his fingers, worn to polish by countless children's hands. His hands. By god, he did know this tree.

He'd come here as a child, living an hour's drive away from Atlanta Georgia. The tree was at the edge of his foster parent's neighborhood, just down the dirt road and at the very front of the forest. He used to climb up there when he was lonely, which was quite often, and look up at the sky for hours.

The neighbor children had never liked him… creepy child with the vacant eyes, always alone… glasses, dusty brown hair, oversized nose… not like the rest of us, did you hear about his parents…

Edgar's eyes snapped open, though he didn't remember closing them.

Yes, the tree was the very same one. It had looked like this the day that his foster mother came out looking for him, trying to tell him that he was to leave with his grandmother in two days. Sharon had never felt comfortable around him, he knew that. If anything, he was grateful that she took care of him like she did, despite her uneasiness.

But why was his tree out here in the middle of this… desert? And why were all of the leaves dead, even though it was spring? At least, he thought it was spring. It had certainly looked like spring before. But here in this empty land, how could he know?

He looked down and saw Scriabin resting against the trunk, arms loosely folded. Silent and unassuming, for once in his life.

"Vacant, isn't it?" he sighed, finally, "And to think you spend so much time here."

"Scriabin," he started, too tired for anything but a whisper, "I've never been here before in my life."

"How I wish that were true. Edgar, you can't tell me you don't feel it."

"Feel what?"

"It." The doppelganger gestured tiredly into the open land. "The whole place. You're so closed off it's amazing, really. Can you do what I ask for once? Can we not fight about something?"

"…alright."

"Then close your eyes, my dear. Now, relax."

Against, all logic and pride, Edgar did so.

"Focus on the sensation in your fingertips. Your shoulders. Your eyelids. Now, try to feel the air."

Eyes flipped open. "What?"

"The air. It has feelings of its own. Just… focus."

At first, all Edgar could feel was silly—what was this, meditation? He never put stock in it before, so why start now? It was just another of the ridiculous things everyone around here liked to throw around. But… Scriabin really seemed to care about this…

Focus. Air. Nothing at first, but then he felt something stirring in the wind. Deep and brown, hinting of blue, and worn to soft thinness… it pulled at his chest and his eyes. Brows knitted together, he lifted a hand to get a better feel, trying to touch that dark thing tied to the threads of the breeze. It was a tingle along his shoulder blades, tightness in his chest, a stinging at the corners of his eyes…

"Loneliness," he breathed, looking down at his companion.

"A little more than that, but yes," Scriabin agreed.

"But… the tree…"

"It's where you go when you're alone. This whole place," he said, "is the feeling of being the only person in the world, cut off and blocked from the rest of the universe. You come here depressingly often."

Edgar thought about that for a long time. The implications… what it meant for him on so many levels…

"So…" he started, "…everything here is… symbolic."

The copy turned to look up at him, a ghost of his former smirk on his lips. "You caught on faster than I expected, my dear."

"Any chance you'll let me go home, now?"

"None at all, I'm afraid."

"Oh well."

The sky was still sharp as broken glass, but the air felt a little less empty now. He thought he saw a shadow on the horizon, as if the land were slowly shrinking as the minutes passed. Why, he wasn't sure.

"How do you know me?" Edgar asked, not expecting an answer but trying anyways.

"How many times are you going to ask me that?"

"As many times as it takes."

"My, my. When did you grow a spine?"

Edgar scowled. "I've always had one. Now tell me something useful, please."

Scriabin looked caught between a scowl and a grin. His lip twitched. "Fine. Ask me a question."

A thought: How did he know that Scriabin wouldn't lie? Why was he willing to talk now, when he'd been angry for no reason only hours ago?

"Why do you look so much like me?" Best to start with the beginning.

His carbon copy looked thoughtful. "I suppose it's because I am Scriabin."

"That's not an answer."

"No," Scriabin smirked, "not enough for you. Instead, how about this: it is, perhaps, because I am everything you hate, and everything you love."

"Oh God," Edgar moaned, "You're a symbol too? I can't believe this. I'm having a conversation with a goddamn metaphor."

Scriabin reached up and casually yanked his companion's foot, pulling him out of the safe hold of the branches and onto the unforgiving dirt.

"It's much more complicated than that, my dear boy. I am symbolic, but I'm also my own entity with my own personality and agenda. Of course, you wouldn't care about all the subtle nuances of my character. Only how it boils down to you."

"That's not fair!" the grounded man half-shouted, "you think you know everything about me, but you don't!"

"Ah contraire, dear Edgar." Scriabin smiled cruelly, kneeling at his side. "I do know absolutely everything."

And then, of course, he was gone.

--

That shadow on the edge of the horizon was, in fact, a house. Nothing showy, just a small cottage that Edgar found to be unlocked and uninhabited. The air inside was pretty normal, which he hoped meant that Scriabin wouldn't feel the need to pop up at another inopportune moment. As if his epic journey through Un-wonderland had ever been anything but inopportune.

Swallowing his nervousness at not-breaking-but-still-entering, Edgar settled into the couch and proceeded to stare blankly into space, hands worrying the faded floral pattern of the fabric. Somehow, he just knew that the little house was uninhabited despite its tidy state.

So what did he know? The tired man grabbed a scrap of paper and made a list of everything he'd been told since he arrived, that he could remember, in the hopes that it could begin to unravel the mystery around him.

Scriabin doesn't know what he is.

I ought to have a quest

I have spooky powers

The laws of physics/reality do not apply here

The City of Blood is related to me somehow

I should not deny my heart (?)

Everybody knows all about my problems

Poetry is, apparently, not a waste of my time

Scriabin knows more about me than I do

I am a very lonely person

Edgar frowned at the last line, sorely tempted to erase it. It was very hard for him to admit that he had problems, even the obvious, desperately-needed-to-be-corrected ones. But he'd have to deal with it if he ever wanted to figure things out—which he did. He went on.

Physical places are symbolically linked to my personality

Scriabin is everything I hate (and love)

So… what did that mean? Logically, the conjunction of impossible rebellion within the laws of reality and actual places in the world corresponding to his emotional state implied that…

This was a dream.

Was that possible? How could he know for sure? Edgar pinched himself, stupidly. What was the point of that?—he'd already broken his nose in this adventure, and if that didn't wake a man up then nothing would. It hurt like a you-know-what, too.

If, in fact, the whole experience was a horribly screwed up dream, then what did that make Scriabin? Dream characters are wont to know all manner of things they shouldn't, as was Scriabin, and it might explain their strange resemblance.

But, dreams didn't normally give you the reasoning or the time to realize they were dreams. Edgar's never had, at least. And they tended to lack a lifelike continuity, due to the rambling lack of sophistication in the human subconscious. His experiences, on the other hand, had been very true to life in that regard.

Conundrums wrapped in paradox sprinkled with riddles.

A shadow across the wooden floorboards caught his eye, temporarily pushing back his wild speculations to make room for simple adrenalin bursts. The shadow fell from the doorway, where lamplight from the porch illuminated a dark figure.

Edgar tripped in his haste to leave the couch.

"What are you doing in my house?" The shadow demanded, her voice feminine but low despite that.

"I'm sorry, I found it open and I thought that no one lived here and there was no lock and…" Edgar trailed off as she stepped further into the room.

She wore faded brown trousers and a baggy white shirt, her purple hair was pulled into two messy pigtails on the crown of her head. The beauty mark on her cheek moved when her thin lips tightened.

"You know, there's serious penalties for trespassing on royal land," she growled, hands on hips.

"No, I… but… royal?" Edgar mumbled, wondering how this place could belong to royalty. "What… are you the groundskeeper or something?"

She glared dangerously. "I'm the Queen, you shithead."

Woops.

The man took a deep breath. "I apologize for trespassing; I thought that this place was abandoned. Can I make it up to you somehow?"

The queen gave him a regal once-over. Apparently, his dirty striped shirt and scuffed shoes passed the test, because she gave him a curt nod.

"My court will be here shortly. Come outside and we'll see about making even."

Here we go again, Edgar thought. He'd known enough women to know this wasn't going anywhere fun.

But at least Scriabin wasn't here.

The queen led him out the door and into the garden—never mind that there had been no garden there when Edgar entered the house—and towards one particular topiary, shaped like a giraffe. She seemed to be rather annoyed with it, if the narrowed eyes and glares were anything to go by.

"Is there something wrong with that topiary?" he asked, but cautiously.

The queen scowled. "It was supposed to be rearing like the noble steed of a knight. Instead, some asshole decided to make it stand there like a cow waiting to be tipped. Someone's going to pay for that."

A trumpet sounded, cutting off Edgar's next question, and five men on horse back came prancing into the greenery, resplendent in shining armor. The queen tapped her foot impatiently as they executed flawless maneuvers and generally showed off, deliberately moving so that the light bounced off their immaculate white suits.

"Yes, yes," she said, walking into the middle of the exhibition and thus forcing the knights to halt. "That's very nice and I'm sure your lords are proud of you, but where is my court?"

The knight on the farthest right answered, "Oh, they're… um…" he stopped and glanced around.

Edgar was pretty sure he saw a vein throbbing in the queen's temple. "Don't tell me they stopped for pizza again."

The armored men all shuffled and looked at each other. "They… didn't stop for pizza?"

"AAARG!" the woman yelled, roundhouse kicking the leafy giraffe. "What am I supposed to do with you people?"

No one else seemed to be saying anything, so Edgar piped up, "You could offer to have pizza waiting for them wherever you're going to? That way, they wouldn't have to stop."

"But… I hate pizza."

"Well," the unarmed man replied, "You don't have to eat any, you know."

A moment of silence passed, while the royal debated the pros and cons of Italian cheesy pie and the knights all looked very confused. "Okay," she finally said, "for now, just track them down and tell them to bring the pizza along, okay?"

The queen sighed as her soldiers went galloping off. "I guess we're going to have to wait a while longer," she murmured, "by the way, I'm Queen Devi of Sporkshire. You can call me lady Devi."

TBC