Gracecon & Hospital Cold

Two incomplete stories about Qlifotism and faith

Introduction

These are two incomplete stories, vaguely connected together, and vaguely connected to the two Zabuza fanfics (here, and here). The first story is my initial story draft written over the month of October for the (now defunct) Kinetic Novel Writing Club — with the aim of eventually adapting it to a visual novel; the story is a prologue to a longer story, covering a baptism, and takes place inside a long-running “internal private setting” that I use for most of my writing. It’s mostly “complete,” but there are a few placeholder/unused paragraphs floating in the end, left-in.

The second story is a collection of shorter stories, taking place in a hospital, where the characters are being controlled by a character from the first story, who is being controlled by a demon from Outside.

Both are loose “religious sketches” to describe some concept of my faith; the first: to explain how the world ought to function to clarify the Great Deception; the second: to explain how the circulatory system can penetrate from Outside to Inside, and deliver ecstasies, and how prophesy/listening can be conveyed — and basic messages for the basic faith.

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Table of Contents

Story 1: Gracecon

Story 2: Hospital Cold

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Story 1: Gracecon

Illustration credit: Henrietta

I woke up early.

The sun hadn't risen yet, and my alarm has yet to go-off.

I put my glasses on, and for no real reason whatsoever, I opened my bedroom window.

A faint cool breeze entered in-to my bedroom. It made me smile.

Weather like this always makes me smile, always around this particular month.

I can't really put the reason 'why' into words. If I had to try..

When the wind starts to pick-up, and the temperature starts to drop.. Something in my blood-brain barrier opens up, and my normal moodiness becomes completely contaminated with beautiful weather.

Today, I will definitely suffer from beautiful weather.

I smile.

I want to tell Master, too.

I take a seat at my computer desk. The memories of yesterday had stagnated in the room, so I need new memories with Master to flush them out. It's almost a game we play, although I doubt he's aware of it.

If the memories stagnate, they start to become unrecognizable inside of myself. Regular communication with Master is important to keep the 'circulation' of our relationship from going necrotic.

I don't want that to happen.

A breeze from the open window hits my nose; it's cold, just like a sharp dagger.

O-K. I've braced myself plenty to use the computer.

..

"Ah--!"

My hand presses down into the desktop reservoir lancet-pad. A bed of sharp needles connects my palm to the computer.

My feet kick in the discomfort. My mom got me this computer as a gift this year, but honestly: I hate it.

Enough blood has been collected by the reservoir for the computer to slowly begin its gurgle to life, and soon enough:

*bwwwwwzzzzzzzffffff*

The display sparkles to life in a lazy display; it's about as reluctant to greet the morning as me, on most days. Not today, though.

Keep up with me, little computer.

...

...The graphical display goes from grey, to dim, to vibrant.

I check my chat session with Master,

...

No new messages. He didn't respond to my goodnight.

Shithead.

Respond to me occasionally, won't you?

..These are bad thoughts to have. Master~ the memories are getting stagnant. Whatever. It's a new day.

>I've completed the assignment from last week, Master. I left the results in the drop-off you designated. *Blush* Please enjoy them.

>For now, goodnight, Master. I love you.

>

>--Today--

>

>Master, good morning!!

>Master, Master!!

>It's a beautiful day today~!

>A beautiful day to play and obey~!

>(I just came up with that, Master)

>(Please forgive me for acting improperly for my station)

>(*shyly looking down* I know I'm not supposed to speak without first being spoken to, outside of the required messages to let you know when I sleep and awake, but I'm in a good mood.. And.. *blushes* I've just been thinking about your "response.")

>Meow, *paws at the air*

I kick my feet to suppress the nervousness from seeing if he responds. I'm going to immediately regret every single one of those messages when he actually reads them. Honestly, I feel incredibly stupid typing all of that right now. I give up my humanity with each message. Kidding.

Maybe not, too. He really is a master to me. The relationship is a little arbitrary, but..

I'm afraid of the quiet, like this. I really want one of his 'good girls' to flush out the doubts about what I've done.

I want him to see that I'm willing to risk whatever.

--Do whatever.

--Ignore the pressures of my friends.

--Betray the expectations of my puke-stain mother.

--Forsake God.

I'll sit here thinking my shithead thoughts that betray my true feelings about Master, and I'll let every action in the real-world undermine this internal world of mine.

..With that said, God. God, if you are eavesdropping on me: please forgive me.

...Oh, actually. Did I put on a clean lancet-sheath? I don't think I did.

I stare at my hand pinned-down in the reservoir. Queasiness creeps into my tummy. There are hundreds of small needles lined into my palm and fingers. Hundreds of small points going through the skin, through the meat, and making small breaks in the delicate tubing that carries blood to my heart. To my brain.

Large bloodcells scrape up against the needle and burst. Some stack up around the needle and cause clots. Making micromovements will cause the tunnels to tear, making my bloodcells flow out into the meat of my hands. Micro-scrapes against the bones in my finger causes micro-chippings of bone to fall into my circulatory system and shred against the lining of my arteries.

Thousands, millions, and billions of bacteria that had gathered on the old lancets and sheath were carried into my bloodstream. The bacteria floods into the holes, scrapes, and arteries that the needle had caused. Dirt that I can't clean spreads through my body.

The dirt goes into my brain, and causes an air bubble to become lodged into a critical pathway. Blood becomes stuck inside my heart and lungs. A small pop happens and I'm about to die. I can feel the color draining my from face.

--Stop.

--Stop.

...

I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my pajamas; it's cold. You're fine, dummy. The lancets are clean, you always throw out the old ones -- just trust your own neurotic behavior.

If there were any danger with the computer, Master would have told you. Your mom would have told you. Just relax.

...

Your life belongs to Master. This is part of your duties.

...

I'm okay. I do my best to ignore the nauseous feeling, and pop my hand out of the reservoir. My eyes are shut tight so I don't see the lancets. I don't think about the needles being remov--

I don't think.

*bbbbwwwwwzzffzzz...*

The computer starts its sad whine and gurgle as it slowly begins to lose connection to my bloodflow.

Night-night, little computer.

With eyes closed, I pop-out the sheath from the bed and toss it into the wastebin. I hate everything about using the computer, and technology in general, but it's the current bridge between me and Master.

I squirt two pumps of antiseptic coagulant onto my hands, from the bottle I keep on my desk. It works into my hands, and sterilizes everything. All of those little holes seal up with perfectly sterile gunk. I squish my hands close, open, close.

I stand in the center of my room. The breeze from outside runs over me. I'm smiling again.

--Right, school.

Mom mentioned my new uniform is downstairs. I'm sure she's awake. No avoiding her.

I should have woken up even earlier, or brought my uniform up to my room last night.

It all feels like another one of her dumb ploys to trick me into completely pointless conversation.

I'll go down there, my uniform will be in the kitchen, and so will my mom. She'll spew off some trash to me. She'll tell me to appreciate her, and that I'll not be able to depend on her. Like always.

I stare at my shitty left-hand with bitterness.

Obviously, the spine-pull would ping me as sinistral. She bought into her own stupid delusion. She was right the first time around, I'm trash. We both know it.

--"Veronica," such a trashy name. What complete shit; your dear-dear daughter was NOTHING more than profane scrap that will never join you, or the other dexter-deadbeats, up in heaven.

Dear-dear daughter has to stay down on earth, buried a thousand layers deep in the landfills, till annihilation makes me disappear forever. Gone. Nothing. No ashes. No body. No soul. GONE.

..My hands are shaking. My hands are all clenched-up.

This is dumb. I need to feel blankness when I think about my mom.

She's not my true family, and she's not worth losing myself over to anger. She's not my mom, she is Elizabeth.

She is material, and our only connection is biology.

Forgive me for getting angry, God.

In response, the first ray of sunlight enters my room through the window.

..Hey.. The sun is starting to rise. Guess I should go downstairs.

I slam the bedroom window shut.

I close the blinds, too.

Don't let the wind in. Don't let a single flicker of light in, either.

A perfect day can only get dirty by setting foot inside this house.

...

I shut the front-door quietly.

My hand feels frozen to the doorknob. Something about the moment freezes me dead-still. I know what it is, I hate my mom; I hate what she said to me on the way out. I hate how she talks to the dogs.

I clench the doorknob as tight as possible into my fist. I clench the doorknob as hard as possible and pray that the pressure transfers to her rotten slug heart.

--She's doing her best. She's just following orthodoxy and the church playbook for raising children.

She's just biology to me. I'm just biology for her, too, huh.

And, I wish I could grip this doorknob hard enough for it to shatter into a billion splinters.

The wind picks up again, and that scary moment is lost.

Sorry for the hate inside me, God.

It's not right to be hateful on such a beautiful day, and even still: the day wants me to be as beautiful as it.

It's a little bit silly, but that's what I imagine when I feel the air kiss my face and hit my nose; the occasional sound of leaves being pushed along the walks..

The wind holds my neck in its gentle hands, and tells me "I'll erode away your bad-feelings like I've eroded away so many canyons and houses,"

My hand slips off the doorknob, the wind is right: it's a new semester, and I can be happy..

It hasn't been raining too much, so there's barely any metal scent from plasma seeping up into the top-soil..

It just smells like a sharp clean cold..

I close my eyes and let myself sink..

I hear a passerby walking past my house..

Go ahead and stare, this day is too beautiful to care..

...

Oh!

Wait!

Mastema was supposed to walk with me to school.

That was probably her walking by, huh.

--Yeah, that's one of the girls from my school. The same inky-black sinistral green uniform I'm in.

Oh, that's her.

She walked right past me.

Maybe she thought I was going inside my home and didn't think to call-out to me?

...

It's the first time I've seen her in uniform for the new semester.

Looking down at how my blazer hangs off my chest and shoulders, I can barely understand how our uniforms are the same.

She looks pretty in it.

From behind, in the morning sunlight like this -- she looks like the most sacred thing in the world.

"Mastema! Mastema!! Wait up!"

She turns to face me, looking less happy than I hoped.

"Hey, I was leaving without you."

A breeze runs over us, and her hair blows gently along with it..

Mastema, when did you become so pretty?

"You wouldn't leave without me, Mastema."

"You need to be more serious, Scroll, we're starting baptisms today."

Her scowl breaks into a slight smile.

..She might be mad, though.

"...But you're right, I wouldn't leave without you; honestly: I just wanted to make you run after me."

"Come on."

She gives my sleeve a slight tug, and starts off towards the academy.

~Good; she:s not mad; the weather is still nice.

"It worked!"

I run up beside her,

"Mastema -- I really hope we are baptized together."

It's important to me; she's the only person I've ever met that I can relate to; the only person in this town of idiots that doesn't annoy me. Master, too.

..God, too -- and my ancestors. Sorry for thinking so crass today, God.

"You worry too much. Even if we end up in separate families, we'll still be in classes together. We'll still be friends."

"..Yeah, I know."

I turn on my heels to face my material-family home.

I hate her.

Mom: I hate you.

I'm glad I'll be taken away from you.

I'm glad baptism will wash away all the fecal matter waste talk you've put into me.

Goodbye! I turn back towards Mastema.

"Hey, Maaa~stee~ma; how do you feel about your material-family? Because I hate mine."

"They're fine, maybe a little distant since it's getting to be 'that time.'"

She means adulthood; where we're finally capable of committing real sin.

"My father was always super proud of me; he was the reason I ended up with my name. Of course, I would have preferred a normal name, but then I wouldn't be me."

I'm not really sure what to say. I've heard this several times before, but I don't get the dad thing at all. All I can think is: "I don't have a mat-dad, so I'm not sure what that's like." But, she's heard that before. Several times.

"..Dad has this silly idea that our bloodline is connected between both material and spiritual ancestries, which -- is completely heretical."

"So basically he thinks his semen is more potent than all of the Conference orthodoxy and always produces a true sinister?"

She stifles a laugh; Mastema always hides her laugh.

It's cute to me, because it's like a reward when she actually can't stifle it.

"Idiot; don't be gross -- but, yeah, that's basically it."

"Don't talk about my dads semen, ok?"

I really value her smile.

You're the one good thing in this world, Mastema.

"I won't."

"Good; why do you know about that stuff, anyways?"

...Why are you asking me that?

"Biology books -- why do YOU know it?"

"My dad would have me read old sinistral scriptures that went into these descriptions of male essence being a genesis point of where our biology and spirit splits from each-other, and he taught me about ovums and testes."

"It's really interesting, actually; the author was basically completely non-orthodox and steeped in old-demonology, but I liked how he described the womb as being a material vessel that was capable of capturing the abstract spiritual essence from sperm."

"Dad put emphasis that this part was strictly non-orthodox, but suggested this is one of the reasons why the Eighth-Days are permitted only female clergy."

She skipped ahead and pivoted on her heels, and tapped her chest to emphasize:

"We're just walking unholy wombs that trap souls in the Millennium."

"Sometimes when you talk Mastema I feel like you're a million miles away from me."

"--Khhehe, why's that?"

"You seem like royalty, at times, when you talk about your dad."

The sun is almost fully up, and the sky is nearly a clear full open blue.

"Well, he thinks we are royalty. A little of my dad's delusions might have rubbed off on me."

A smirk stretches across her face.

"You're cool, Mastema."

"Of course, I'm royalty."

"--So, did you really learn about 'it' from a biology book?"

...Why is she still on this? Did she see me dropping off the photos?

"No. It was a biology book."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yeah, right. Why would I want to date some icky deadbeat creep who only spews the same dull shit all of their other friends spew? You know this, Mastema."

"--Did he break up with you?"

I can't stop my fist from clenching. I want my finger nails to bury themselves so far into my palm that I hit blood.

"Stop."

"Hm... Sure."

#Mastema didn't say a word further until we got to the academy gates.

We continued to walk in a tense quiet. I couldn't figure out if she knew about Master or not. She never brings up boys or dating with me. She never jokes about sex stuff with me.

I'll wreck myself if I worry about this too much. There's no way she knows.

I can't focus. I look at Mastema and silently beg her to say something. Acknowledge it. Come out and say it as bluntly as possible.

But, nothing happens. The walk continues in a tight peace. The sight of Gracecon uniforms became more common.

The occasional fellow Eighth or Seventh student would file-out of a home and join us in the walk to the Gracecon.

Just like me and Mastema, the other students would mostly always divide themselves up along the chiral lines. Little cliques form this way.

I've almost never seen mix-chiral kids walk to school together, the entire time I've gone to Gracecon. I get it completely. Whenever one of the Seventh-Day dextral kids speak to me, it feels like I've accidentally stepped out onto a frozen lake. Completely unaware. Have to tip-toe around potential sins to avoid falling through the ice.

I don't get how mixed chiral couples do it. You marry the other hand, and it's a life-time of chirality laws looming over you. Ghoulish.

Dextrals are absolutely ghoulish.

On the other hand.. If I could live with my mom forever, I could just subject her to the stupid laws forever. Pure spite.

Pure complete spite.

..Too much spite for a day like this. The day was still beautiful. The miasma hanging around me and Masty isn't beautiful, but the day is beautiful.

Nearly completely peaceful besides wind passing through the trees, and the sound of people leaving for work or classes.

It was a gentle growing roar of a waking world.

--Plus, the network maintenance crews still weren't set-up to shut-down the street, yet.

God really did bless this morning.

--Still, I felt like a dead fly buzzing mechanically in the middle of it all.

The school gates come into sight. Then, right before us. Then, it was Mastema who broke the silence.

"Ellen, Christ, May, White; ..Legion, May, Miller, White."

She was reading off the names on the gate plates.

"Excited to be back?"

"No, but I'm looking forward to baptism. You?"

"I'm too moody to be excited, but it's better than home."

"Yep. I'm heading to Commons. See-you there, Scroll."

Completely unceremoniously, she waves and walks off. Farther, and farther.

--I need to know. It's going to eat at me.

"--Mastema! Wait!"

She's my best friend. She turns and looks at me,

"Yeah?"

Mastema is my only friend. I need to know if she found out about me.

"I'm sorry for earlier."

She looked at me with confusion, and turned to a smile, like she figured something out.

"It's fine.. Actually, I wanted to apologize, too. I realized I was teasing you about something personal."

"I might be a little nervous about baptisms, too. It's funny. It's the exact same school, same building, probably the same teachers, and I logically know I shouldn't be nervous, but,"

"It's the last semester with our old families. This semester decides the rest of our lives. It's been messing with me all morning."

"Mostly, I just mean that I'm sor--"

"--Mastema, I want to kill my mom's cat, and her dog."

All of the grace her dad taught her barely kept her composed.

We stood together, frozen, while students flowed past us.

A strand of hair was fixed back behind her ear.

Mastema looked me right in the eye.

"Do it before you're baptized."

She turned away and walked disappeared into the academy.

...

She didn't react. That's good.

Good. I won't have to worry about her for the rest of the day.

I follow behind her, into the academy.

...

This is my first semester in the year 3 Commons.

Typically, I'm not really excited about Commons whatsoever -- it's just some liminal room you show-up in and pass through the chiral-checks into homeroom.

But, and this is sort-of silly, the year 3 Commons is also the grand General Conference hall for our area.

It's just nice.

Years 1 & 2 are basically repurposed gymnasium-halls filled with pipe-chairs -- but now it's all been replaced with pews and teal carpet.

"Hey, I'm going to go on ahead -- don't forget to get the syllabus from the sister."

"Your homeroom should be on it. I know you get nervous about stuff like that."

"Wait, Mastema. When did you get the syllabus?"

She waved a stapled bunch of papers playfully through the air.

"My counselor at the school organized it for me ahead of time."

"I don't like being in Commons."

"Counselor?"

"Yeah, we can talk about it later, if you want -- I'm going through the checkpoint. Bye-bye, Scroll."

She waved, I waved back.

I wasn't really aware she saw the counselor here. I didn't really care to pry, it's probably related to the usual garbage students pull on her.

Still, wanting to avoid Commons is understandable.

Outside of the first day, you're not really required to show-up at all. Basically it's just a waiting-room before classes start.

A handful of freaks like to show-up and chat with each-other, occasionally dextrals speak with sinistrals.

It's nerve-wracking to do.

Anyone talks with the dextrals and soon-enough, a sister -- or brother -- will pour all their attention onto you to make sure chirality law is upheld.

It's just nerve-wracking.

There was a small line towards the front of the auditorium where first-day syllabi were being handed out.

A mousey looking sister was handling the distribution to the Eighths, and was working through the line at a good pace.

Soon, it was my turn.

"Good morning! Name and mat-dad's name, please."

"Scroll, and no dad."

"Oh -- do you go by your mothers name?"

"She's Elizabeth, you can check, but usually I'm just at the top because dad is not-applicable."

"Oh! You're right at the top, number one."

She smiles a mousey little smile at me.

"Ok Scroll, here's your syllabus."

A bunch of stapled-papers are placed in my hands.

"You'll find your homeroom in the top-left, today is baptisms for Eighths so you only really need to know homeroom for today."

"Make sure you head there first, by the time classes start."

"Ok, thank you Sister."

"God gift you grace, Scroll."

Quick thumb-through of the syllabus tells me that my homeroom is 1-4B. Class four, first floor, in the Eighth-Day Sinistral wing.

I don't feel like reading the rest of it at the moment, so I just head-over to the Sinistral wing checkpoint and get in line.

The line moves faster than usual, normally there's a ~30 second sanitation delay between chirality-checks, but people are passing through the checkpoint in half that time.

Soon enough, I'm at the chirality-checker.

I hold my hand out, searching for the hand-press reservoir, but..

It's completely different, now.

Sometime over break, they changed the door locking system to access the Sinistral wing.

Bluntly: this new chirality-check confuses me; the old one was just a standard hand-press onto a rubber lancet sheath-bed.

But, there's no place for me to press my hand.

There's just some flat beige box with a red-light and a small drum behind it.

A girl from the student discipline committee is standing by the checkpoint, she probably can help.

Guess I'll ask.

"Hey, I don't know how to use this thing."

"Ohh, I've been hearing that all morning."

"Oh, it's like most chirality-checkers -- it just looks a little different."

"Just make sure that the red-light is on, then press your thumb up against the indent -- the one with the hole."

"It'll make a 'poof' and prick you, then if you're in the system it'll buzz the door open."

"Got it, thanks."

She's probably been answering this question for most of the day.

Students who join the discipline committee mostly just watch the checkpoints in Commons to make sure no-one double-ups through the door, but they usually do trouble-shooting for the checkers, too.

They've always been nice to me.

I press my right thumb over the hole,

*poof*

Ouch--

It didn't hurt, but I hate everything about interfacing with machinery.

If I think too much about this I'll make myself nauseous.

Just try to pretend it's a little insect biting me, or something.

Seconds later, the red light dims, the machine makes gurgling processing noises, and the 'drum' mechanism spins.

"It can take a moment -- it reloads a clean lancet into the chamber while it checks your blood signature."

"Neat, right?"

Before I can answer, the machine loudly clicks, and the door disengages.

"Ok, you can head on through -- have a nice day!"

"Sure, thanks."

I shut the door behind me, and another loud *click* means it's locked.

Always feel gross afterwards; the little pin-prick it leaves on my thumb doesn't really even bleed.

But it's a hole.

A little hole drilling straight into my veins, and arteries, where jagged-edged bacterium and fecal matter can scrape up against the walls of my circulatory system.

It's a shit-dumb worry to have. I'll think about it all day, though.

I open one of the pockets on my portfolio-bag, and find the bottle of antiseptic coagulant I keep with me.

One pump into my palm. Work the lotion in. Stop thinking.

..Another person enters in the door behind me. She gives me a curious stare; I'm used to it, but still: go skitter off.

"Hey Scroll."

I wave. She's nice, I don't remember her name. Still: go skitter off.

"Want to walk to homeroom with me?"

"Okay."

"So, what homeroom are you in?"

"Room 4, it's Zinc."

"I'm in 6, that's Grimoire -- I don't think she's with the church. Sorry about Zinc."

"It's fine."

"Yeah.."

"Still hanging out with Mastema?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, she's bad, you know?"

"It's in her name. Beliefs 27 and 28, you know? Don't bring impurity of old into new."

"..."

"And-- there's been rumors about what happened between her, aaand a boy. Sort-of heavy rumor."

"Why are you telling me this? Just say what you want to say."

"Ha, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be gossiping. It's just fun to talk."

"Just, today is a new start for us, you know? You don't have to be part of something bad forever."

My fist clenches. Lotion that had yet to set builds up under my nails.

"...Yeah. You're correct."

"..Ok, well-- I have to go down this hallway; God give you grace!"

She waves and disappears down a hallway.

Feel my gaze bore a fucking hole through your sternum you clot whore rodent.

Feel the fucking hole and DIE.

Let a whole GALLON of your reeking shit infected blood spill out.

"Hey Scroll."

..Another one waves me by, off as he goes to some homeroom.

I wave.

These pukey little worms always seem nice on the outside but their hearts always pump vomit.

Vomit, shit, and bacteria.

Every semester it's a new rumor, but underneathe it all is just some lame dweeb superstition about her name.

I reach into my bag and squirt more lotion onto my hands. Shithead was too close to me.

Wish I was outside, on a walk.

Or laying on bed with the window open and the house dead empty.

Whatever-- give me grace God.

...

1-4B was my homeroom for last semester, too.

The room is about the same as I remembered it, except Mastema is here.

Thank you for that, God.

Really-- on the inside I'm smiling really wide; last semester, there was no one to talk to except deadbeats.

It's better to not talk to deadbeats at all, so it was a semester of making pillow of my arms and hiding my face.

Mastema is here though, and I can pass her notes.

I drop my portfolio and gym bags next to the desk I'm claiming as mine -- right next to Mastema.

"We lucked out."

She turns away from her book and gives her slightest smile.

"We did-- you should read through the syllabus."

Mastema was always sort-of weird in classes, though.

Typically we weren't in the same classes, but she'd basically double-down on not saying much.

I pivot in my seat to turn my whole body towards her.

"I'll do it later, or you can just tell me everything I need to know."

"Scroll, can I just read for a bit?"

"..Yeah, sure."

I pivot right away. She's probably mad at me for the animal comments.

"Sorry -- we can talk later today. It's all baptisms today, so let's just meet on the roof afterwards."

She goes back to her book.

I nod, nod; it doesn't really matter if I verbalize it.

I'll wait for her on the roof whether she's aware or not.

My head is buried into my arms and I'm back to hating homeroom, again.

...

People file into the classroom, more-and-more, as it grows closer for classes to officially.

The gossip grows with it, until it's impossible to not overhear.

"Look -- the bad omen is in the classroom."

"Oh, I had her last semester."

"Right? You can sort-of tell she is barely containing old evil."

"Nah, Zinc is the bad omen, did you have her last semester?"

"Last semester, right -- she was a nightmare, always had a puffy face."

"You know why, right? Some group of Sevenths supposedly hid her husbands heart medication."

"That's why he died? Dextrals freak me out."

"I thought it would be that weirdo-freak who doesn't talk."

"You mean her? No way."

"No -- it was dextral kids. It's what my friend was saying, she's been dating cross chiral."

"Plasticine? She's that girl trying to hear music, right?"

"That's so stupid."

"It's not that stupid, there's been signs the Garden Readings are off."

"You mean the achiral mutant person? You believe that?"

"Do you think she can use her hands at all?"

"The achiral thing is a complete hoax, my dad said Gencon is completely quiet."

"Why would the Conference say anything about weird achiral people?"

"There was that death in the first half of the year, in the older grades."

"That's completely unrelated."

"No, the families pay attention if you're taking law lightly -- Gencon people kept it quiet."

"What? No, it was that girl who died in the network incident few blocks down."

"Oh, I heard about her, she drowned when one of the cables collapsed underneathe."

"Think she really drowned? They're usually vague about acts of God."

I hadn't heard about the dead girl.

The rest of the gossip was just inane chatter you can find on sinistral text servers.

The dead girl, though.. I feel like I would have heard more about it if it was our school.

There's not that many sinistral people compared to dextral, if someone goes dead-missing it's usually known.

There were network maintenance crews out on the walk here. They've been out, they noise up the neighborhood.

Wonder if that's why the road had to be peeled up.

Wonder if I knew her.

--Krhhh

The grating sound of Sister Zinc's chair skidding cuts through what remains of the moron chatter.

The energy of our classroom falls killingly quiet and carcass-still.

Some still-reflexive sounds of murmurs, coughs, paper-shuffling spasm through the student body.

The tap, tap, tap of heels cuts through what remains of that quiet.

Sister Zinc stands centered in-front of the class.

Her shoulders are slumped, her expression is miserable, and she's a perfect mirror for the dead-quiet she creates.

She didn't bother looking up at us.

She clears her throat, looks down, and just starts to dispassionately read-off from a clipboard.

"Today each of you will be baptized."

"You may go home after your baptisms are finished, normal schedules do not start until tomorrow."

"Clubs, excluding the disciplinary committee and student council, do not start until tomorrow."

"Reading the syllabus is your responsibility, and so are the consequences of NOT reading it."

"Now,"

"Up here I have your baptismal gowns,"

She picked up a small cellophane-wrapt white square package and lazily held it up, for us to see.

"I'll call each of you up one-by-one, follow the instructions included with your gown, once you have your gown in-hand, you may immediately -- and quietly -- leave the classroom. Bring whatever you need to leave when I call you up -- be prepared."

"Again: not a word out of any of you."

She begins to slowly scan the package held in her hand,

"Scroll."

She looks right at me.

I slowly stand up from my desk.

My hips bump my desk. --Fuck.

These worms will be staring at me for the rest of the semester.

I hate being first; I hate the attention it brings.

...Looking over the classroom, no one else is moving. Not a single head moves to face me.

Yet somehow I know they are all looking at me. I can't stand it.

...

Don't think about it.

They're not staring at you, and you're clean.

...

The skittering sensation going down my lap is happening again.

Just walk forward in a haze.

...

The click-click of my heels sounds deafening.

Each step, and I feel a cold tickling yuck slide down my thighs.

...

A white cellophane package is thrust out in-front of my vision. Held by the bone-white hand of Zinc.

"Head to the designated room immediately. Have a nice day."

"Yes, Sister Zi--"

"Quiet."

A wet wiggling cockroach pushes itself under the leg of my underwear.

Just walk out, leave.

Leave and I can check.

There's skittering pooling down in my leggings-- it's coming out of me, isn't it..

It's why everyone is so quiet. When did the bugs get on me..

Maybe it's my period and my muscles are weird.

Just leave-- settle this later, at the bathroom.

...

It's fine.

My hand grips the door handle, and I take the moment to stare at my feet, my leggings.

I don't see anything.. it might be under my skirt.

The door shuts.

My hands are shaking. I feel sweaty. Ice-cold in my arms.

Class of pukes staring at me; I can feel them look at me and listening to my breath and scanning my legs.

I can't tell what this sensation is.

It's either a slimey-fluid or cockroaches flowing down my legs and thighs.

That must be why they were staring, or so quiet.

A fat dollop of a cockroach runs down my thigh.

--Kch kch--

Why did you call me first?

..They're not doing it intentionally, it's in my head.

I just hate it. I hate them. Their shit gaze carries bacteria on it, I know it.

There's a pool of my sticky blood sticking my skirt to my thigh, and bugs are trapt in it.

They're beating their wings against my skin..

Why right now--

Okay, just check quickly -- there's no one in the hallway..

My shoes are clean..

I don't see long roach antennae sticking out of my leggings or crawling up my ankles..

There's no period or urine or feces or slime visible..

I start to lift my skirt, to check my--

"Excuse me,"

--Another student comes out from my classroom, carrying the same package.

The hem of my skirt drops out of my hand.

"...Yeah."

...

...I had my back to her, she wouldn't have seen anything.

It's fine. I'm clean, I know I get like this.

..It's in my head, this has happened before, it's never dirt.

...

Just, take your mind off it.

For the first time, I take a good look at what I've been holding.

What're these instructions?

Shiny milky-white transluscent cellophane neatly wrapt over an equally neat gown; all folded in a neat little square.

There is a little sheet of paper taped to the cellophane, reading:

>Commons: 0-3

>Homeroom: 1-4B

>Teacher: Sister Zinc Asphaltene

>Student: Scroll N/A

>Measurements: 68-52-72

>Dues Paid: [red check-mark]

>INSTRUCTIONS FOR STUDENT

>You are to immediately head to room 2-8B, and await further instructions from the sister-in-attendance.

>Failure to arrive at the designated room in a timely fashion will result in your suspension for the remainder of the semester.

>Do NOT throw away this package, or open this package, UNTIL instructed.

>If the red sealing tape has been broken, inform the sister-in-attendance.

...I've never been measured.

Did mom just make up some numbers?

Mom is cute sometimes; I flip the package over and backside is neatly sealed together with a red strip of electrical tape.

Untainted, and clean.

Good.

"Hey, move"

--Another student from my classroom.

"Oh, sorry."

...

Go away.

Go choke over your own icky puke, you fucking worm.

I stare at his back as he walks away from me.

None of that sacred glow Mastema has; just this dull plain puke color that every other person has.

Die, drop dead.

My left-hand opens, and reaches out towards that worm.

I clench the air around his body.

Squish.

His organs all rupture inside simultaneously.

Blood pools in his mouth.

He feels nothing, because he's just an actor placed into this school operating off of wet programming.

Like my phone, like my computer; I've unplugged him.

He crumples to a pile of de-powered wetware and laundry.

Die, shithead.

My fist tightens around his crumpled shithead corpse.

A found of insect-body puke parts squeeze ou-

"--Ah-"

"Sorry, excuse me."

Another student comes out of the classroom behind me.

I lower the arm I was pantomiming a murder with.

"You're fine."

She gives me a puzzled look, and hurries past me off towards the stairwell.

..Forgive me, God; I shouldn't just be standing here.

I'm just upset.

I stare daggers at my classmate as he turns and walks up the stairwell.

He doesn't even bother looking at me.

I go up the stairs, up to the second-floor. A few students pass me, each carrying the same baptismal package as me.

...

Room 2-8B was near the end of the hall.

White paper had been taped over the window over either door, and the blinds had been drawn over the windows.

The classroom looked like it had been used as a storage room before.

The center of the room was cleared out, the desks were lazily pushed against the walls, and all of the chairs had been stacked in little towers.

The portraits of Our Prophets overlooked this unsightly classroom.

I was the first to show up. That's surprising.

An older woman sat in a chair that had been left out. I didn't recognize her.

Guess she's the 'sister-in-attendance,' she seemed preoccupied flipping through papers on a clipboard.

Just, didn't mind me at all -- gaze fixed to her lap; flip, flipping papers.

Hmm, probably around the same age as my mom, without that sharpness you sometimes see with church-going adults, though.

She just looked tired.

Eventually she finished her flipping and lifted up her head to acknowledge me.

"..Sorry, stand over there, by the back-wall, while the others arrive."

Got a better look at her face.

Didn't look like she'd been sleeping: bags under her eyes, and messy strands of blonde peeked out from underneathe her veil.

She rubbed her eyes and blinked at me,

"Oh.. You're here for 2-8B.. Correct?"

"Yes, Sister."

She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.

"..Right, just stand over there -- by the back-wall, with the table."

She pointed again, a few feet away from where I stood.

"Put your stuff on it, if you need; under it, whatever."

"Yes, Sister."

I didn't actually have any 'stuff.'

Just waiting for people while standing felt a little awkward, but the sister paid me no mind.

She relapsed into hunching over and resting her head into her palm, lazily reading whatever was on the clipboard.

...

The next person arrived several minutes later.

A girl I had never seen before opened the door, and stood dead-quiet in the doorway waiting acknowledgment.

Her skin was dark; hair cut short in a choppy fashion, probably self-done.

A bright teal teddybear hanged from her backpack. I've seen a few of the same bear in the idol-grounds on occasion -- probably some pre-Millennium mascot-thing. Occasionally people get super obsessed with old things, and pluck our profane idols out-of the landfills.

Wonder if she's one of those obsessive old-object people. Still, if she's doing wasteful stuff like plucking-out objects just to accessorize, she's probably stupid. Stupid, dumb. Never understood the accessorizing thing. Shithead empty-hearteds love doing that. Glitz over their gross stinking character with peel-upon-peel of scrap.

..I'm being too judgmental. Forgive me for the spite, God. She's nice, probably.

Never understood the accessorizing thing.

--Still, she's still just standing there. Between her and the sister, neither seemed too hurried to address the other.

..This is awkward.

The sister-in-attendance stifled another yawn before breaking the stalemate that had developed,

"..You're 2-8B, correct?"

She was in no rush to answer.

The girl, instead, took the time to slowly close the door behind her, so it wouldn't make any sound, and slowly turned to face the Sister before answering.

She walked and talked like a weird little monotone robot.

"Correct, Sister."

"Be more prompt with answering.. alright? Oh, stand by the other girl, along the back wall."

Wordlessly, she walked to my right side and stood there.

She turned her head towards me and stared at my feet.

..What's with you?

...

Several minutes passed, without a word spoken.

*Thunk*.. *thunk-thunk*..

The classroom door rattled. Someone was kicking it from the other side.

*Thunk*.. *Thunk*..

The Sister looked up from the clipboard she had been staring at.

"Hey.. One of you -- open the door, please."

"Yes, Sister."

On the other side of the door was a schoolgirl carrying two portfolio bags on each shoulder, a backpack, and a gym-bag.

The girl looked right at me, it was Mastema -- dearest Mastema.

"Found you."

"Mastema!"

..I'm bouncing on my heels, this feels like fate.

"If you are 2-8B stand along the back-wall."

Mastema took place beside me, on my left. She gave me a dramatic glare, a scowl that was definitely maybe-not sincere.

She whispered to me,

"Dummy, you forgot your bags in homeroom. You've been hauling rocks."

My gym-bag was dropped to my feet with a loud 'thud,' and she off-shouldered my portfolio-bag beside it.

..My bags are heavy. For good reason.

I don't like going home immediately after classes end, and I'm not in any clubs; so: I bring every possible book I would want to read.

..Usually this is a good idea, but right now it's mostly just an inconvenience for Mastema.

I bow my head and whisper my apologies.

"Please forgive me, Masty, Masty."

She tosses down her own bags and plops her package on the table behind us.

"Never."

She's smiling, there's no way she's mad. I'm glad. If Mastema were mad, the entire world would collapse around me.

"..Ok, that should be everyone."

The sister reluctantly raises herself up from her chair.

She cracks her back, cracks her neck, and takes a moment to gather herself.

"Sorry for being a little out of it.. I've been studying for Conference exams, and sleep has been the first to go."

"*Ahem* ..Anyways, I have three names down for my candidates for baptism, raise your hands so I know who-is-who,"

"Scroll N/A.."

I raise my hand, I'm always first on these.

"..Shard N/A"

Robot-girl raises her hand.

Huh, she doesn't have a father, either.

..Mastema Samael."

Mastema raises her hand.

"OK, I got the right kids, I'm glad.. Sometimes there are errors from the local Conference where a kid has the same name as the patron, and.. just can be a headache."

"*Ahem* First, let me congratulate the three of you on being here to be baptized."

"It's probably required to attend this academy, to begin with, but there are always opportunities to run away from this calling."

"..To run away from a calling from God, or, to run away from your transition into adulthood."

"So, from the bottom of my heart.. I'm glad that the three of you are here, and that you've each permitted me the honor of being your ordained sister and sponsor.

She yawns again, covering her mouth with the clipboard.

"Sorry.. sorry, I'm not as tired as I seem, I promise."

"I've just been waiting up here since five in the morning."

She smiles at us, not looking any less tired.

"...Are there any questions?"

No, not really. No one is budging.

"..Ok, good. We're not in the largest rush, I think."

The sister turns to look at the clock behind her,

"Yeah, no rush, but I'll need you three to change into your baptismal gowns."

Mastema raises her hand and begins speaking without prompt,

"Are we changing in here?"

"Yes, in here. I'm lucky none of you are boys, I think."

"I wasn't really prompted what to do if there were boys.."

"..Oh, I should say-- I'm an intern, this is credit for me; you three might know more about the academy than me."

"*Yawn*..Sorry, but go ahead and get changed.. Oh, and make sure you read the instructions with the package, if you haven't."

Mastema raised her hand again, and again, spoke without prompt,

"We can open the packages now?"

The sister nodded,

"You may. Please go ahead and start changing."

She slumped back down into her chair, and twisted her body sideways as-to not stare at us.

I hate this.

Feel like I should ask to change in the bathroom.

That'd look lame in front of Masty, though.

I'm way too easily influenced by her.. That's fine. It's my choice to be influenced by her.

I run my nail across the red-tape sealing my baptismal gown, and lay out the contents on the table behind us.

Included within:

A short-ish white robe made out of some itchy, coarse fabric. It's basically a fancy bath-robe.

A very modest set of white underwear made from the same coarse fabric as the robe. I don't see the point for this.

A white cord of fabric, probably meant to be used as a belt.

The table all three of us used quickly became covered up in a mass of uncomfortable white fabric.

I really hate this.

My blazer slides off my shoulders; in my mind I'm just treating it like a cold shower. Or the lancets.

Thinking fogs up all of my actions. If I just act, then my thinking has to play catch-up..

Still.

My blazer drops onto the pile in-front of me.

My pull-over vest is next. Right on the pile.

Top button of my shirt pops-open under my fingers..

Second. Third.

..Thinking has caught up with me.

I don't remember if I scrubbed my chest last night..

I don't remember if I cleaned myself up after the assignment..

My hands feel like the air has gone out of them, again. Ha, I mean blood.

Maybe that was why everyone was staring.

Master would have told me if what was happening would damage me, like a warning or something.

..No way, maybe he would have expected me to take care of it.

...Maybe that was why everyone was staring. Sin is visible.

This pungent slime that falls out of the skin like heavy sweat.

God, I'm sweating.

Oh, the fourth button..

--I need to know first, I just need reassurance. Mastema would stare.

...

Mastema seems like she is just busy undressing. Just don't look at her eyes. Somehow that makes it less obvious.

The last button on her blouse comes undone,

Her thumbs slip under the hem of her skirt.

Her hips wiggle the garment down--

"*Ahem*"

--What?

Ice shot through every muscle fiber with that noise. What?

My heart has sunk down into my belly. Is this even heavy sin? How did she know?

I haven't even been baptized yet. I wasn't coveting. I was anxious.

I turn my head to face the sister.. My hands fiddle with the fourth button, it's all hopes to fool the sister out-of thinking I was acting whorish.

I was undressing, and I was looking out of anxiety--

Oh.

She's staring at the other girl, Shard --I think?

I turn to face where she's staring.

That girl has completely disrobed, already.

...

That girl was almost completely covered in scars.

Arms, chest, stomach, thighs -- all just pocked with little-long valleys of gross pale; gross little hills of brown.

She's like some ruined garden. I shouldn't be staring.

..It's hard not to. Wonder why she has them.

"Shard, after baptisms, I can't let you go home right away, understood?"

She answered in the same non-bothered robot tone she used for everything,

"Understood, Sister."

She turns back to her gowns and throws the robe around her arms.

Weirdo.

I unbuttoned my shirt and slid out of my skirt.

...

The whole garb was itchy, but the way the robe flowed over me made me feel slightly happy.

I swayed slightly, and the fabric followed. Sway, sway..

..Mastema was smiling at me. Good; smile at me.

I pinched the hems of my robe in either hand and dropped into a proper curtsy,

"I am the sacrifice that has been prepared for you, Demon Lord."

"Then die."

"Give me time to prepare, Demon Lord, and my blood will spill at your feet."

"Kchhaheh.. Dummy."

Another laugh. I'm happy with that.

"Is everyone dressed?

"Yes ma'am."

The sister shifted her body back to facing us, and straightened-up her posture.

"Good, you three look nice."

"O-K-.. Now, we are just waiting to be called up to the baptismal chamber."

"I think the Eighth branch here only has one to service the entire school, so it might be awhile."

"Before we get called, though.. You can leave your belongings here, I'll lock it when we leave."

"We will be coming back together afterwards, then you may get your clothes, bags, and go home."

"--Except for you, Shard."

"Yes, ma'am."

The sister eases into a warm, sleepy smile.

"..Good, okay. Feel free to talk until then, oh.. And you are welcome to pull-out one of the chairs."

...

We sat in our gowns and chatted quietly amongst ourselves.

Maybe thirty or forty minutes passed this way.

At some point the sister had unpacked some legal-pads and textbooks, and made-use of a desk to set about some work.

The three of us mostly talked about nothing important. I couldn't relax as much as I wanted with Shard around.

Mastema asked some courtesy questions about Shard, mostly: if she was local or not.

She wasn't, she transferred here for this semester due to her mother's work.

Mastema asked about her mother, too; the standard spinning-wheels "what does your mom do?" question.

Well, Shard's mother, Cathedral, works in the church. The two of them had some awkward bonding over this.

Mastema mentioned her family was deeply committed to sinistral religious studies, and following traditions that were 'beneficial to our culture,' but worked with bodies and ground.

Shard mentioned she was brought up in a fairly deeply orthodox Eighth environment, but not much else.

Every answer by the new girl given in her little robot voice. Sometimes she'd liven up, but mostly all circuit-board.

I just sat in quiet. I'm fine with quiet. I'm fine with not talking.

It's just pointless. Wheel-spinning pointless details that don't change anything.

Mastema can handle it for me.

..Still.

Part of me wishes I could jump in and contribute.

But, Mastema can handle it for me, fine.

Fruitful conversations are meant for my privacy with Mastema; with Master; with God.

..Still.

...

Eventually, there was a knock on the door, and a voice outside the door yelled out "Sister Graphite, please lead your candidates to the baptismal room."

That was the first time I heard the name of our sister-in-attendance.

I liked it. It's a nice, crumbly, fragile name. Wonder if she likes the substance 'graphite,' itself.

She yelled back, "Right away, Sister."

Sister Graphite sprung herself up to her feet, and began her same stretch routine.

"O-K-.. That's us, baptisms are up on the fourth floor. Follow behind me in single file."

...

The school halls were completely empty beside our group.

All of the door-windows on this floor were papered-over, I didn't realize it on the walk up here.

The whole hall was cast in this amber-brown shadowy glow from the windows.

It felt claustrophobic.

Up to the third floor..

Up to the fourth floor..

I'd never really been up here on the fourth.

There was no natural light at all, just some dim flourescents trying to pull enough energy from some far-off artery.

The whole floor looked like it's been left under-construction for some-time; it's not a secret that sinistral accommodations are usually low-quality. Still.

Seemed just like a bleary labyrinthian environment that had been left for the various clubs to over-take.

Seemed like a weird place to hold baptisms at, too.

Although, admittedly.. Something about how closed-off this floor felt was making my skin tingle. Electricity was in the air here.

Electricity and ozone just grew more intense with each hall we turned down, and each heavy-iron door we passed by.

Paper notes were taped to some, indicating what the room was for.

"Canvas storage."

"Pottery and Glazing Club."

"Painting Hall 1."

"Idol Research and Love Club."

"Painting and Worship Club."

"Vein Circuitry Occult Club."

"O-K-, this is us."

'Us' was the only door with a plate -- "Baptismal Chamber." The names of our prophets were written down the left side, bolted into the wall.

Sister Graphite ushered us in.

The baptismal room surprised me.

It was a small, square room with dark-green carpet. Maybe the only carpeted room I've seen here, outside of the staff lounge.

Dark-green fabric chairs lined either wall, there was a vacuum and broom nestled into a corner.

Embedded into the center of the room was the baptismal basin of sand, it had been bordered-up with clean wooden paneling to separate it from the carpet.

Probably why the vacuum was here.

Imagining some janitor cleaning up the sacred sand stuck in the carpet --hee.

Along the back-wall was a minor shrine of demonic idols.

Stacks of metallic cannisters, glass containers, bundled charcoal drawings, plaster casts, discarded fabrics, resin toys, cord spools, old paintings. Just trash, basically.

Forgive me for thinking that, God.

Sometimes the shrines look pretty.

Sometimes all of the forms, and shapes, and colors all blend together into a pretty oil spill.

Sometimes, like this shrine here, they just look like hoarder trash storage.

..Forgive me for thinking this, God.

Still.. There was a gigantic painting centered amongst the trash that framed it.

A huge canvas that nearly reached the ceiling; it was this ghoul-scene of alien shapes burning in fires of inky-black greens and dark-pitch.

..It was hard to not stare at it, transfixed.

It wasn't a good painting, but the scale of it swallowed-up the shortcomings.

Like a child trying to depict a nightmare, blown up at 10x the scale, and layered atop itself a hundred more times.

The same childrens-drawing devouring itself, over and over, until the crayon drawing turns to thick odorous oil paints.

Maybe annihilation of the soul was like that.

It looked cool, I want to try sketching it later.

"You three.. line up before the baptismal pool.. any order is fine."

Sister Graphite walked over to the large painting, and stood with it at her back.

That large, weird, painting ate-up her silhouette.

She bowed her head in prayer, and silently traced invisible patterns in the air with her left hand.

I never really understood what the patterns meant, but adults in the church sometimes draw them when praying for another.

Finished, she lifted her head, and looked towards the three of us from across the basin.

She looked awake, and solemn.

"You three daughters of this profane Earth, kneel where you now stand."

We did, and so did she.

"Each of you have been pulled from soil."

"Wretched material bubbled up from the Earth, whose souls have drained through imperfect material."

"Each of you have been born under the confusion of Life. A confusion that has tethered you to an untrue present life, and circumstance."

"On this day, the Four gathered in this room have agreed to shed this confused identity, and elected to be Reborn."

"Together. As one."

"Reborn -- in acknowledgement of your eternal heritage; of your promise of Annihilation; of your sculpting from Unheavenly Earth."

"You Daughters each have pledged this rebirth, and service, to the Eighth Day Sinistral Church, by being here; and the Chiral Laws delivered by God through His Prophet May, in accord with the Garden Readings."

"The Demon Terebithinate has offered its patronage and witnessing to this rebirth."

"By your silence, do you each agree to be baptized by dry purification, and annointed in eternal bond with the Demon Terebithinate?

Eternal bond... My head feels so light, listening to this. The air in the room gets so tight around my arms and, I guess, I can feel you here, God.

"By your silence, do you agree to uphold our Chiral Laws; to uphold the May Garden Readings as truth; that God is over All; and that your person is no more than Humble Material?"

...I'm really becoming an Eighth?

"Finally, by your silence, do you agree to acknowledge this new bond as being greater than any other on Earth; to honor this bond with new family as being True, and Permanent?"

...This makes me feel like I should throw away the camera, later. The whole bag, just start over.

"Good."

"Now, take into your palms the clean sands of our ancestors."

"With these sands, cleanse your face, arms, chest, and thighs."

Sister Graphite cups her hands together, and fills them from the sand basin.

"With this sand, let it act as conduit for the Earth we were drawn from, and let us wash ourselves."

She closes her eyes, and rubs the sand against her face.

More sand is collected. She scrubs her left arm, then her right.

She submerges her hands into the basin, and scrubs them together like it was water.

"Wash yourselves."

We each followed her lead.

I pressed my fingertips into the basin. I was surprised by how hot the sand was.

It was almost burning. The sand was hotter the deeper I push my fingers.

It feels clean.

Maybe it was just impressed into me from the sister's speech, but it feels cleaner than water.

Good, there's a lot of dirt on me.

I cupped it into my hands, just like Sister Graphite had, and splashed a cloud of hot sands against my face.

..I forgot to take my eyeglasses off. Stupid.

...

With them off, everything goes all blurry, but that's fine.

This is supposed to be like a shower, anyways.

...

Another couple handfuls to knead against my face. My cheeks; my forehead; my chin.

Scouring away the dirt.

It hurts, but it all feels extremely clean.

...

Her filth is finally leaving me with this.

That room and those memories can finally wash off, and drain to the bottom of this basin.

I'm going to become completely unrecognizable with this..

Master should come off with it, too.

God wouldn't like me being like 'that.' God can pluck out the fecal matter that shithead put in me.

No need to mind the others...

Another handful, I scrub down my right arm.

All of the secretly hating others is stored in that arm.. probably.

...

Why am I holding back? My left hand was filthy, too.

I lean forward over the basin and rest my elbow directly onto the clean earth; no one paid attention.

The earth of my ancestors was here to sterilize my sin, to catch the droppings of material that had accumulated in my pores.

Layers and layers of caked-on grease from my mother were oozing off into the basin.

I'm surprised no one saw the pool of grease I'm emptying into the basin.

You won't recognize me after this, Mastema.

I scratched-away with sandied nails into that arm; my left fist clenched sand deep in the basin.

A hot slick-iron element was at the very bottom.

I flicked my palms and fingertips against it, kneading off the last bit of grit.

It was grit that smelt of iron, and smelt like pungent sour death, and it came off.

...

Pulling it out, it was red and raw and sterile, like the fresh clay from confessionals.

I sank back into my kneeling.

I don't know why, but I'm tearing up.

...

I have more to clean.

Another handful of warm-clean earth.

I lift up the hem of my robe and dropped a steady stream of sand over my thighs, and let it pour higher over my groin, tummy, chest -- it all blends together as something all-dirty.

No one stopped me, still.

I scratch at the sands over my body and knead away those thirteen years of sweat, and oils, that had built up inside me.

Every night that monster, on that computer, would put more sour puke on-to this.

The showers didn't work at all.

It's EXACTLY like Sister Graphite said about no water being pure for us.

It's either that, or it turns impure the second it catches wind of us.

I should dip my feet and ankles into it, too. I get dirty there, too.

"Scroll, are you okay?"

It was Mastema. She was pinching the hem of my robe.

Oh, I'm crying..

"Yeah.. I am.."

"Masty.. Do you recognize me?"

"What?"

"Yes, you're Scroll."

Typical, Mastema.. I wish you would have found me unrecognizable.

I wish you would have mistook me for one of the figures in the strange black-and-green painting.

I'm being retarded. --I'm reborn, I shouldn't be thinking that crassly..

"Sorry.. I just wasn't expecting it to feel like this."

"I feel really clean right now, Mastema.."

"Sister Graphite?"

"It's fine, Baptism affects us all differently; this is important to her."

"It's important to each of us."

"Sister, her arm is bleeding!"

"..Each of us takes separation from our past differently."

"The results of dry cleansing can some-times be dramatic, and some-times look scary."

"But, it is always safe --the Church would intervene, otherwise."

"Your lives are in the palm of God, now; have faith, Sister Mastema, --this is part of your adulthood."

"..."

I whicked away the tears with my knuckles.

My eye-sight is no good without glasses, but it's immediately obvious how red my left arm is.

I shake the sand off my glasses and put them on, to check.

...

My skin looks raw. Some beads-of-blood drip out, but it's fine.

The important part is that I am clean, and the dirty-skittering I've been feeling is finally coming out.

"*Snff... uuh..*"

I hear sniffling. Leaning back, Shard is sobbing into her elbow and trying to choke back her grief.

..I can't help but stare at the deep-brown divets that go across her ribs and inch towards her back.

She's a mess.

She's an ugly, gross, mess.

I'm sorry God; these thoughts aren't what you would want me to think.

...

The sobbing went on. No one paid it any mind.

Everyone sat still-and-quiet, completely indifferent to the girl crying her heart out.

Crying seemed to be completely mundane in the surreal environment of the baptism.

..Really, Mastema is the weird one. She was above giving in-to pointless emotions during some silly ceremony.

I wish I hadn't cried. I never understood the kids who would cry during worship or confessionals.

Guess I'm no better than that crying dummy over there.

Wonder if Graphite is secretly bothered, like "I want to get this over with."

But, Graphite gave no indication that she was bothered.

Her face had no hate or irritation or tiredness.

Rather, she used it as an excuse to take a short break.

While Shard sobbed ugily, Sister Graphite took from the shrine an aluminum canister, and collection of glass jars.

The jars were carefully placed in-to the sand-basin, wiggled into place. One sat before each of us.

The canister sat beside the Sister.

And we waited.

..After a few minutes, Shard quieted down.

The baptism's continuation was signaled with Graphite clearing her throat,

"*Ahem*"

There's a solemn look on her face. Her eyes are affixed on the canister, that she pulls in-front of her.

"We are the descendents of the Left-Hand of God."

"..An accursed, pocked, material, cut-off from Trinity."

"Our promise of Eternity is not born of a continuation of Christ."

"Our promise, instead, continues from the many ripples cast by Legion; drowned in this Earthly Sea, in fear of guaranteed abyss."

Sister Graphite continues her sermon while deftly unscrewing cap from canister,

"As the Prophet May revealed, we Sinister are each born within a shadow cast by God's Trinity,"

"A shadow, that had deceived the world, wherein our ancestors had hidden themselves amongst righteous lambs of God."

"This Deception led the Right-Hand in-to offering us false promises of eternity."

"Promises, that-- the blood of Christ would save us; we would be subsumed into the heavenly body of God."

"We are the billion droplets of blood from sacrificial swine,"

"And we live presently in acnkowledgement of this solemn, profane reality."

"There is no grace in rejecting our nature, and only grace in loving our nature."

"We are promised annihilation."

Open canister in hand, she holds it against her lap.

"Us brothers and sisters, of dirt; idol; hair; muscle, and blood."

"God offered us soul with which to fill the emptiness in each of our hearts,"

"And yet with each child, it slips through the cracks unique to our material; our soul is only a glisten in an empty vessel."

"It is with love that God has created us, in our imperfect way -- beyond reach of Trinity."

She sits up on her knees, and leans forward; forward, towards the jars.

"We--"

The contents of the canister are poured out in-to the first jar, in-front of me -- it's a stinking clear liquid. It smells just like the painting studios during worship. Pure turpentine.

"--Are the After."

"The Quaternal children of God, born from All-Else outside the holy Trinity of God,

Mastema's jar is steadily filled, and the odor stink increases.

"This Demon I pour is as you, as you are it -- mere material shell, deprived the Abstract Love.."

Shard's jar is slowly poured in-to. This stuff always freaks me out in worship, the teachers always emphasize not to let it on your skin. Here, it's just unavoidable in the air -- the room is solid with it.

"But blessed with Representational Love. See to this Demon as you would a father, a mother, a sister, a brother -- and love it as family."

--The last jar is topped-off. Filled whole with chemical. No soul, just stinking flammable chemical.

"It is as family. True, and eternal"

Nothing was said, but Shard leans forward and takes one of the jars in-hand.

Mastema follows her lead, and I follow hers.

The reek of painting-halls is even more intense with it in my palms. The teachers always say to not inhale this stuff. All of this pomp and we toss newspaper-fulls of this stuff into the trash weekly.

"Sisters, anoint your foreheads with the oil of chemical Demon."

"Dip a finger into the body."

There's a pause. I look at the clear chemical in-front of me. Mastema sticks her finger into her jar, so I follow suite.

"Touch the body to your forehead, wet and profane."

Graphite touches the center of her forehead with one finger.

So do we. The chemical burns my forehead, and immediately I feel slightly woozy. The vapor is just clinging to my skin.

"Again, to each arm.."

She pantomimes, and we imitate; a slight burning sensation spreads on my arms.

"To each shoulder.."

"To your heart, center, each."

"Let this Demon know your skin, and let it permeate your blood."

We each follow her motions. My body starts to reek of the chemical we've been assigned.

"Bring each jar to your nose and mouth--"

...My hands reach-out to the jar just fine, but something about the instruction causes my stomach to drop.

It's like butterflies. It's like realizing I'm crossing a line I can't go back from.

I really have to do this, huh.

I bring the jar up-close to my face; the transparent chemical sloshes around and catches light..

Mastema is doing this, too. Just remember that. Get through this and we're bonded eternal.

"And inhale, deep, the body of this Demon."

I breathe deep the fumes coming out of the jar.

It's nauseatingly intense; you're nauseatingly intense, Demon --I know you're supposed to be my Demon but breathing you in just makes me think about the teachers warning us about not wafting in noxious vapor.

"*COUGH* *COUGH* --aauuh"

Mastema violently lurches forward; splashes of our precious Demon fall off in-to the basin each-time she coughs. Her face is hidden in her elbow, but she looks red.

"--Sorry, it's just burning."

She wipes her face into her upper-arm and tries to inhale again.

"*COUGH* *cough* -haaau, I'm sorry--"

Mastema hides her face into her palm and wipes the spittle away, clean.

"It's burning my nose and throat, really bad."

Sister Graphite says nothing, she's completely unfazed and unresponsive. The whole ceremony has come to a grinding quiet while Mastema regains herself.

I feel a little bad; it's just Masty struggling with this -- Shard is just sitting in the same pressuring quiet as Graphite. I guess I am, too.

Mastema inhales again, and suffers through suppressing another coughing fit.

"I'm sorry, I'm fine."

Apparently, this was satisfactory for Graphite to continue the ceremony.

"Let it rest, heavy, in your lungs."

"Now, to you three who will become sisters to each-other ever-more, after-- till you each are dust and material, eternal,"

"Imbibe a portion of your Patrons body --only a small portion."

"Let it settle on your tongue, and swallow."

Again.. something makes me freeze up; the chemical sits still in it's jar as I stare.

Are you really okay to drink, little demon?

I turn to Mastema for reassurance, because it's easiest if I just follow her lead. Her face is feverish and she looks feint.

-- The jar is to her lips already, her face squeezes into this straining disgust. She's sipped, and the chemical runs through her body with a violent shudder.

*Aa..* *Aaa..*

The fading look in her eyes makes me worried; again, though -- Graphite seems unbothered; if this was unsafe I doubt they'd let us drink. Still, maybe Mastema drank more than a small portion. How much is a small portion? Something would be said if it was more than a small portion -- unless the Sister wasn't paying attention; how would she be permitted to oversee this, though, if--

Mastema is looking at me, she looks so flushed; oh -- it's everyone looking; they're waiting on me.

I bring the jar to my lips--

...

...

Ah..

..It's hard to not vomit.

...

--Tastes like noxious vapor.

But, it feels clean; it feels really clean. Food always makes me feel like I'm filled with this bacterial dirt. Food sits in my belly and spreads to my blood and settles into filth; but the fumes from chemical -- if I could just survive off fumes, I'd be really clean.

I want to vomit so bad.

...

Vomitting would be really disrespectful, though.

Sister Graphite is melting into the painting, but I think she's happy, I can't tell, really. She's too 'lost' in the deep black veins that were in the painting behind her. That's what the painting was about. Veins that pump this demonic chemical upward into a green sea; Sister Graphite was at the center of all of this. So, I can't vomit, because of that.

We're all going through this together, so I can endure -- and I do; each of us does. None of us are alone right now. There's this chemical inside us that bonds us all together, right? Mastema?

She looks blurry in my vision, but I think she's smiling.

We're enduring this together.

I'll lock my throat around the thought so it doesn't puke out. Our destiny is set together in eternity with this, eheh.

Mastema, Mastem--

"You are each christened with the name of your patron, Terebithinate."

"Terebithinate-- your true ancestor that has seen your skin, your body, and your soul."

"From this moment henceforth, you are legally and eternally severed from your material family. You are free of that confusion."

"May you daughters of Terebithinate serve God as Good Sinistral children, and may you each lead one-another to grace, and may you each come to know each-other as sisters."

"Let us pray."

She bows her head and clasps her hands together.

I bow mine, with hers; my patron is resting there where my vision falls. Tenderly in my grip. Tumbling in my throat and lungs.

"Dear God, I thank you for offering me the opportunity to witness the birth of the Demon Terebithinate, and of this family."

"God, I have absolute faith that these children will serve you dutifully, and I pray that you may fill the cracks of these children with your strength, wisdom, and love."

"I pray that the soul that has dessicated inside us may yet be glistened anew with your spirit, and I pray that lead us to our demon ancestors should we ever stray."

"With love in our hearts, we dedicate our lives to you."

"Our lives will be spent in service to you, and when we return to impure earth:"

"We shall bake our spirits in annihilation to material, once more."

"Once more we will return, and once more this world may be mended by our hearts."

"Amen."

Amen.

My eyes open, fixed down at the humble little jar of chemical.

My patron demon is the stuff we clean our brushes with during worship..

I don't know how I feel about this; everything in my person feels sparkling with an intense meaning, like-- God is really here with me, but, this is also just the stuff we clean brushes with. This little material demon that has affinity with my soul, bonded into my material forever, is stuff I watch soak into newspaper and rags weekly --sometimes down the sink.

I'm related to that stuff we sometimes pour down the sink. We're not supposed to pour it down the sink.

Mighty demon, we clean brushes with you.

The ceremonial mood evaporates, and soon we're back on our feet and preparing to leave. Mastema is woozy and has been leaning up against the wall, probably trying to not vomit; she looks flushed, just sickly and sweater; I don't want to bother her. I don't really want to be bothered, either.

My stomach feels so messy from the idea of "eternity." Annihilation. Severed from my shithead mom. A permanent servant of God; reborn as a proper sinistral child instead of some secular scrap. I don't know.

I turn to Shard and hold up the patron-jar, jostling it around to get her attention.

"This is the stuff we clean brushes with, the turpentine."

"Yeah, it is."

She smiles at me like it's the most meaningful thing in the world. Idiot; my idiot sister.

"That's really special.. We're related to a demon that oversees the birth of other demons, and dissolves another."

...The way she put it, made it sound really cool.

I look at our patron again; the simple little chemical that looks like water, till you sense the vapor or burn.

You're special to me, huh?

We could have gotten feces or spit as a patron.

"Our patron is special, huh."

"Yeah!"

Shard is beaming with joy. It's the most emotion I've heard from her. Her little robot circuitry maybe was fried from downing a small portion of turpentine.

I think I'm fried, too.

"I like you, Shard."

"I like you too, sister. Is Mastema okay?"

I look to Mastema, and she's sweating; at some point Sister Graphite went over to check on her, and has her doing breathing exercises.

"Mastema is okay."

The next few moments were a blur. Mastema waited outside, away from the demonic vapor, while we vacuumed up the spilt sands and swept the basin to be level. I wasn't much help; my mom never really has me do chores, and I kept gazing at the painting. The black vein tunnels that dotted its service had closed-off, at some point, but the alien-figures on the surface were still being immolated in green.

...

When we finished cleaning, Sister Graphite walked us back to the classroom, we followed behind in single-file.

Mastema seemed to be mostly fine now, she was back to her normal graces. The air helped, she said.

It was a silent walk. No other students walking by. No rustling or chatter from other classrooms.

None of us seemed to want to talk; I was fixated on the jarred patron. Graphite gave each of us lids, and the split body of our patron was meant to represent some imagined trinity formed between us outside of God. But, all I could do is stare at a plain chemical.

This was what I've been tied to, forever-and-ever, up till God annihilates my soul.

This was the true mother I had been promised. The one meant for me by God.

This was the true form of Family, something the confused puke woman back home failed to provide.

It was just a stinking chemical.

A stinking chemical that has settled into my lungs.

I wonder if it's messing up my lungs. 'Have faith,' is what Graphite said. Also, that we can head to the nurse afterwards if we still feel ill.

If Terebithinate kills my breathing, then God had that destined for me.

--Some people believe that: absolute faith and surrender to God and church.

I swished the demon lord around in its jar.. 'Terebinthinate,' do I believe that?

"Terebinthinate." I whispered.

"Terebinthinate." Shard repeated back, in the same whisper.

"Terebinthinate." Mastema completed the echo.

It made me and Shard laugh.

Sister Graphite definitely heard us; she didn't bother shushing us.

Everything about this felt stupid.

This moment was every dumb breath-wasting pukey idea about chirality the teachers drill in-to us, but..

When I stare at this dumb little chemical, and see it swish about inside its jar, and catch the light of the flourescents..

..and, that I'm sharing this moment with Mastema, and having everything about 'this' sealed permanently to our identity..

--I can't stop smiling. I'm such a dumbass.

I'm just like the other shitheads that smile-smile-smile.

Baptism did this to me! This gross glowing warm feeling in my tummy.

Did you do it, Terebinthinate?

Did you sneak a thousand little maggots into my tummy, when I swallowed you down-deep?

..Because your thousand happy little maggots are chewing out all the unhappiness I'd let settle inside.

..Their chewing-feeling is sinking lower-and-lower in-to me.

It's the exact same feeling Master makes me feel.

...

Holding the Demon Lord up to my face.. Looking it directly into its little amorphous liquid eyes..

I'm going to send you a prayer, telepathically, Demon Lord..

I've been with you ever since they had us learn oils, besides. So, you know me.

So listen, alright?

...

God, I give myself to you..

I am a child made of your profane material.

I will serve you with my whole heart; when my soul goes to the landfills, I will serve you forever still.

When my soul is long-gone annihilated, please leave my residue inside Terebinthinate.

Please let all of the run-off oils and paints of this world dissolve inside of me.

If you annihilate me like that, I won't complain.

Amen, and, I love you.

...Aa, my face feels warm.

..One more thing, God.

Strip out every feeling Master gave me. I want to live cleanly, now.

...

Back at the classroom, we dressed ourselves, and checked out with Sister Graphite.

Before we could leave, Graphite had us sign documents that would affirm our presence at baptism, and would lead to us receiving our permanent IDs sometime within the semester; with our signature, she handed us envelopes with keys to the dormitory -- we had rooms already, apparently, and already had our blood signature keyed to the building.

After the legal-work, not much was said. Likely everyone felt the same as me: a huge release of tension from baptism being over.

I felt drained.

Me and Mastema waved goodbye to Shard, and Sister Graphite -- and left.

"Want to go to the nurse, Mastema?"

"I should be fine, my lungs still burn a little --it was just being in the room. No ventilation."

"Good, well, there ended up being no need to meet-up on the roof-top, but do you want to go up anyways?"

"Mmm.. Sure, I don't think my dad is home yet, anyways. I think it's noonish? We're threeee~ three? hours early."

"Ok!"

...

It was still beautiful outside.

The breeze that picked-up this morning hadn't left this town at all; it was nice.

I let myself lean-into the barrier fence; it greets me with a nice 'crinkling' metal sound when I put my weight up-against it.

"Mastema, there's some group of three people out there who are related to this fence, probably."

"Probably."

The surrounding area is quiet; it's still well in-to midday; the roads are mostly quiet, and the surrounding area is little more than a great green sea softly rustling when the breeze runs through it.

"Hmm, Mastemaa, do you think it's fate that we ended up together? I've just felt sparkly since baptism."

"Aha, you think? It's not that mysterious, actually. The Local Conference tries to match people together into quaternal families based on several different criteria -- blood-type, interpersonal relationships, family background, institutional reports; we probably ended up together because the school counselors wrote some report that neither of us have friends. Besides each-other. It's probably the same for Shard, actually. She mentioned she transferred here, so, yeah: no friends."

"Masty, you ruined it. Eheh, I was imagining God had us as little figurines and kept pushing us together-and-ever. So you don't think God has some hand in assembling us together?"

"Maybe, I don't know. It might-all seem less esoteric to me because my family is deeply steeped in sinistral traditions. My parents would give me some reassuring talks, years before today, about how I don't really need to worry about being matched up with someone I hate."

"I never heard about any of this.. Before I was pinged, it was just mom gushing about finally letting me hear music. Then disappointment."

"Well, your mom sucks. You end up culturally-illiterate if there's no one around to explain concepts to you. You're like a dumb little lefty child lost oblivious to Our Customs outside of whatever the teachers tell us."

"A dumb little clay-doll I can pour old-demon sin and tragedy in-to."

"And that's what I like about you. You're a project. I'll unfuck all the weird knots your mom put in you. Alright?"

"Alright! ..I like that. I have a question, though, teacher--?"

"Aha, yes?"

"Why does the Local Conference handle family formations, and not the General?

"Because it's local, it's self-explanatory. They probably report the families to Gencon, though.. Well, no, it's more-so that the General oversees theological matters and relevant law, primarily -- chirality adherence, purity-impure declaration, heavy sin; the Local is more focused on the legal and governing side, outside of religious issues. Satisfied with that?"

"Yes, teacher; I was mostly curious about it because of practice applications. Local and General positions were on there, and I wasn't sure --and you mentioned it."

"Oh, did you read the syllabus?"

"Not fully yet, I just skimmed through it. I read the part about moving out though, and needing to apply for a practice for funding. When I think about stuff like that, it just makes my mind shut-off. Blanks-out dark and I completely forget."

"You should take it seriously. Have a plan to move out yet?"

"No.. but I want it to be soon. I want to get away from all the animal dander in that place, and the ozum from my mom. What about you?"

"Mm, late as possible. I know we're not legally required to completely-and-forever disconnect from material-family, but I like them. Dad would like me to continue in the path of dead-work for my practice, too. Be a death midwife or embalmer, or something equally pale."

"Not a radical esotericist trying to call-forth sunken hates from the old demons?"

"..Nope. You decide on a practice, yet?"

"I don't completely remember what was on the list, but.. Eheh, how to put this.. I really liked the painting in there."

"The baptismal one?"

"Yeah, that hell-scape in sparkling black and ickly green -- it was so far removed from what I see in this world, and so far removed from the gross warmth people emit. It, just made me feel, made me feel something profane and disconnected from, from warmth. And, it made me think that maybe I want to focus on painting? I don't know know if there's a practice around that. Eheh, I'm worried I'm deciding my future so arbitrarily."

"You sound passionate about it, sometimes that's all you need, dummy. Gencon might be involved in painting, probably not as a major-focus, but idol-birth seems like something the hyper-orthodox would be in-to. I don't know, I can ask my dad, tonight."

"Cool, thanks, ..sis."

She stared at me sharp, and the meaning gradually softened into her face with it, in-to a warm smile.

"You're welcome."

"Hm, Scroll -- I have a question for you, actually. Did your mom ever teach you dextral customs?"

"Oh.. Keep it secret?"

"Of course. We're tied together till annihilation, dummy."

"She spent a lot of money on a private tutor who would feed me some cursory lessons about some Bible topics. Not enough for me to understand it very well. Mostly, just, like.. Well, ok. I learned how to read dextral first, in the months before I was pinged. My mom wanted me to have a headstart over the other kids with reading. It mostly just fucked with my head when we had to learn to read sinister. I'm still not sure I'm great at it. It gets confused in my head, sometimes."

That was probably the closest I've gotten to telling another person about Master..

"Really..? Your mom really messed with your head. That's hugely sacriligious, you know?"

"That's why you have to keep it secret. She had a name picked for me, and everything. Berenice or Veronica. Taught me the seven-day calendar, too. After I got pinged she yelled at me to not say I know any of this and just take whatever the sisters say as undisputed fact. 'They're full of shit but say EVERYTHING they say without question.'"

"..."

"There was this day she grabbed me by the hand, on a walk, and showed me to a landfill. Pointed and said, this is where I could have left you, at any point, if I wanted to. You could have stayed out here alone and cold with all the other trash. Then she looked me in the eye, her face was shaking -- I remember this. I stared at her throat move as she yelled in that bitch voice: be thankful to me. And do what I say."

"..."

"She calmed down afterwards. I mean, over-all. I hate her but she hasn't really yelled at me since. She just talks to the dogs about me. Tells them something stinks if I need to shower -- stuff like that. Yeah, I don't know, eheh."

"..."

I don't know why, but Mastema looked hateful.

"I'm sorry, Mastema."

"Why are you apologizing? Stop. Everything you are saying is just sad. I hate it. I hate this world. I hate that I have to listen to some sister recite baptismal vows that just call us broken scrap, and then listen to some old bitch adult treat you like scrap."

"It's just frustrating. Everything about this world makes me mad."

"...Sorry, Mastema."

She sighs,

"Hey, stop apologizing. I'm not mad with you."

"...Masty, do you really think we'll be annihilated?"

"Yeah... Probably. It's like before birth. Dark and memoryless."

..It feels a little awkward to say anything.

I stare up at the sky while searching for words, just something to lighten the mood. The dead girl from morning gossip pops in-to my head.

I look down at the nearby roads to see if I can spot the network crews, if they've peeled the roads up yet.

No sign of them. Can't see much past the tree-tops and buildings.

Some kids have gathered by the school gate; all sinistral uniforms, too.

Makes sense, dextral kids should all be in classes, still. Wonder when they do baptisms.

They probably cry during theirs, too. I imagine baptism for them involves a lot of singing, or something similarly stupid.

They probably sing to their guardian angels, or Christ; maybe they all drink the blood of Christ, and cry.

Could ask Master later; I don't think mom would tell me.

Mm..

*Kchhckckk*

The fence rattles as I kick it. It's a nice noise.

Still no sign of any network crews down the roads.

"Masty, Masty, did you hear what the class-idiots were talking about earlier--the dead girl?"

"No.. I wasn't paying attention, I was trying to read; those idiots in class only say worthless information, anyways."

"Yeah, they're idiots, but they mentioned someone--maybe from our school--apparently got crushed inside a collapsed artery, fell in-to the roads."

*Kkhhckkkhk* the fence rattles nicely from a kick.

"Gruesome. I don't think it's real, but supposedly it happened nearby."

"Maybe, there was a maintenance crew setting-up this morning, but you shouldn't pay too much mind to rumors. Those kids are morons."

"Yeah.. Still, I've just been thinking about it. A group of tired road-workers peel the sidewalk up, and root around for some stinking carcass."

"Do you think the area will go necrotic?"

"No way. That doesn't happen. Worse that ever happens is the power dims until the network is repaired."

"Hmm.. when I was younger, four, maybe -- the block we were on started to go necrotic and we had to live at a Locon shelter."

"That's because your childhood was weird, and your mom is fucked. The network around Gracecon probably has priority for circulation due to them supplying kids for General -- it's not some vestigal system."

"..Hmm......"

"Masty, what do you think it's like: falling into the network? Drowning in blood?"

"Probably the same as drowning in water. Maybe you boil alive, or get crushed."

"Probably.. I wonder, though, if they don't fish you out, and the body breaks-down and becomes part of the power-system. If that dead girl ends up becoming energy, or whatever."

"--Hey, Scroll, you keep mentioning violent things, lately. What was up with what you said earlier?

"About if you recognized me? During baptism? Or what?"

"No, about killing the animals. It's bugging me."

"...Aha, I was kidding. Maybe, I'm not sure how to explain it."

"Give me a moment to think about how to say this.."

Something about the pause made her expression fall towards being more concerned. She'll be more concerned if I tell her what happened. This is difficult.

I trace my finger along the chain-link, it's stalking a group of dextral kids walking from class, over to the gymnasium. I'll just lay out my feelings. She doesn't need to know why, or about Master.

"Animals just... make me upset, I'm not sure why, exactly.."

"I look at the pets that my mom-- I mean, Elizabeth, she's not my mom anymore-- I look at her pets, and I just want to scream at them, like.."

"'Why are you just letting yourselves be trapped here? LEAVE.' I just want to scream at them to run, as far away as they can. Go. Disappear over the horizon. Get out of this box. Stop meowing for your captor, and stop barking. I hate how they're just docile little wastes that trap themselves in boxes. Live, and die, just like that. Serve whatever parasite buys them, unable to make decisions. They can't talk, either. That sucks."

"I just keep imagining that my soul wasn't poured in-to this rotten body, and instead it was poured inside of a cat --and, I'm stuck there. I'm stuck there running this weird process of meowing and being cute, and I'm trapped. People pet me, and I meow, and I show them my belly, and I'm trapped."

"Yeah.. That would suck."

She's weirded out. It's just like this morning. She clams up. Hmm.

*Flick* *Flick*, the finger lurches ever closer to the young dextral children. *Flick* *Flick,* it hops quietly from chain-link to chain-link.

"...Yeah... And, I just think about everything the sisters say, sometimes, about material and annihilation. I don't know if animals have abstract or material souls, or if they have handedness at all, but. I just want to crack them open."

"I want to break-open the shell that has trapped the soul that was placed in-to the animal. Send it to heaven. Annihilate it."

The finger has finally caught up to the parade of dextral kids, right before they could escape to the gymnasium. Before the children could ever notice it lurking above them, its mouth opens wide. Instantly, it closes around them. Crushed.

"I want to be a hero, basically."

I open my fist, and the children disappear into the gym, right behind their pastor.

Wonder if they sing during gym. They open their mouths and move the ball with the voice of God. In the locker-rooms, dextral children face each-other and sing love to each-other, and sing hate out at all the teachers they dislike.

I really don't know much about dextrals.

I hear Mastema walk up next to me; the fence crinkles as she leans her back against it.

"You worry me a little bit, when you say things like that. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I've been reborn; eheh.. I'm just like a spider going through a molt."

She sunk against the fence, facing me with an expression that was awashed with an unrequited frustration. It was more than that. She was staring, staring, and staring in silence.

"...I trust you, Scroll. Do me a favor, though? I want you to try to open up with Shard. You need more friends than just me."

"..Sure. What did you think about her, Mast-e-ma?"

"She's nice, I think she seems pretty smart. She speaks a little weird, and is maybe too, deliberate? Polite? It's probably just shyness from not having any friends. She's cool, though.

"Mm.. Her scars?"

"Probably depressed -- I don't think she's too different from you. I don't know. She's our sister, though."

"...Mm.. I'll be nice to her."

The intense look that had grown over Mastema had gradually softened with that; good.

"Thank you; I'm going to read for a bit -- my lungs still hurt. Read through the syllabus."

"Yes ma'am."

She bounced off the fence and slowly walked over towards the benches, and ended up laying down. Not reading, at all.

Minutes pass, staring out at the sky; occasionally the crowd at the school gates would add another little sinistral-uniform dot to the larger body. The people seemed to be eager to find-out the results of baptism; a few groups would eventually break-away and filter down the streets. I was bored with this.

I sank down by my bags and decided to do my homework for Mastema: reading the syllabus, more fully.

...

...

...It's boring.

...I'll skip to the practices.

>You are expected to have FULL RELOCATION to the student dormitories within FOUR WEEKS of the semester closing. Students who fail to relocate will be unable to continue classes, and will be held back a full grade, or be voluntarily expulsed from the Gracecon curriculum.

>If you need help relocating, whether it be moving furniture, securing funds, or physical setbacks from material relationships, you are both WELCOMED and ENCOURAGED to seek help from the school counselor, and department of resources. FAILURE to seek these resources is completely upon the shoulders of the student, and no excuse will be tolerated if full relocation is not met by the aforementioned stated deadline.

>The dormitory is a FREE RESOURCE for all eligible students, as it is Gracecon belief that true families need their bonds established as EARLY AS POSSIBLE. THEREFORE, we ENCOURAGE all members of your true family to relocate as soon as possible. Every student undergoing baptism has been pre-emptively registered to the dormitory (building D) with the start of this fall semester. Access, and information pertaining to, your family dormitory will be provided to you following baptism, by your assigned sister-in-attendance. Dormitories are NOT furnished, except for bedframes, mattresses, and refrigerators. If you, or your true family, are unable to provide living necessities for yourselves, please seek aid from our financial assistance.

>While your dormitory is a FREE RESOURCE for the duration of attendance at Gracecon, you are expected to CHOOSE and APPLY for a practice within the same deadline as FULL RELOCATION. Failure to apply within this deadline will be expulsed, and delisted from the dormitory blood signature database. A student who graduates, or drops-out from Gracecon will similarly be delisted. A prior student found to be squatting into a previously owned dormitory will be reported to the General Conference. Current students found to be harboring non-students will be reported to the General Conference, and expulsed.

>Practices available at GRACECON:

>Arts, as related to Worship

>Ceramic Assistance

>Circulatory Studies

>General Conference Understudy

>Gracecon Religious Studies

>Idol Groundskeeping

>Hospice Understudy

>Janitor

>Local Conference Understudy

>Material Studies

>Mortician Assistance

>Network Maintenance Understudy

>Public Cleaning

>Prayer Leading

>Student Discipline Committee

>For practices not-listed, counselor approval is required.

..Huh. Really, none of these sound very interesting to me. I just want to paint.

The syllabus gets crumpled back away into my bag, and promptly forgotten. In exchange, I retrieve my sketchbook.

I flip through page-after-page of my childish little worship drawings.

Mostly just drawings of sights from my bed--my desk, pencil-holder, my chair, a book. I've never considered myself to be a huge believer in the church, but I keep drawing anyways, at night.

Really, I don't know how to rationalize it at all. I draw out my prayers, in fear of annihilation and God -- but I'm going to be annihilated.

Good or bad, I get annihilated.

Flipping through sketches of water-bottles, apples, erasers -- I get annihilated.

I flip to a clean page. My pencil taps against the page..

...

...

...

I try my best to draw-out the painting from the baptismal room.

The infinite self-swallowing belly of that painting, the bizarre figures caught in a seabed of immolation.

..I can't capture it at all. There's no hell when I draw. The pencil isn't capturing it.

I can't fucking draw.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuugh!"

--Extra dramatic so Mastema hears me.

"Want to head home?"

"Yes."

...

The same crowd I had stared at from above was right before me, way bigger than it had seemed. Bodies and bodies of newly-born sinistral families were all swaying together in excitement over their futures. Adulthood. Eternity. Which families are lame, which are cool.

Cockroaches should scatter when you turn the light on, but they just stand around and chatter.

Worse, they face me; side-ways glances right at Mastema and myself. The gossip has started already, definitely. It's the same as every year.

I hate it.

Just walk through with Masty, and stop all thought.

...

--Someone grabs my sleeve as I walk through the crowd.

"Hey, Scroll."

It's someone from homeroom -- Magazine, I think. He did this last year, too. They're all shitheads.

"..."

He grips my arm and pulls me closer.

"Hey, answer me."

"Did you and the whore get stuck together?"

He nods his head over towards Mastema, who has stopped dead in her tracks.

"..."

He tightens his shithead grip around my arm. I can smell his sweat. His whole body is pouring out this putridity from every pore. It's being breathed out and seeping into my clothes. He knows I'm like this. He's getting me dirty intentionally.

"Scroll, I'm sorry if I've been rude. If there was any other way to get your attention I would have done that."

He tightens his shitty little bug hand around my arm.

"This is important, though. That girl is a heavy-sin sick whore. She's dirty, have you heard?"

"..."

It's this again.

It happens every semester.

"Speak up, has she been getting you sick? I can help you, I know you've probably been struggling with her."

"..."

"Scroll, I apologized for being rude. You shouldn't repay my apology with rudeness. Anyways, listen.."

"That girl couldn't afford bags or anything, so until recently she used to carry everything inside her. It grossed us all out when we discovered it. It shocked me. Really."

Mastema has just been standing frozen-still, facing away from the group.

Ever since her spine-pull and naming she's been treated like this. Some shithead bug crawls into the classes and spreads this exact same cruel idea into everyone. Same dumb shit about Mastema having an old-demonic name.

"..."

And I never know what to do to help her.

"You're still ignoring me? Scroll, I'm clean. I just finished purification, same as you."

"..."

"Come on, say something interesting. Be interesting, and I'll sterilize the whore dander off you."

Some idiot laughs at the word 'whore dander,' what fucking moron laughs at something that stupid.

"--It's like dust. It flakes off desperate whores and contaminates the blood."

"..."

"Nothing? Scroll. Hold still."

He spits on me. Someone laughs. He just stares. I stare at him. His eyes are kind-of pretty. Why'd they give someone like you eyes like that?

"Was Scroll the retarded one?"

Mastema's head is hanging.

I'm going to kill this pisshead animal. I'm going to follow you home later, and I'm going t--

*Snap*

Magazine snaps his fingers near my face to get my attention.

"Scroll, look at me and just answer -- you two are sisters now, right?"

"Is that why you feel obligated to be with her?"

"Is it that, or is it something else? I was joking before, sorry about that. The spit, too, was maybe too much."

"Are you dating her, Scroll? Have you touched hands? Handhold?"

"..No, I just--"

"Shut up."

Another person grabs my other arm and immediately begins to pull me away.

It's Mastema. She isn't looking at me at all, she is just focusing a pure hateful gaze at Magazine.

"Don't touch her."

Excitement creeps over Magazine's face, he can barely contain himself.

"What about it, you whore?"

"Are you going to do what you always do an--"

His stupid face scrunches up as a dark-green blur crashes into it.

Mastema hit him?

He looks just as confused as me.

I stumble back, towards Mastema, as she begins to immediately pull me further away with her.

"Scroll, we are leaving. These people are worthless"

Everyone is staring at us.

Magazine is holding his face, still recoiling from the impact. He looks so demure. His pretty eyes are looking at her, and at me.

"All of you are worthless garbage."

Mastema tightens her grip around my arm -- it hurts, and I want to speak up, but I can't. My heart is pounding too hard. And, everyone is staring at us.

"Trash. Everyone is such complete trash."

Gossip and chatter swells behind us as we quickly walk away from the academy gates.

Mastema isn't looking at me at all, she is just pulling my farther away from the garbage.

She isn't looking at me at all, but I can feel the hate from her gaze.

She's always just like this when it happens.

--And I never know what to say.

In my head, all I can focus upon is how I wish I said something; how I should say something now.

How I want to hurt that boy.

...

We walked for some time, not really in any direction.

After a few minutes, the grip on my arm was loosened-up.

I didn't really want her to let go, but she did. She let go of my arm and faced me.

"Don't let people touch you like that. Never."

"...Sorry, Mastema. I didn't know what to do."

"--It's fine. I'm not mad at you."

"I'm sorry."

"--Stop, I said it's fine. It's that dickhead I'm upset with. Him and all the other garbage that jerk themselves off over names."

"...Mastema, do you know where he lives? Magazine."

"What, why?"

I don't really know how to answer that. I want to say: I'm going to kill him. My hand is trembling way too much. I clutch my shaking hands to my breast and give Mastema my greatest look of determination.

"I'm going to make it up to you."

"No. No, if you're going to be vague, then I won't tell you. He's trash, forget him."

With her words the heroicism deflates from me. There was no need for me to be her hero, huh. But, my arms are still trembling.

"...I'm sorry."

"--Ugh, Scroll, I'm fine. We're adults now, remember? We need to be spiritually clean, or whatever."

"Let the drooling morons grind their lives away into some dull obscurity, or whatever."

"You hit him, though."

"He was touching you."

"Mastema, I'm stronger than you think I am."

"Oh yeah? Try me."

Mastema holds her left arm out straight-towards me.

"If you can budge me, I'll tell you where he lives. Lose, you drop it."

I grab her sleeve around her wrist, she grabs mine.

"I'll annihilate you here, Mastema."

"You're silly."

We've played this before. I've never won.

I brace my feet against the concrete, and center my gravity backwards. The plan is to ground myself and put my whole weight into one surprising tug to throw her off-balance.

She always underestimates me, but I'm way stronger than sh--

"*Ah!*"

In an instant, I'm tugged off my heels and pulled against her chest.

She looks down on me.

"I win. You give it up."

She lets go of my wrist.

"..Fine. I'll drop it. How'd you get so strong?"

"My dad makes me help dig graves on the weekend."

"Is that really it?"

"No. Blood of every spiteful old named demon runs through me, and when I'm faced with adversity: they supply my body with unbelievable power."

"You're a shithead, Masty."

"Aha-- Yeah."

We walked together back to her house. Not much was said between us, but when we arrived at a familiar street she turned to me and gave her familiar departing "This is it, see you tomorrow." Though, she reminded me that she'll ask her dad about painting practices. I've never actually seen where she lives.

The rumors surrounding her at school I've always tried to ignore, but I wonder about some of them. Mostly the ones about her family being in poverty. The rest are usually attacks about her being dirty.

She walks off, aways, turns towards me -- walks backwards a bit. Waves. I wave. I know she's checking to see if I'm following her.

A breeze picks up, and brushes itself across my nose. It makes me smile; loose strands of hair flutter in-front of my eyes.

It's fine. I have secrets too, ones that I will never tell Mastema.

I turn back, in the direction of my house, but I did not go back to my house.

At some point during the walk, I started retracing my way back to Gracecon.

I walked through alleys and streets, until I could see just clearly the school gates.

There was the crowd. It had shrunk down to just a few students, with some dextral uniforms intermixed. More people were passing-through on the way to home. Classes had already been let out, apparently.

I kept scanning faces. The crowd, people walking by. I just needed to find that ugly long-bodied cockroach, Magazine. Magazine, Magazine. There's no sign of you at all.

The gate-crowd was too kindly looking.

...

No sign of him.

None of the students passing by even resembled the entourage from earlier. No pretty green eyes or jovial hateful faces laughing.

Still. I stood in the shadow of alley, dead-still and watching.

...

Still no sign of him.

A girl leaving turned her head, and paused for a moment. She waved.

"Hi Scroll."

I waved back. Oh, it was the girl I walked with earlier. I still don't remember her name.

This is stupid. What am I actually going to do if I find out where he lives? Just stand watch outside all night and seethe. Just stare and hope he feels how much I hate him, and then he decides to kill himself on the spot.

That's about how it goes when a real cockroach gets into my room, huh. Stand on the bed all night until I tire or it dies.

This is stupid. Mastema is right, I'll just go home and seethe there, in comfort of my room.

Maybe speak to Master.

Maybe.

I look at my gym bag. He'll probably want more photos. I don't think Terebinthinate would appreciate that.

Hey, if you can hear me: dissolve the whore part of me too, because I still want to talk to Master.

...

I navigated through the nearby roads, and eventually came to my usual route.

On the way back towards my house, I came up-on the roadwork that had yet been started this morning.

Barriers and tape had been assembled around all-but a section of the sidewalk, and two company trucks were further blocking the roads.

Wonder if they'd find the dead girl.

The network maintenance crew had the road peeled up. It resembled a great scab being picked at by many small persons in sanitation suits. Around the edges of the wound, the crew was lost in some busy-work involving either the unloading-of large white cube machines, or feeding length of tubing into the cube machines.

I walked up to the safety barrier and looked down in-to the sore that been opened up by the city workers.

It mostly just looked like a pool of blood and concrete. A man in a sanitation suit was wading through the pool and gesturing upward to a woman, who was lowering down clear tubing. Some of the workers finished unloading the cube machines, and switched to unloading milky-transluscent barrels. Flood lights were being carted out, for sunset.

There was something relaxing about watching the crew move and coordinate together.

There was another girl watching, blonde, in Gracecon dextral uniform.

She caught me watching her, waved, and walked up to me. Every muscle inside tensed up.

She stood right by me. At some point I had stepped out over a frozen lake, just by looking at her.

She looked down at the pooling blood, and so did I.

"Hi. Cool, right?"

"..Yeah."

"What's your name? I'm Eden."

"Scroll.. Terebinthinate."

"Scroll Terebinthinate, that's a really cool name. What's Terebinthinate mean?"

"..Um, it's another word for turpentine... which is a solvent for paint, I think."

"Cool."

"What's Eden mean?"

"It's from Genesis, in the Bible. It means Garden of God. Prophet White called it a schoolroom."

Eden was a nice name. It was like nothing I'd ever known about in this world, and nothing I could touch or drink.

Something about that made me imagine this girl being born as sinistral, and being named Schoolroom or Garden instead.

I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh.

The girl smiled at this.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking about something funny. Eden is a very pretty name."

"You're cute."

"..."

We stared down at the open wound. The tubing that had been lowered into the pool was connected to the machines and barrels topside. Maintenancetalk was chattered to-and-fro the workers, busy shouts carried through the air, and eventually some signal was given to cause a loud machine whirrrring sound to fill the block. Deep red carried up through the tubes, through the cubes, to the barrels, to the cubes, to the barrels -- and another shout was given, causing the whole process to quit and quiet.

"Do dextral kids cry during baptism?"

"I cried."

"Me too."

The work-crew set upon the machines once more; the boxes were carressed with some knowing motion, and the man wading in the pool stared upwards with a look of frustration barely masked behind the sanitation screen.

"Bye Scroll Turpentine."

"Bye--"

The girl flicked my fingertips with her bare hand. The machines whirrrrred loudly. The girl walked off down the way I came, down some alley.

My chest was beating loudly. The man wading waist deep in blood looked upwards towards me, if just for a moment.

Suddenly, I realized I didn't want to go home at all.

The man in the wound hoisted himself up to a natural ledge jettisoning from the hole; his waist was covered in blood; everything below the belt was a rich dark stinking red.

I pulled at the fabric of my leggings. I haven't felt dirty since baptism, huh.

...

The sky looked so pretty. Hmmm. I don't need to home anymore at all, huh. That's right, it's not my home at all -- it belongs to Elizabeth.

Wonder if Eden knows what an Elizabeth is. Probably a fetid horrific creature that gathers up children and traps them in nasty little chambers. Drops them in holes and skitters down the sides to stare, stare, drool, noise, stare. Shocked that the Bible would feature cockroach creatures.

I pull the envelope from my bag, and open it to double-check that the key is there. It is.

Ok.

I turn around and head-back in the direction I came, back towards Gracecon, away from Elizabeth.

...

The sun had well begun to set at this point. The school gates had mostly entirely cleared out, outside of a rare few. Likely groundskeepers or interns with the academy. Good, no one should bother me.

I'd never been to the dormitory, but it's easy enough to find. Even, I used to walk by the entrance daily last semester, on the way to Commons.

The entrance is modest, and no real security around it. A heavy iron door with the standard lock-and-check mechanism we use at chirality checkpoints. It's the cool revolving upgraded system, even.

I press my thumb up against the indention point.

*Pffzzff!*

A sharpness hits my thumb, the light dims, the revolver spins, and the door disengages with a beep.

A dark-green carpeted hallway greeted me.

The layout of the dorms was relaxing; maybe, though, it was just because of the emptiness of it. It was furnished with central 'lobby-rooms' with couches and plants and lamps on each floor, but not a person in sight. Not a noise from any of the rooms that dotted the halls and corners. Just me quietly walking through the halls and lobbies, in a place meant for many.

It tingled at my chest.

The stairs were empty, too. Each floor was identical, and empty, and quiet.

Eventually I found the room marked on my envelope. Floor 4, room 4.

I dropped my bags to the ground, outside.

The key I had held in my palm went right into the lock.

It fit. It unlocked. This really was my home. I didn't have to see Elizabeth, anymore, if I wanted. No more barking, no more meowing, no more degrading myself.

I turned the handle. Complete darkness was inside. A sliver of light poured in from the hall, scanning detail into the room as I slowly opened the door.

Grey concrete walls, carpeted floor, light fixtures, an empty living room, a window hidden behind heavy curtains, a familiar jar from baptism, and--

Shard. Sitting against the far-wall, staring at me with alert animal eyes glittering in the dark.

"Oh.. I didn't mean to intrude. I just wanted to see the room."

Shard smiled back at me, "I don't mind."

"Yeah..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Well... Have a nice night."

I didn't wait for a response before picking my bags back up.

"Bye, Scroll."

"..."

My hand seemed heavy around the door handle. Mastema's words were weighing on me, she wanted me to get to know Shard. But, I feel stupid saying goodbye and then staying.

"..Hey, what happened afterwards? After baptism, I mean."

I couldn't make her expression out in the darkness. Her head tilted upwards, and a long pause was held between us.

"I'm not sure. The sister-in-attendance took me to the offices. There, I was asked about my household. She asked about Cathedral, and then talked to--what I assume to be--other Gracecon staff members, and went through my files."

Her robot voice fit in perfectly with the shadows. It was hard to imagine her as anything else but a cold empty metal hull that was operating in function like a person.

"This has happened before, with different people. Afterwards, the sister-in-attendance came to me and apologized with the realization that Cathedral works with the General Conference."

"Cathedral?"

"Yes. That's my adoptive material mother. After that, another teacher questioned whether it was me, Cathedral, or another person."

"Whether it was--, what?"

She shifted her body in the shadows; one of her arms stretched out in-to the sliver of light that was streaming into the room.

"Who my scars were caused by. I explained myself. The counselor mentioned he would need to speak with Cathedral, but there would be no disciplinary action. Then I left, and came here."

I put my bags back down -- it was a little silly to pick them back up again.

"Hey.. I wanted to ask about those, actually."

Her head tilted at me. Maybe she was smiling.

"Okay."

"So, why?"

"It's the same thing I told the counselor: I copy what Cathedral has always done."

"She's telling you to hurt yourself?"

"I'm sorry, I'm being obtuse. People sometimes tell me I'm either too literal or too sparse with communication."

"..."

"I'm bad at structuring my thoughts non-linearly, so please give me a moment to think of how to answer this."

"Sure, take your time."

She took her time. Maybe two minutes passed with us in stalemate before she decided to finally speak up.

"Cathedral adopted me from an orphanage, which I ended up at because my first family had been found to bear heavy sin."

"The following information is important because of Cathedral working for the General Conference, so, please keep that in mind."

"Spine-pull had already pinged me as sinister, and Cathedral wanted a sinistral child. This last part, ..Mmh.."

She seemed to shift uncomfortably where she sat.

"She, mmh.. I might need another minute to organize my thoughts."

"That's fine."

Just as she warned me, another minute of silence passed between us before Shard spoke.

"I apologize. Cathedral is very loyal to the Eighth Day body of the General Conference, and wanted to do her part to ensure the future of Eighth Day beliefs. She was both not permitted to marry, and was infertile. So, she picked me up from the trash-heap,"

"--Trash-heap is what the other sinistral children at the orphanage called it. The, the-- staff didn't call it that. The staff were very kind to me, and I liked the orphanage."

"I liked living with Cathedral, too, ..Mhhh. Please give me another minute."

"Okay."

..And another minute of quiet passed.

"I lived with Cathedral for several years. When I was eight, I walked in on her during her monthly prayers, because there was no food in the house, and I was hungry at the time."

"Cathedral was undergoing mortification of the flesh, in monthly remembrance of sinistral inheritance of the impure material. She held her palm to her private shrine, and carved-out the invisible fractures that sinistral children are all born with."

"She explained this to me later, and gifted me with a blessed instrument from the General Conference to perform it. Cathedral explained if I died, then it would have been my time, and left me to discover my own sense for fractures."

"Afterwards, I've done it regularly. Forgive me for the length explanation, and pauses, sister."

It was hard to tell, but she looked to be beaming up at me with some sense of pride at getting through the story.

"You're fine, you explain things very clearly. I'm just not sure what to say."

Suddenly everything about her makes sense to me; Mastema was completely wrong -- not depressed at all, just completely indoctrinated into the mysteries of the General Conference.

Hmm.. I'm having a hard time not mentally positioning her as a hyper-orthodox opposite to Mastema. My two sisters are identical on one axis, but complete opposites on another.

"So.. what do you do for fun?"

"Clay and oil, same thing as every EDS girl."

"Oh, the stories I write, too. I don't share those with people, really, but those are fun. Oh, by stories I mean, I like to write stories about characters. It's normally something I keep a secret, even from Cathedral, but we're sisters. It's fine if you know."

She picks something up that was beside her and hugs it to her chest.

"Yeah, it's fine if I know. Eternally tied together, you know?"

"Yes, I'm glad. You are really nice."

"What are your stories about?"

"Characters, like I mentioned."

"Will you me about them?"

"I will. Cathedral would occasionally permit me pre-Millennium gifts, and I found idolatrous depictions of two characters that I named Germaine, and Demetritus. I do not know anything about them."

"You don't know anything about them?"

"--No, ..mhh, they only just looked cool to me, so I kept them in my heart ever since. So I make stories about them."

"To answer your other question, about the characters: Germaine is a sickly knight who wanders an infinite wasteland. The wasteland is poisoned, and everyone dies after a short amount of time due to a phenomenon known as 'white static,' which is a disease that causes all of the blood in a person to turn white."

"Germaine eventually discovers that he is immune to death, and was created by an unnamed war-hungry king who desired a knight that will continue bloodshed for eternity. However, Germaine is continually losing his color due to white static, and must saturate his body in red blood, in order to keep himself from being completely colorless and immobile. Because Germaine can not die, if he goes immobile, he will become petrified for eternity. Germaine is afraid of this, but does not want to kill, either. However, he must."

"He sounds cool, and the other character? --I forget his name."

"Demetritus. Demetritus is an old d--.. demon. An old demon from pre-Millennium, that has bubbled up from the profane earth. He is beautiful in every way, and wishes for every living thing to succumb to white static. His wish is because of his inability to tolerate abstraction that comes with movement and life. White static turns people into pure material shrines. Demetritus eventually discovers Germaine, nearly completely petrified, and voluntarily offers the immortal knight rich red blood."

"Why, if Demetritus wants the world to be dead?"

"Demetritus is infatuated with Germaine, because Germaine is capable of holding love inside him even when completely petrified into an object. So, Demetritus wants Germaine to love him first, before Germaine succumbs to petrification, so Demetritus can immortalize their l--"

"They're both boys?"

"Yea-, Yes, both of them."

"That's purity-impure, you know that, right?"

"Yes. I don't care."

"..The church catches you and you'll be in trouble -- you're aware?"

"Yes."

"I don't care."

I really want to tell her to take your own sin seriously, you idiot.

"Shard, I think you should you should reconsider writing about ho--"

"--Do you care, Scroll? Our only promise is to be annihilated, no matter how we live. It doesn't really matter what we do here."

"The only punishment they can really do to us is turn us off early."

"Furthermore, idolatrous form isn't gendered in orthodoxy. No one in the General Conference cares about the gender of demons."

There was an intensity coming off from the shape in the room.

"The chur--"

"The church is wrong."

"--sometimes, not always. I'm sorry, I interrupted you. I needed to get that in. People obfuscate the downstream Seventh Day beliefs as the most accurate beliefs for the Eighth Day congregation. I wish I could rip it out of your system."

My hand is shaking. It's tightened itself up into a fist. It's like my mom lecturing me but, from some creep trying to desperately justify her perversion to me. I see right through her.

"I just met you today. You annoy me."

"..Mmh.. Can I have a moment to think? I should apologize."

"No."

"..."

I can almost see her fiddling with the cuffs of her uniform, fidgeting it up to scratch at her skin.

A minute of silence passes anyways, despite my protest. My nervous system is at war with an invisible Mastema scolding me about being friends with her. I don't know why I'm still standing here.

"..You can apologize, if you want."

"Thank you. Sister, I'm sorry for talking down to you. I understand completely that I am a pervert in the eyes of God, and that I am burdened with sin, as were my material parents. Please do not misunderstand me, sister: I love the church. I love knowing that I am one of Legion's children."

"I love knowing, too, that God remembered me -- us. God set-up an entire world to make sure we are seen with equal love."

The silhouette of her head faces off away from me, staring at the featureless concrete wall; the object she's been holding is clasped up to her breast.

"God killed-off how many people? I forget the exact number, but it was in the billions. A billion people were swallowed into the earth, to ensure that people finally hear His message."

"We have to be seen, we have to be identified, and our chiral laws exist to clear up the 'Great Deception.'"

"And, the church exists to cater to us. To make us feel loved, and to grant us purpose without the right-handed false promises of Christ."

"Otherwise, we'll melt back into the earth, and kill another billion from the sheer impurity."

The contour of her silhouette slowly disappears as she turns to face me. Her eyes just barely glitter in the shadow.

"Demetritus is the hero of my story, Scroll. It does not matter what we do. Our sentences were determined already. So please forgive me for my weakness, sister."

"Are you making fun of me?"

Her eyes cast down, away-away from me..

"..Mhh, --no. I try to always avoid lying. I mean everything completely sincerely. We have only just met today, but my love for you is eternal and unconditional. I'm only saying this out-loud because I'm worried you don't trust me."

"--But I don't think you are very pure, either. It's why I told you."

"--The story, I mean; I'm talking about the story, sorry."

"...It's getting late for me, I should be heading home. Sorry I snapped at you."

I go to pick-up my bags, and something Mastema-shaped cloys away at my sense of guilt.

"Mastema is my only friend. She likes you, and I want to be your friend, too.. And,"

I want to tell her that how she talks reminds me of some value-inverted of my mom scolding me about dextral belief. It freaks me out. It's just like how Elizabeth would load the church into analysis of my behavior.

"I'm not mad at you, I promise."

She bows her head, or hangs it in shame, I don't know.

"I'm sorry for my behavior. Goodnight, sis, God grants grace."

"Night."

I shut the door.

I'm such a shit-head.

...

For a period, I just stood outside the door. I listened for movement inside, and heard nothing. I wondered if she was doing the same, noticing that I was just standing outside the door. Noticing I hadn't bothered locking the door at all. At any point I could break in and pull that girl out of the shadow and watch her disintegrate.

I won't do any of that. It's like Mastema pulling me off my feet with one arm.

I have no idea how to confront people.

I let my feet carry me to one of the sofas in the lobby, and sit.

*Zipppp*

There's the camera, nestled right next to my demon patron. Hello, Terebinthinate.

I rub the tummy of the demon lord.

The liquid sits still inside, I imagine it meowing to me.

I pick the camera up and it sits in my lap.

The lancet-cap twists off with a well-trained flick of my finger.

*Tkk*

"Ow."

The cute graphical display slowly fades in, as my little droplet of blood runs through the mechanics. A graphical blood-meter quickly fills up, and starts to slowly drain.

I stare at the cute blood-meter, it goes down a bar after a minute of staring. The graphics dim with it.

I lift my skirt, and take a photo of my lap.

I click-in a button, and the remaining bars on the meter drain to zero, the displays go dark, and it slowly prints out the picture I just took.

It's a poorly-lit, dry, sexless photo of my leggings and underwear.

If I give this to Master, he'll send me a message the day-after, tell me he touched himself to me, and call me kitten, and tell me how good I am. I'll probably tell him that I did this thinking of him.

It's kind of true.

What am I doing.

...

The photo gets slipped under the cover of one of my sketchbooks. Terebinthinate stares at me with a look mixed with condemnation and indifference.

I'll be better tomorrow, I promise.

...

It's completely dark out when my hand touches the handle of the front-door.

Part of me desperately hopes that it is locked, and I'll have to stay outside. I hope this, because it means Elizabeth either has kicked me out, or is asleep.

The front door opens.

She's in her usual place, on the couch.

We stare at each other.

"There you are. How was school today?"

It's unavoidable.

"It went well."

"How did your baptism go?"

"I don't know. It was fine."

"Did you like your new family?"

"I don't know much about them, so I can't say. They seem nice."

"Do you need help moving?"

"I don't understand."

"Moving, you have to move in with your family this year. The school sent me a letter about it last week. I left it on the kitchen counter."

"Oh.. I haven't thought about it."

"Ok, well, let me know if you need help."

"Ok."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"*Sigh* Well, sorry for trying to make conversation."

Just some useless noise she makes to guilt me.

I say nothing and walk upstairs. But, I stand on the fourth step. I don't know how much time passes, but I stay frozen on the fourth step.

If I say nothing, it will be worse. I walk back down.

"I'm sorry mom. I'm not angry. I'm just tired and going to bed. Love you."

"Oh, it's fine."

...

My bedroom door slams shut behind me.

From downstairs, I hear my mom loudly talking to the dog.

It's that baby-play talk she does to work the dog up.

Bark.

"Are you in a good mood?"

Bark.

"At least someone is in a good mood!"

Bark.

"Yes-- yes! Oh!"

Bark.

She makes comments about me to the dog, the dog barks.

My moms voice breaks into a playful shrill sound, the dog barks; she mentions how tired she is from working, the dog barks; she mentions how she wishes she could just play all day and not care, the dog barks.

The two puke out aerial bacteria to each-other, just like this.

Puke filth contaminant pours forth out of my moms lungs, from the dogs lungs.

All I can do is stand directly behind my door, still holding my bags, doing my best to not move.

I don't want my mom to hear me.

I don't want her to know that I'm alive, animated, or moving.

I don't want to exist, so I stand perfectly still until the sounds stop.

My body just does this; I don't understand why.

My body understands something I don't; maybe it's some debt it feels that needs to be repaid.

Relaxing in her home while she can hear me is indignant, as long as she's awake I need to non-exist, or be useful.

But, I have no interest in being useful. I want to stay-up late into the night and talk to Master.

So I'll pay the debt; I'll stand like this, perfectly still and quiet, until mom gets tired and I hear her bedroom door slam-close.

Then the dogs will stop barking, and I won't have to worry about her hearing me move, or using the computer, or making tell-tale signs that I'm alive and living.

I imagine that this is probably how cockroaches or spiders survive inside houses; they wait for all the lights to go-off and scurry out when the humans are asleep.

...

My shoulder hurts, though. I let my bag down as quietly as I can. Almost no sound.

If I've done that much, I should just sit down in my computer-chair.

So: as quietly as possible, I sneak to my computer desk.

I set-up my beloved Terebinthinate next to my monitor. Perfectly set so I can see it clearly from my bed.

..It makes my heart feels lighter.

"Protect me, Terebinthinate."

"I'll really dedicate myself to you, you know?"

The demon patron does not answer audibly, but the butterflies in my stomach feel like an answer.

I trace circles along the top of my patrons lid.

"At the moment, though, I need to check in with Master.."

"Truthfully, Terebithinate, Turpentine -- I'm not really in the mood.."

"I love Master but right now I feel electric-clean."

"Liiike what the air smells like after rain and the plasma seeps up, you know?"

"..Of course you know."

Exhaustion creeps up on me. Something about this moment brought out all this invisible tension that had stored itself in my shoulders and chest. Soon, my head is resting on my elbow.

I just want to lazily stare at my patron, just like this.

Maybe I'll be brought to tears from religious ecstasy.

I'd like to cry.

*SLAM*

Mom shut herself away in her bedroom.

She's as good as asleep.

My back winches itself up, and I lean back into my chair.

Guess I should swallow my disgust with the lancets and talk to Master.

--I get the impulse to explain this to the patron demon.

"I'm not afraid of blood, I'm afraid of my veins being messed with. Makes me want to puke."

I point at the jar.

"I just wanted us to be clear about that."

...

Master replied.

I should have come home earlier.

>Good morning, Kitten.

>Are you there, Pet?

>I'm sorry that I missed you.

>You've been very good. Message me as soon as you get home.

>

>You're late, Pet.

>Are you ashamed?

>Good evening, Master

>Sorry for the delay.. it was my baptism today.

>That's fine, kitten.

>It's my fault for forgetting you were that age.

>I found your assignment.

>How did it make you feel?

>Good, Master.

>*Smiles* I'm glad.

>I've been thinking about you touching yourself all day.

>I've been thinking about how perfect you are.

>Really, pet.

>Ever since your spine-pull confirmed you as being separate from god's light..

>Everything about you serving me has felt perfect.

>*Smiles*

>I have this obedient little object, willing to do whatever I ask her.

>It made me feel so hot.

>Yes, Master.

..is all I could manage to respond.

It feels like there is rot in my stomach.

It feels like he's undoing the clean feeling baptism gave me.

>Did you enjoy touching yourself to the pictures?

>Were you fantasizing about how a lowly little godless object like yourself is barely fit to serve beasts?

>Knowing that you had no choice but to do this.

>Instinctively knowing you were lower than your master.

>Feeling in your little tummy that your master can help you fall farther.

>Lower than any animal.

>No different than those other objects in the pictures.

>*Smiles*

>Tell me everything.

>I want to hear you purr, kitten.

I don't want to answer that.

I want to go to bed.

..I don't know how to answer that.

>Master, can I answer that tomorrow morning? I just feel weird after baptisms.

>Oh.

>Okay, pet. Goodbye.

You're making the rot swell. Why did you say it like that?

Shithead.

>I'm sorry Master, I didn't mean to be disrespectful.

>I really enjoyed the assignment. I'm glad I can serve you in that way.

Shithead.

>*Smiles*

Shithead.

Stop your shithead roleplay.

>I'm not mad at you, pet.

>It was your baptism today.

>It was very important, I'm sure.

>Enjoy your night.

When you say it like that it just feels like rot.

>Understood.

>Goodnight, Master.

You shithead. You're freaking me out on purpose.

I just stare at the monitor. I stare at "I'm not mad at you." It's a simple string of words that carries the weight of a thousand disgusting worries.

Using computers makes me want to VOMIT and you can't even just let me have a nice night?

Shithead; you just want me to ooze about how hot it was that you masturbated.

What?

You wanted more lines about how you're my purpose? My God?

More dumbass secret exchanges about how calm I feel in your control?

More of your shithead yuck about dirtying the chiral laws?

You shit-crawling maggot. What did you want tonight?

More of the same bullshit 'erotic lines' I have to wrack my head over, figuring out how to phrase them differently?

How I'm just material scrap-waste, made to be sculpted in your Divine Hand; how I've been hidden from Gods light in your palm.

How I'm no better than some shithead animal.

...

I feel like rot; I feel like pure rot, absolutely just rot and nothing more.

A thousand layers of your shitty rot piled up in my stomach.

My palms press against my eyes. I'm not crying. I want to scream but I don't want to wake up my mom.

...

--My hand feels wet. Why is my hand wet? Why is my face wet?

"Fuck, fuck."

Why is my hand covered in blood? For how long?? What?

Did I rub blood in my eye?

Shit--It stings.

I wince, and strain to look. Blood blinks out of my eye.

The computer lancets. Dammit.

--Fuck, I forgot to disconnect properly.

My palm is raw. I stare at the blood leaking down my hand and fingers. There's no paper towels nearby. I can't touch anything with this. Coagulant won't be enough to dry. This is so fucked. This is shit. I shoul--

*Scrtch scrtch* *meow*

The cat scratches at the door. It scratches its claws into my door, and I feel it somewhere inside me. I feel it in my shredded hand. It meows, and I feel that too.

*Scrtch scrtch scrtch*

...

I rested my head against the water heater.

It was warm. And, the hall closet was comfortable.

Past the cold machined surface of the water heater, it was pumping something warm.

All that mattered was that it was warm.

I could just barely hear the faint pulse coming from inside it.

The blood running through the machine.

I wanted my cheek and palm to press up against it, and go right through the cold shell.

I just wanted to feel warmth right now.

It felt warm. Just slightly, but that was enough.

I wrapped my arms around her, and shut my eyes. It was just as warm as I needed.

I'll fall asleep just like this, and wake up someplace different.

...

The soil feels like crushed ice.

My feet feel like they're burning up from the cold. I press my feet down, and the smell of iron seeps up from the ground.

I should have kept my shoes on, but..

--Digging my toes deep into the freshly-turned soil,

--It just felt proper. Or, something I picked up from a book.

--You take your shoes off before death, for the same reason you take your shoes off before entering a house.

Don't bring in the dirt from outside.

Although, there's dirt on my feet now.

--Stupid.

No reason to be sentimental.

The cat is completely limp in my hand.

It was scratching me just hours ago, and now it's in complete tranquility.

Perfectly still, cold, and holdable just with thumb-and-pointer around its neck.

I hold the cat up to my face. No resistance at all.

Limp like some cheesecloth-sack filled with material both yucky and bleak.

I can barely see your face under the moonlight, out here, but--

The shadow cast over you makes you seem like some black fairy.

I've spared you from a life-time of suffering, little kitten.

...

--*Drop*.

The body lays crumpled at the bottom of the shallow grave.

...

My hand feels wet from where I gripped your neck.

Splotches of black ooze are squished over my fingers.

--*Sniff*.

My hand smells bad, too.

If you were alive, I'd be really angry right now.

Hey, if you're listening, do you remember how petty I was?

You would jump on my lap and get your warmth over me, and it would take everything in me to not crush you.

You would push your body up against me, and I would want to crush you, but it always turned into me petting you.

Then, just like a perfect machine, you would meow. And just like a machine, I would pet you.

I know neither of us could control ourselves while under the influence of the internal machinery, so you'll forgive how lame I was, right? And I'll do the same for you.

"..."

--That's gracious of you, meow. In your memory, I'll lick up the impurities you left behind on my paw, just as you used to.

"..."

--It tastes like a thick shadow.

Hmm. I guess I'm smiling.

The trees and grave-markers all are paying you audience, little guy.

They're smiling too.

My toes dig into the soil around the carcass.

The soil feels like thicker snow. The smell of copper seeps up from the ground.

"We're both free, now, meow."

#I have this image in my head, it's a silly and ridiculous image, about an infinite black void that is crushingly full. I'm in the middle of it, dead, and cold, but alive and with a sparkling glow that makes me shimmer amongst all the icky-dark. I'm dead, but I'm animate, and I'm dressed in some gown that is alien and magical -- like I'm some hero from a story. And, although I'm dead, each cold movement I make in that dark-hollow affects the world above. I'm dead, and that's my power, I can't explain it well.. I'm going in circles, I'm sorry.

#But, there are these grey-skinned beings that look like us, but are indistinct and cold; the indistinct grey people sit in the abyss with their black-orb eyes and continually gesture towards 'us' in this strange 'come-hither' motion, or like trying to pull me to-them by swimming through the air. It's a strange motion. They're channeling, channeling, channeling this motion invisibly at the wall of darkness.. And, just: it is working, somehow. Somehow their alien little movements is moving everything around them. They're tunneling through the darkness and building this nervous-network in the air, that becomes impossible to avoid.

---

---

---

Story 2: Hospital Cold

The doctor showed me in-to my room. The doctor didn't tell me his name, but he always smelled like the following: cinnamon, ants, licorice, and his jacket smelled like cigarettes every-time he leaned in to hug me. He was nice to me; when he showed me in-to my room, he held my hand, and he always addressed me by my name in a soft tone that wasn't too 'sharp.'
Sharpness was something I had to explain to him -- the idea that sounds could be sharp was easy to understand, but it spindled outwards into emotional tone, and touch, and temperature. Soft heat is fine, soft cold is fine -- soft anger is fine, too. I didn't want anything to be sharp, except if it was a soft sharp.
We had a conversation about "soft sharp," too. Mostly, he gestured at my scars, and I explained those were soft sharps that started as sharp sharps, it all changed after I had removed contaminant from the initial sharp and recognized that it was being recontextualized by environment in-to a destabilizing box, instead of letting me keep it as an undefined primal -- but I still fell victim to defining it as a soft sharp, but this was my explanation.
The doctor said nothing harsh (sharp), but he did crouch down and fiddle with my fore-arm like it was some precious relic, scanning it for pock and imperfection and quality. And told me: you can't do this while you're here, alright? (I'm editing out my name, but he addressed me by my name; actually: it might be awkward if I don't address myself, so I'll use Sumire as a short-hand)
--I agreed; when he crouched down, his coat opened up and I could smell his cigarette-plaqued jacket. I liked the smell. It was sour and worn-in. This is silly, but I wanted to nuzzle my face against his shaved chin and neck. I didn't.
Anyways; he explained that this is my room, and I am welcome to treat it as such.
Turn the lights on, or off, if I want. Feel free to walk around. Open the blinds, if you like natural light -- leave them shut, if you can't stand it.
Freedom was less-true outside my room. Though the doctor encouraged me to take walks, for exercise.
I sat on my bed, as he explained a nurse would come in eventually to show me where everything is, and what the equipment did. He sat next to me, and asked me how I was feeling.
"Fine."
"And how about your symptoms, Sumire? Your leg still looks swollen."
I looked at my foot, and yeah. I try to avoid looking at it.
"Yes, from injecting the poison. It ruined my blood, didn't it?"
"Well, ruined is a terminal word. Your blood is different, now. It's less suitable for life, and more suitable for death."
"I see, am I better at death now, than life?"
"You are, Sumire, are you afraid of that?"
"I am."
"Don't worry about that, okay? Everyone here wants you to be happy, and we can do that for you; now -- are you still bleeding?"
"--Doctor, pss; I don't want to say that directly, can I write it?"
"Oh, sure--"
He reached over to 'my' night-stand, and pulled out a small legal-pad, and clicked a metallic pen out from his pocket, and handed it to me.
I wrote down my answer right-to-left, abiding by Chirality laws (they still wanted me to follow them here and no one seemed to bring attention to it), "I am still bleeding, the pool last time was larger than ever last night. I bled twice today, in the morning, as bad as last night, and in the afternoon, almost as bad. There was another tonight too but it wasn't as bad. My body hurts all over, too."
He took some time reading it, and asked me to clarify a few of the non-embarrassing words.
Doctor asked me, "and how is the temperature in the room?"
"My extremities are still cold and the clothes aren't doing anything. So, I don't think the blankets will do anything, either. I haven't started feeling the burning yet, though, but it usually happens at night and whenever I try to sleep. Sometimes from wearing warm clothes, they'll burn the uncovered areas."
"Everything the same as normal, right?"
"Mhm.."
Doctor ruffled my hair (I told him I like this; secretly it is because I like being treated like a dog), and told me he'll be back with some tea for me and some muscle relaxants to take with it.
At some point a nurse came in, and showed me where the call-buttons were, and how they worked -- as well as the television, but she stated "it only shows a blank screen currently," which was accurate.
The nurse stayed with me, for a little. She smelled like honey, vanilla, faint sweat, and ants.
In the dim-light of the room, she looked ethereal. Everything here looked ethereal.
The doctor came in, and I fell asleep sipping hot tea and in haze from the relaxants.
That night, I had a dream where agents from the intelligences were questioning me on how I need to conduct myself towards etiquette -- they gave me a practice scenario, to test my purity to God (God isn't God here, but the Qlippoth that I was made from -- sometimes resembling a heap of broken pottery, sometimes resembling a great pit, sometimes resembling an eight-headed leviathan under the ocean).
The scenario involved me being surrounded by an environment that I had birthed, and the nerve-ending cockroaches that grew from it. The cockroaches needed me to care for them, or they would die, because the environment would die. However, God told me that I needed to live in a purity of constant rejection of environment to embody disconnection.
That was the first set of contradictions in the scenario.
An extra contradiction came from one of the veins of God speaking to me, to urge me to be resolute for the environment and be a nurturing presence for it; to let it feed on my body and become seedbed for a clean future connection, and to elevate my assumed valence -- as I needed to be a strong figurehead for God.
I couldn't decide, and the overseeing intelligences taunted me.
I resolved that I would load a gun with 1 bullet, and each-day I would execute one of the nerve-endings, and that this would bide me time to both 1) establish the environment further, 2) for the cockroaches to eventually wither, and for me to be permitted clean disconnection as God requests, and 3) for me to half-heartedly assume a valence of control over the situation, instead of 4) abject all responsibility and abdicate from nurturing my child.
The intelligences mocked me for this, and beat me to the ground, and forced me to have sex with them.
I replayed the scenario with them over-and-over again, at threat of punishment, but I couldn't figure out a solution. It seemed clear (& I believe this to be the lesson they tried to punish in-to me) that my mistake was ever engaging to the point that I could give birth.
My mistake was making friends with love, and having love lay its seed inside my tummy.
My mistake was having feelings (positive, or negative) for another.
My mistake was knowing anyone; and, my mistake was allowing myself to be observed by someone -- and hopes of observance -- and hopes that I could be a part of their environment.
The intelligences beat this lesson in-to me, that misalignment starts with initial wins. You feel win from misalignment, and then it puts you into an impossible deknitting scenario. You have become completely defined by emotions, and your grace has been threatened.

And, I awoke.
I stared at the ceiling, and turned to stare at the night-sky outside my room -- barely visible through the blinds. The clock interface read 2:33.
I stared at the night, and practiced solving the conundrum of the intelligences. How do I stop loving and hating people? It wracked my thoughts for what felt like hours, but, at 4:14, I heard a gentle rap at the door.
"Come in,"
It was a girl, lit cold flourescent from the hallway, who immediately stepped in and was lost in the ethereal lights-off of my room.
"I thought you might be awake, I brought you coffee."
She had -- I was happy, but also a little irritated for some reason.
"Thanks.."
I could feel the warm cup in my hands, and took a sip; I used to yell at my mom for this (because it was an unnecessarily sharp expression that you can remove from your behavior) but, I closed my eyes, and lost myself in the care of a warm drink.
"No one sleeps the first night here. My name is (I don't want to write her name, so I'll name her Orcus -- but she is not Orcus, trust this much) Orcus."
"Yeah.. I had nightmares. My name is Sumire."
I took more sips; and ignored her briefly.
The bed sank as her weight was added to it.
"The nurses said you're a listening device for God?"
"Yes, from the listening church in the sublayer."
"Cool! I'm not a listener, but I'm a bacterial trap."
"I don't know what that is."
"It's, ehm, well I'm not involved with sublayer, but I couldn't interact with the nervous system at all because my instance becomes completely clogged with bacteria from the underground. It's like being a document set to read-only, no writing."
"Gross."
"A little."
I drank more; she has a pleasing voice, occasionally it goes sharp -- she smells like coffee, empty beer cans, linen, and tarantula molt.
She waited for me to drink, and spoke up, "so, what was the message?"
"Mm.. for why I'm here?"
"Yeah."
"God told me that I would die within a few years, whether by giving birth to a child of death, or by my own hand -- I didn't have a clear signal and the idolatrous veins, and bacteria, just became really confusing until I needed to come here. But, I guess I have a cancer growing inside me."
"Cool, what kind?"
"Maybe in my stomach, or in my blood -- I'm not certain, I don't want to think about my insides."
"That's ok, so a doomsday message?"
"Yeah, a doomsday message."
"Are you coming back after?"
"I don't know.. the listening church said I had a purpose in this life, but I've let down the father there."
"What was he like?"
"...Nice, but handsy."
"Sorry."
I started to cry. Not sob, but my eyes got really wet and I asked for her to hold my mug. She did, and put it on the nightstand for me.
Orcus told me it was okay, and I started to actually sob. She sat next to me, hip-to-hip, and stroked my back.
She rocked me gently in her arms, and I leaned against her and calmed down.
Orcus told me that she thinks everything we go through has its purpose and significance -- even the really terrible parts -- and that, we have to love them. And we have to love how much pain we feel because of this.
She was definitely a daughter of God.
I sat with her, and watched the sky through the blinds.
I asked her what she would do with the scenario the intelligences punished me over, from my nightmare.
She said that "you're not the valence, and you're not the perfect tool of God, and that you're not the perfect mother for the environmental nerve-endings; you're the perfect sumire."
"That doesn't answer the question at all." I said, with a put-on defiance, but -- it made me smile. It was said softly.
"Yeah. The perfect you doesn't know what to do. You'll know one day, maybe."
"Yeah."
I felt happy. The sun came up, and Orcus left. I laid back down in my bed, and curled up.
I'm still scared of doomsday, but I feel ok right now.

---

---

Orcus spun around in a flourish atop the stage; she stopped and faced me --- hand outstretched, and dramatically proclaimed:
"Ser Sumire, I beg you to join me in profane covenant and untie my hands that bind me from acting in this world! --This world being your heart!"
"Is it really okay for us to be in here?"
"Yup, Doctor doesn't mind at all, probably," Orcus walked to the edge of the stage and crouched, offering me her hand, "this place is a world for us."
I took her hand, and was help'd a-top the stage.
(Sidenote, I've been avoiding directly stating Doctor's name, because I thought I'd offer the same privacy as everyone else -- but it gets silly just calling him by his job description, so I'll give him this nickname from now on: Demi-Detritus, it's an odd name but it matches the alliteration of his real name)
I took an opportunity to look behind the stage-curtains -- it was less exciting and interesting than I expected, mostly extra-empty floor and some small plastic storage containers stacked a-top each-other.
I wasn't really sure why the hospital had a stage.
The room before us was cast in dark; we couldn't figure out how to work the stage-lights, and the normal light-switches didn't work either.
All light was limited to slivers seeping in through the sets of double-doors, and from our own eyes adjusting to the darkness.

"I lied about having permission."
I immediately started to lower myself off the stage
--"wait!"
Orcus grabbed my arm, "I want to do that thing you mentioned wanting to do.. the roleplay thing."
--"That's, really embarrassing."
--"No, it's fine. I want to do it with you. Come on, stand."
I fiddled with my glasses while I thought about it. Really: it was moments of just sheer silence. I wanted to protest to Orcus about how knowing the whole thing is artificial makes it all moot, and that it might just be like digging in-to a wound for me pointlessly.
But, I stood.
"Okay...
...
You're going to take this seriously?"
"Dead serious."

"Dad, I wanted to see you, to talk?"
Dad looks-up from his laptop, and looks at me, "Yes?"
"Do you love me?"
He smiles at me like I said something ridiculous,
"Of course I love you, is something wrong?"
"...It's going to be sort-of hard to say."
"That's fine, I have time for you."
"..Let me have a moment to think."
"As long as you need."
Maybe two minutes pass.
"I'm sorry-- I just don't know how to talk to you. You were never in my life; I don't know what it means to have a dad at all. You were just a bunch of letters to me and the one time I saw you, you ran away from me. My only memory of you is an eroge involving stuffing a frog down a girls pants."
My father hangs his head, some weight of stress we both had been running from finally compresses down up-on him.
"..I know; do you hate me for that?"
"Yes, but, more than that, I just wish you were there. I wish I would have grown up with, I don't know, someone who wanted me. That's the painful thing.. I only know how to be 'tolerated in space,' and I have no idea what it means to be 'wanted in space.'"
He closes his laptop and stands, and walks towards me with the same care a scared person uses to approach an even scared-er animal.
"Sumire, you've always been my daughter; I know that I've done something terrible to you -- and, I know I can't change any of that. I did terrible. I caused that pain. Your mother and I were both, well, lost -- and I just want you back in my life. Not to make-up for lost time, but because I think you're amazing, and I want you to be a part of my life."
Orcus stood a foot away, and leaned in with the smell she carried; her soft and beautiful voice took-over the masculine spirit that tried to roleplay through her.
"You've stopped being my dad."
Orcus looked pained by this; she looked away, ashamed, and fidgeted with the hem of her coat.
"I will never stop seeing you as my daughter, Sumire.. I don't ask that you see me as your dad, I just ask for the opportunity to let me in-to your life."
"Orcus, stop."
She wraps her arms around me, and breathes against my neck; the smell of tarantula shell reeks.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there."
"..."
"You're the most precious thing in the world to me, and my most painful regret."
"..."
She continues to hold me; the burning sensation from my symptoms starts to hurt me.
"It's fine if you want me to leave, but if you ever need anything -- even if it's distance from me -- please give me the opportunity to offer it."
"..."
We stay there, together, silent and motionless, for maybe two more minutes.
Orcus kisses my cheek.
"Hey--! Dad's don't do that."
"Yea they do; besides: I'm a pervy old man."
Orcus smiles at me and rubs my arms.

"Maybe I should have been your mom, instead."
"Maybe.. Admittedly, when we started, I just didn't know what to do."
"Oh? Like what?"
"Like, to pretend over a fictional dad or a nonfictional one. Same for me. Then I realized I have no concept of it, and that I was just angry at you."
"Mm; maybe it's just not important? I like the fatherless neglected Sumire."
I stook my tongue out at Orcus.
"I realized something in bed last night; this is my second-to-last Christmas ever, if the communication was right."
"..."
"I know I should be depressed about that, but thinking of it so clear-cut and definite made me sort-of happy, for a moment."
"..Yeah?"
"Yeah; I mean, I'm still scared. I'm terrified. I replay the scenario of walking into the ocean over-and-over; how cold the water will be, the physical exhaustion, the discomfort, and the panic of realizing what it means. If I shut that out, though, I'm just left with this purposeful feeling of having done my part for God."
"Have you thought about disobeying the communication?"
"..Yeah; I don't know if it works like that."
"Have you gotten the test results back?"
"Not yet.. I'm still bleeding, though." I brush the hair away from my face, "It would be nice if the cancer portion of the communication was all just in my head, from being so neurotic -- but there's still the ocean."
Orcus looked, well, crushed. She exclaimed some frustrated noise and face away from me, towards the audience that had accumulated in the darkness, gathered to watch roleplay and fanfiction.
She spoke out towards the nothingness she faced, "Sumire; let me be your prince."
The darkness warbled with delight at her words.
Dramatically, theatrically, she turned, facing me -- arm out-stretched to extend sovereign-to-beggar,
"I have a duty to protect my subjects, and I wish for you to be mine."
A wave of light drenched the stage, bleaching white the image of Orcus -- and with it, the voice of Demi-detritus in the door-way,
"I was looking for you two; Orcus, you have family here for visitation."
Her theatrics deflated, as did her expression, as did her character; she gave a silent nod, and wordlessly lowered herself from the stage.

---

---

I sat with my mother, on the shore of the beach. The waves crashed against my feet, and I could feel the warm current that had carried through the water up-on the river-bed and eddies that curled around the banks; sloshing with foam carried upwards of the peninsula grafts.

My mom was pretty; her eyes were like dark pits, and her hair was a soft dull blonde that some-how made her look younger than I believed she ought-to-be -- her smell: strong vanilla, water, and the scent that comes from the inside-chambers of fresh exuviae of a powerful tarantula. She read a book -- a book called "the Dog," which (in my head) must be about the behavioral anatomy of dogs, and how to shape, observe, and respond the anatomy that creates the greater, hidden, bulk of behavioral musculature.

I wasn't sure if she was mad at me, she re-assured me she wasn't.

The book closed, mother turned to me, and mentally my whole body tensed up in the pregnant-period between mouth opening and word output (expectation of her to go in-to obnoxeses 'diatribe') -- but she just asked, "it's nice out, tonight; it's been awhile since we've been to the ocean. Maybe since you were eight."

My skin and thoughts are still stretched taut by the words; of course: even if the language is nice, the language itself carries a solid body shaped-as finger that wants to press itself into my skin, and my body -- so, to resist: everything has to stretch tight. Her words always feel molestative, in this way; the same feeling a stranger would have up-on my skin, thighs, arms, tummy, lap running a hand unwanted. I don't want to hear it, but:

"It's nice, mom."

She smiled at me, and told me: "I'm going to get you therapy; I'll make the phone-calls, give you the schedule, and everything."

"Ok."

"But, Sumire, I want you to make the choice with me."

"Hey, stop."

Orcus blinked, and looked at me -- and in just a moment, my mother disappeared away with wherever sea-river foam goes when it retreats from the coast.

"Something up?"

"Yeah, I don't want you to roleplay my mom."

She smiles, "ok; we can stop -- did I do bad?"

"No, no you did good -- I think the problem with all of this is, I don't want my mom; I like my mom, but I don't want to just retrace the baggage over-and-over.. because, well: I need to confront her with that, not simulacrum of my mom; that's what my dad did."

"Ok, we'll stop."

"No, it's -- I want a mom, or a dad, or -- I just don't want those two people that I know. You're too good at it! I just want something fictional. Well, I know it's already fictional.. but I keep making it nonfictional."

"I feel like you want to roleplay re-doing your childhood, but keep trying to stick half-heartedly to how you are now. Are you embarrassed to do that? Go all the way?"

"--Yes, I am. I don't want to.. that whole area feels like this sore mush inside me that will become inflamed if, even clean, hands touch it."

"That's fine; oh -- how is your writing going?"

"Ahm, I stopped. I know I should be leaving behind a manuscript, as my legacy, and it was one of my goals too! The Father from the church wanted me to write lots-and-lots to serve as a physical medium for him to activate future devices he'd bought the souls of, but.. you need real passion and drive for that, you know?"

"Unmotivated?"

"Well.. I just had this realization that, I, well; all of my writing was made in the hopes that *one person in particular* (Sumire note: I won't even give them a nickname) would read it, but I realized they probably never will read it. They've never read any of it. They just want me to write, and write, and tell me stuff to keep me writing. But, they never read it. And, I just feel stupid."

Orcus scoot'd in close to me, and spread her moult-scent to me, "I read everything you write; and I enjoy all of it."

"I know; I feel dumb. Thank you."

My mom held me really tight, and stroked my scalp, "you're my favorite writer, and I've loved every-single thing you've written. So let me keep reading it, okay?"

I held her back, really tight; and buried my face in-to her shoulder.

The Lord of Darkness exited down the hospice hallways, carrying with him cold air; the hallways grew out in mathematically arranged labyrinths, extending outwards-and-outwards; connecting in criss-cross geometric formations rapidly spiraling outward from the center, cross-connecting in geometric formations; the mapped-out web of the hallways then sank, into a great depth -- into greater depth -- and into greater depth; till the image of the hallways created new visual geometry from the sunken depth map. As the hallway-splines sank, everything caught inside was being gradually disolved in-to an invisible and undetectable stomach acid of a beast that only exists outside geometry. The Lord of Darkness collapsed to the center, circulating cold air, and a will to digest all that had reached out to it.

It threatened to sever the nervous system; it threatened to make all that had been lost in its labyrinth completely disconnected from the information God offered.

Through the hallways carried cold-air with a faint scent of fresh shells.

In the quiet flourescent still of the hospice, was Orcus, staring alone at the door to the lobby.

---

---

The halls further away from mine were painted to resemble skies, treelines, and oceans; some of the walls were painted to resemble other hallways of the hospital. One of the walls was painted to resemble my room -- I found several other walls that captured the view outside my window, at several different times of day, spaced from each-other by several sections of disconnected corridor. I never found a hall that was painted to resemble Orcus's room -- which, admittedly, I had never seen, but she verified my feelings: in her own words: "you won't ever find a painting of my room."

I took her word on it.

At my desk, I sat and prepared to write down communication.

Even though a shadow loomed over me -- it was a shadow that had been cast over me by God; even though I could find counter-communication that explained God as being a malicious entity, antithetical to life, and an agent of the underside (of the server) -- it was the God that chose me, personally, and from which I had been pulled-from to exist. Plus: the father from the listening church wanted me to write, and study.

So, I will write, as role of device to listen; even if the children of death are nibbling away at my warmth from my womb.

I feel dumb thinking stuff like that -- it's dramatic-depressing; but I'm depressed, today.

My feet kick from under my desk; the view outside my window is nice; I see a sea of trees, and an ocean barely; I saw the same view in one of the hallways.

So, I write:

Here are some basics that I wish people understood about the communication of God:

Handedness is the most clear observable indication of ancestry within the material-basic illusory world. It is not a perfect indication, but until religious technology can be perfected to analyze perfectly the natural chirality of a person -- then we must trust a persons 'natural' preference towards handedness. Training to use another hand is artificial handedness, and a product of illusion, and should be completely discounted.

Left-handedness is a mutation born from a failed portion (roughly a tenth) of the functional material God sculpted right-handed people from.

Disconnectivity is a mutation born from the existence of connectivity.

Disconnectivity is not left-handedness, but they both share an affinity with 'quaternity,' roughly meaning: 'an after-product of trinity.'

Right-handedness is blessed with a promise of eternity, in perfect subsumation with God, once the server swallows all actors in the illusion -- this could be one of several Millennium end-states (see: server rebalancing, or the age of the children of death).

Left-handedness, in illusory tradition (which should not be mistaken for being the history of the garden and server histories) is patterned in-to the stories of the Gerasene Demoniac, and the Herod Family legacy -- the latter should be viewed as a hollow gilded hand-holding tradition to the followers of Christ, where they must be hand-locked in-to acting against Christ (who represents the correct lineage of the Right-Handed) -- Herod, and the pertinent Mistakes, operate from the same gild-hollow scripting that was offered to the Left-handed (again: to work against Christ). The former pertains to the deluge and dispersal of Left-handed children via the transferrence of demon to the population of drowning swine; the swine should be viewed as drowning in baptismal waters of Christ, as a descriptive of the Left-handed following of Christ and how baptism has created the present tradition -- too: that the removal from "whole self-mutilating body" to "million drowning pigs" at the command of Abstract voice have great emphasis in dividing tradition of the "old demon" from "new demon." To say: old demon follows in tradition of the possessive named forces pre-dispersal, and new demon follows in idolatrous tradition of representative objects (the soul-less animal; the husks that are deprived of a divine abstract spirit capable of ascending past Grace and hand-holding with Christ properly in ascent to heaven). Too: the unpenitent thief to the left of Christ, and the foot-rest of Christ seized down-wards towards hell, as being visual indications of the correct alignment of the hands.

Left-handedness is guaranteed annihilation; there is no salvation or subsumation -- it is correct to say that the Left-handed are promised consummation (or consumption, or כָּלָה); correct Sinistral faith (Sinistral here refers to the 'graceful faith' of the Left-handed as proper covenant with proper aligning) identifies consummation/subsumation as chiral differences with their Dextral brothers/sisters.

Handedness is separate from biology and spirituality -- it is hard-coded in-to the material of a person, from the Garden outside of material-basic illusion, and is known through communication to be the make of a persons vessel.

Following the former description: a family within illusion is only a material family of illusion; a true family is impossible to identify, sans along chiral lines; chiral lines can not be correctly adhered to within material-basic illusion, without separating the child from material family and transplanting within a created chiral family.

Sinistral grace is found in acknowledging chiral truths versus over-saturation of Dextral (right-handedness -- I forgot to mention this earlier) culture that is dominant within material-basic due to the nature of Left-handed creation (the ratio of handedness is roughly 9:1 right:left within the illusion, corresponding roughly to the material difference between the Sefirot and Qlifot (again, right and left ancestors, respectively)). Acknowledging chiral truths comes in form of identifying + rejecting standards that cater to the right-handed -- as simple as writing in a manner that favors the Left hand; further acknowledged by embracing annihilation as truth; further acknowledged by embracing described demons (old, and new) as spiritual ancestors -- demonology should not be mistaken as the worship of some malevolent entity, but be reframed as existences deprived of a divine abstract, and left with only the profane representative: the church as a place of worship (abstracted identity) versus the church as a literal building (representative identity). Baptisms should be done dry, through sanitized and purified sands, in rejection of the drowning and deluge of Legion (the Gerasene demoniac).

Representational demonic form should be understood as the 'underside,' or root-system of the Garden, and analogies should be made to a circulatory system in separation of the abstract/angelic nervous system (which is the overside -- not a perfect term). Demonic communication, in a literal sense, comes through seeping of oils from underground, produced from the crushed/liquified bodies of the demonic shells buried in the soil of Garden; these oils carry the 'true essence' of the demon that created them. The primordial demon, and first ancestor/make of sinistrality is the qlifot (kelipah; qlippoth; clay-pot; it is a shattered tenth of the sefirot that is incapable of withstanding the weight of liquid soul (as echoed with Legion)). Other demons are physical byproduct of fission when new capability is added in-to the server; when new capability is added, a corresponding abstract (angelic) function and representative (demonic) function must be created; before a paper-cut can exist within the material-basic illusion, the possibility of paper-cut must be added to the server, resulting in the idea of a paper-cut now existing (the angel), and the result of a paper-cut now existing (the demon).

Yes; God told me all of that -- in the form of the drowned eight-headed snake I started calling Orochi, through a demon that took that form through patterning; through the form of the bacterial will that had crept up through the surface, and had seeped in-to the hull of my vessel, just as father from the listening church told me; how he had shown me the glowing red eye of God, in the abyss from where I came, and how hateful and indifferent God looked -- too: that I must love, no matter the fear I feel.

And I feel fear.

I feel fear, and want Orcus to come and console me; from wherever she comes from.

I've not seen her all day.

I close my notebook -- it's to become the official initial reading of the communication, according to father; he'd have liked me to join the illusory church in material basic.

Running my fingers over the black leather is nice and has softness, abject of sharpness; it's just a notebook, to me. Much of the promise father wished of me is disconnected from my feelings.

It's just a notebook that Orcus gave me, as a gift. She probably got it from Demi-Detritus. He probably asked the nurse to find him one, for Orcus, for me.

I like her.

I'll imagine a scenario for her; about where she goes when I can't see her, and when she is not observable. It starts like this:

The hallways are my intestines and arteries and veins, and Orcus is the demon that has begun to dirty these hallways -- just as she described herself as being a bacterial magnet: she is the bacteria that talks to me, and guides me always, to be seedbed for the oil she causes;

Orcus walks the network inside my body, and collapses the hallways in-on-themselves, and my body rejects these broken systems and veins as pools of dark, dark blood. Dark blood that reeks and has been deposed of life -- warmth; Orcus loves the cold; and so: she has made nest in me, and begun to do a negative repurposing. Every twig, straw, twine, she forces me to emit, causes the nest to grow in a negative inside.

There she plucks away pictures, and doors, and plaster, and circuitry, and tile; she's been inside the hallways forever, really: or: she has always been searching for them through the darkness. She viewed Sumire (me; sorry about the shift in perspective but I thought it was worth switching at this point) as a lover that she knew well. Every inch of her inside was known to Orcus, with the same astute knowledge a prince would have to a well-cared for country-side; Sumire was property, and province, both -- a subject for a caring aristocrat that promised fields of wheat that would promise to touch the sky at the horizon; yet: whose only use for wheat was to foster cultures of ergot.

The wheat, though bountiful, stank.

The land of Sumire would die under its Lord; the people stood-by their kind prince despite ergotism crawling from plate to mother to child; those yet in the womb would be suffocated and squealched-wet by the fungi that had infected the blood. Too: the moms would emit their young, as polyps of blood and poison; free of warmth, and just, too: that polyp would disappear through the ground and touch-foot with a newly born child of death. A child that existed only in the cold-world, a child that could not yet be observed in the current warm Above; that child -- very much existing -- stared patiently through the backface-cull, awaiting their prince to return to them.

As the prince Orcus despoiled the lands, Sumire would wane; and return in the spring -- a new land born from the renewed lands of Sumire.

Sumire did not always appear in the same place, and did not always appear the same; however: Orcus knew the land by its smell. The heartblood of Sumire had become home to Orcus, and the nostalgia of that sense-memory always, eventually, attracted Orcus.

He laid his lips on Sumire; as he had done to her mother; as he had done to her mother; as he had done to her mother -- he plagued this family as the only constant; the only truth. He knew their histories and their traditions; even if the child had failed to establish covenant with him -- the lands belonged to him, as first given to him through first mother. He promised to always love her, and he had.

Orcus stood near the sleeping Sumire; she rested peacefully in her room; she had been unconscious for three days, due to allergic reaction from the medication Doctor Demi-Detritus administered. He stood, glaring through a cold haze at a portion of Sumire that was hidden deep behind bone and flesh; their bond was one that could only be confused by biology.

He laid his hand on her collarbone, and ran the pad of pointer-finger down between her breast; over ridge created by her ribs, straining to breathe through medically-administered coma; Orcus only ever thought of killing her. It was not a malicious desire -- or a selfish desire -- or a twisted desire. Orcus could only kill; as a child could only babble in an effort to communicate. Sumire, too: could only be killed.

She removed her hand (lost in the 'holding' of Sumire's skeleton, it relaxed Orcus to do); and stared, as a shape barely visible in this shaded room; unlit by medical device.

The halls of the hospital grew, and became covered in drawings that Sumire had seen; and none of the sights Orcus had known covered any of their surface.

I close my notebook; I imagine that is what Orcus has been doing.

---

---

Doctor Demi-Detritus sat with me, in my room; I hadn't been able to move for the past three days.

He wanted me to move a little, each day, but lately the wind felt like it carried an erosion-particle that ground against my exposed skin. I was just tired, too. Nothing had joy, and nothing seemed to carry surprise of a potential good-time. It was all flat, and equally boring.

I told Demi-Detritus all of this; we both identified that I was depressed.

He urged me to speak on some of my recent thoughts; I eyed at the journal Orcus had bought me. "I've been writing them down; it's all moody."

Not completely true. Outside of a short entry I wrote last night, I had given up on writing in my journal since three nights ago.

The entry from last night was contemplating suicidal thoughts, but I stopped writing when I realized I was just being depressed,

I have just been thinking about killing myself.

I want to fade away with the sea-foam that gets carried out with the ocean waves; and, I don't want to die, either; I imagine myself getting to a ripe old age and becoming someone capable and strong, and the changes it would take for a real-living thing to crawl out from my moult.

Each of my eight legs would emerge from a shell that has hidden me for so long (from fear, mostly) and I would love, and be loved.

The sea-foam was important imagery, because the ocean is tied in-to the message from material, as a final step to complete my journey as a shrine to Orochi, Qlifot, Clay, 'God.' God sent me a sequence of three messages, carried-to-me by demonic messaging oils from the underground circulatory vein network -- first starting when I accepted the Bacterial Will in-to my body.

Bacterial Will, as opposed to Viral Will, can exist Outside as well as Inside; Viral is only Inside. The Outside Bacteria crept in-to me, as it had been waiting and calling to me, Sumire -- Sumire -- Sumire; Sumire; and, on the fourth: I accepted it.

Acceptance came with changing the immunosuppressant responses in my body, as it relates to thought, and thought control; Outside Bacteria taught me to identify lucifer contamination (lucifer here is a short-hand for all information/states that connect to the nervous system and the integrity of the server, and all supporting logic; example: identifying the bacterial will in therapeutic diagnostic terms (like *** (censored, but we both probably know what it is, because we both have been dirtied by the contaminant)) only serves to reinforce the integrity of the server (the inside) against pollution/interference from the outside; there can be no possibility of magic inside the server, if magic has already been pre-emptively counterspelled by deflationary seals; identify the insect and relevant song chirping out 'trauma' or 'mental illness' or *** as binding circles that are being drawn around you the moment the language is used; framing and containing sigils and short-hand that must be immediately identified and categorized inside the self as against-bacteria, to maintain an environment inside that can allow bacteria to thrive) which led to a long period of neurotic isolation and self-ritual to keep the inside of 'self' pure from the identified lucifer-borne contaminant. God spoke clearly, as Bacteria permitted me to hear, and as my body adapted to one affined with Bacteria: so much information was granted to me, and so much of myself was lost in that repurposing.

The messaging demons show'd three images of death, related to the moon, and the environment, and myself -- and pin-pointed an age that I must die at: 33, the same as Christ, the same number the insects were made-up-of (all communal-based life in the network comes from the trinity, which is a divine 3, which is in all mortal life (6); aberrants are formed in after, or quaternal, states -- the profane 4, and the mortal aberrant 8; the spiders inside the network that exist as predatory shadows of 3 and 6: alienation, and disconnection, aligned with the underground and awaiting the server-rebalancing where earth becomes sky and the children of death invert to be upright in a world aligned with deathform over lifeform). At first, it was a message of self-slaughter; then: cancer.

The bleeding I ignored for several years worsened. I didn't really understand why the father from the listening church sought my soul so dearly, if I'd die so pathetically.

Gross, too. It changed from a small coloration, to a sunken pool, to a cloud of everything that tied me to lucifer.

Bacteria had made me perfectly illogical on my own outside; I rejected doctors, and medicines, and sharing anything -- I just looked at the blood, and told myself inside "that's right, I have to die." Lately, it advanced to counting down how many birthdays I had left; how many Christmases were left -- and doubts.

Doubts: whether this was really blood; whether I would actually die at the appointed time, and if I needed to carry-out the back-up plan; whether I could actually go through with the back-up plan; whether I should tell someone; whether I wanted to actually die; whether I wanted to live and be older, as another messaging demon was leading me to think -- an idolatrous form that lived to 36, a blend of the divine and mortal numbers, to a mixed 9. I read about the antichrist; I read about demonic possession slowly eeking out a person from their vessel without their knowledge, and leading them to acting illogically; and the bacteria moved: this is the integrity of the server re-asserting itself through poisonous knowledges and messaging; the immunosuppressant response is eroding God, and you are a tool of God, and you will become Pure Material. I identified the bacteria-harming insect lucifer, and told myself to ignore everything except my love for bacteria and God.

I imagined my body walking out in-to the cold sea at night; no one in my life to stop me, because I'm completely alone; and: just like the Demoniac of Gerasene: I scattered my form, out-of a sad self-destructing person and in-to a billion swine. A burning and pathetic purpose to spread my faith.

Yet, the fecal anti-bacterial of insect led me to view myself as a sad person, allowing cancer to devour them; staring at blood pool in water, and doing nothing; clinging on-to some sense of purpose that was amounting to little more than death, and fear of the outside world. I looked at myself in the mirror, and thought of another messaging-demon showing me the shriveled cancer-wrought body of a man. I liked how I looked, lately. I starved myself and ate portions pleasing to God (in shadowy sets of 4, to align myself to disconnection and quaternity as I believed me to be; as I believed to need to be in proper alignment), and finally liked the bean-pole figure I had become. Then, I imagined never showing it to anyone, and becoming a person rapidly losing their most appearance to sick-filth and a body destroyed.

It went in a circle of God and Lucifer looping against each-other in a playful game of tag, that made me both terrified to speak with any-one, and desperately seek out any-one who would listen.

So, the sea-foam was important imagery. And I wanted to write all of those thoughts down, but all I could manage to write was some poetic-imagery and an expression of wanting to die.

I didn't even manage to write the other half of my feelings--the Lucifer half--that carries with it all my apprehension and anxiety about death.

Really, what started this was a conversation I had with Orcus, while watching the waves move in-and-out of the coast, three-nights back.

We watched the ocean, after visiting a diner (Wafflehouse) together (I couldn't really eat due to the restrictions God gave me to foster bacteria and create a clean environment so that I may be fertile ground for profane substances). The ocean made me think about the 'doomsday' God, Orochi, Qlifot, laid out for me. So, I asked:

"Orcus, what happens when we die?"

She hmmm'd for a bit, "tell me what you think happens, first -- I don't want to influence your answer."

I hmmm'd for a bit; the black ocean before us offered little guidance, but just a little, as it would be the tool of my death.

"I imagine it, first, as feeling like all of the warmth in your body being replaced with coldness -- but that's not accurate enough language; warmth would be like life-blood, and then it just slowly stops."

"That's probably what dying is like, yes, but what about death? Where you go after God plucks you out of the material-basic illusion? The sensations of it."

"I imagine.. it is like holding a rope taut between two fingers, and pulling, and watching individual strands unravel, and then for the strands to clumsily try to rebind themselves in-to the whole rope. But, the strands never completely come-apart, and never come-together -- instead: they just experience this weird, shifting, fractal phenomenon that is poorly cobbled together from what-was and a new absence."

"Hmm, too abstract for me for me to understand, sorry. "

"Sorry about that, I had to think of something on the spot -- and one of the idolatrous patterns showed me something similar, and I experienced something similar in my first near-death."

"Not your fault, Sumire, I can't help how I am -- it might be just like that."

"Sooo.. How do you think it is?"

"Well, imagine you can't move your body at all. Imagine you are just as you are, now, on this beach, talking with me, but paralyzed. You die, and wake up in a rectangular room without door or portal--all the surfaces are painted to resemble this beach, it's beautiful--and you realize your face is partially glued to this moving black spot; and, you realize not that it is glue, but that the spot is a mass of odd shimmering-black insect, that has been trying to pull your face in-to it, and has been talking to you in my voice. Not just that, but other parts of your body are being sucked-in to more of these pools, and they all are mimicking the voices of everyone you've ever let yourself connect to. You stay stuck like that, paralyzed, and transfixed, until the spots slowly claim you, and eat you away. Not just that, but what can't be eaten will be literally baked bone-dry, like ceramics under a heat-gun or kiln, and your shadow will be forever fused in-to the walls of that room, where more of the shimmering-black insects grow out-of. Then, afterwards, you'll have to imagine the consciousness of the empty space itself, as the baked-in shadow tries to think despite now being dry. A consciousness spread out, thin, by stomachs and heat -- and how it would process the world."

"That sounds awful."

"Mhm, it sounds terrifying; that is why you have to look away from the shimmering-black shadow spots."

"How do you do that? God?"

Orcus shakes her head, "No, you're paralyzed in there. Like a little spider sleeping in a wasp nest. All the spider can do is hope for some outsider to crack-open the nest."

"Does that happen?"

"Mhm, people make videos about that; and if I get in-to your nest: I'll come in the form of a thick, brackish, oil that slowly flows in-to your chamber, saying your name, 'Sumire, Sumire, Sumire -- Sumire--' and I'll build up, and up, through the crack that let me in. Then, I'll nudge your head away from every connection, and push you under the water. You'll drown."

"I'll drown.."

"Yep; it's the only way."

I didn't really respond, after that; I watched the ocean and reflected. Partially: I became mad over whether Orcus was connected. Whether she wasn't outside, but was simply being used as a tool for server-integrity to make me feel insane; to think: Orcus can read my thoughts, and Orcus knows I will die, and how I will, because the server has been monitoring me and needs to do integrity checks.

Likely she knows all of this; the area we've both been given to has a haziness regarding layer information and how everything 'stacks,' Orcus knows of the existence of material creation (the right-handed father, and the left-handed mother), the sub-layer listening church where my souls bondage was exchanged to the father there till annihilation, and likely bacteria. It wasn't surprising that she knew, because I knew.

Doctor Demi-Detritus knew, too; and his nurses.

He sat with his fingers tented inbetween his legs, and gave me the look that I imagine concerned fathers give their children.

"I'm starting to feel better Doctor; really -- it's just been difficult to muster up energy lately."

He gave me a non-believing-but-acquiescing nod and stated as much, "I know, I just want you to really 'believe' that you can take as much time as you want here. There's no shame in needing a few days to rest, I only ask that you do what you feel like you can, and not completely give up."

"I won't; I want to start going out again --and I want to see Orcus, too."

He gave my knee a squeeze, "I know, you're doing your best. Let me know if I can do anything for you."

I smiled, "OK; oh -- do you have any news on my tests? If I'm going to die, or not?"

"Not yet; we're just as uncertain about Orcus, too."

I didn't really know what he meant by that, so I just said "Yeah."

Demi-Detritus stood, and picked up his things,

I grabbed the hem of his coat and asked, "Oh-- I haven't been able to sleep lately, do you have anything I could take? For pain, mostly, and just the coldness."

He told me he'll see what he can do.

He turned my light back off, and I went back to staring at the ceiling.

---

---

A team of nurses brought a small christmas tree into my room, and took to setting it up.

Doctor Demi-Detritus asked if there was anything I wanted for Christmas, and I asked to just have a really nice christmas tree in my room -- if possible -- with the tinsel, and star, and the glitzy little lights and baubles. I want lights around my window, too, and stockings hanging from the sill. It's silly, Doctor, but when the lights are off, and the gold/silver lights from the christmas tree bounce-off the ornaments, and reflect darkly up-on the star -- and on me -- it, makes me really happy.

And, I wanted to be happy.

I wanted to spend this Christmas rooted in some of the happy memories I had; memories that had that same gold/dark light. With the same people that weren't in my life any-more. My family, I guess.

"I can do that. I don't know if the tree can be as large as you'd like, but I can do that."

The nurses, a week later, were just now finishing the installation-portion of my wish.

Their thin arms strung up tinsel, and plugged in light -- and at some point in that bustling, they would ask me if their decorating was OK -- and I would always respond, "you're doing perfect," and they were.

I felt guilty sitting in my bed, just watching them work.

I felt like I should ask to help, even though with-out question they would insist they handle it.

"--Is there anything I can do to help?" "--No no, you just take it easy."

And just like that -- they had finished on their own; and just as soon as they left, the door would shut, and I would sit in the gold-dark light from my tree.

Honest: I felt a little bitter this. The family part was missing.

I fell asleep.

That night, I dreamt about a destroyed village on the outskirts of civilization.

Surrounding the village was nothing but sand.

Me and my friend, Orcus, had been exploring for supplies; our adventure brought us to a hotel that had been hollowed out empty, and left roof-less after some apparent "scooping" of the hull by (seemingly) some great claw from heaven. Whatever terrorized this hotel had made it resemble more some sunken pock than anything that could be used as a building.

We took care to walk down the stairs that led to the basement -- the only real 'intact' floor -- to more closely examine some sights that had caught our eye: the center-floor had been cleared out, and re-laid with sun-baked brick and covered with hand-woven rugs; odd 'artefacts' had been pushed to the walls: trinkets of bone and brick, feather and hair.

Our examination (I'm not sure what we were expecting) was interrupted by a side-door opening, and a lady exclaiming "Oh!"

No real confrontation happened, rather: she was excited to see us, and where her enthusiasm had started -- the enthusiasm would be continued double by each of her sisters that would soon come after.

As it would happen: this building was now the church of God; her, and her sisters, were married to God, and the single pastor (a fat, kind man, who was never seen in bad humor) that guided this ruined congregation.

The pastor (we met him soon after the sisters finished their curiosity with us) explained the basics of his faith, and of God. I remember he put his hand on my shoulder.

"We are the servants of the Antichrist; and awaiting the return of the Antichrist; and when I speak: it is in echo of the Antichrist. Sumire, (he squeezed my shoulder at this point, for emphasis) the Antichrist is as-much servant of God as Christ -- and is not an agent of evil; you can see the true nature of Antichrist in the congregation that I've raised here: each of the sisters here are loving, welcoming, and caring. As am I (he smiled, and jostled me in good humor, and laughed to himself).

"To explain, I'd like you to imagine the Earth and the Sky as two opposing forces that are both necessary to create (he spread his arms out, as to gesture to the desert that was not visible from inside the basement) this Heavenly World. Currently (he pointed to the sky; he was very animate with his hands) the dominant paradigm of this world is Sky, and Christ is the messenger of that Heavenly Body. Christ is loving, and caring, and accepting of all born under that sky.. But, (he leaned in, and looked intently with his dark eyes, boring into my own) those children born under the Earth will never see the love of Christ; those children are material, and stand connected to the soles of our feet wherever we stand, as though they are shadows awaiting us from a Grave that has yet to be dug. Who loves those children, standing in that upside down world? What sky do they see, from underground, Sumire? (At this point, he placed his large hands over my left hand and clasped it tight, till it disappeared in his grasp, and pulled my hand to his heart -- I liked his theatrics, and how willing he was to touch me) The Antichrist loves them, Sumire; and just as he loves those children underground, he loves remnants of Earth that have been lost above-ground (he lets go of my left hand, tapping the back of my hand as he does) -- those sinister children, who have fallen above-ground, to a heaven that does not love them."

"That's really cool." (I didn't respond this way; I don't remember any of my words)

He then invited me to attend Study, as this was a holy day for the congregation -- he stood up, to prepare for the Study, and asked that we stay and do as his sisters instruct, and to feel assured that we will be accepted as sisters.

Orcus (who had been quiet) said that she would leave; as she does not want to be with me when their Study commences, but explained that, "it might be good for you to see, I think it will be a good experience for you, Sumire!"

The sisters took to me like family, and disrobed me, and gave me garbs of beige, white, and red -- the colors of their religion; as they explained: "we are as pus, and blood, of the Earth, made whole and loved."

Their garbs (I'm not sure how else to say this) were slightly indecent around the chest; I was exposed -- essentially. The sisters ensured that I was; the chest of every sister was exposed. It made me think that the pastor here may-be an indecent man -- or: a lecherous man.

Whatever stinking feeling I had was constantly being chased away with love, and acceptance, of my sisters; they doted on me and treated every hesitation I had as something understandable, and normal. My hair was pinned up in a clasp of bone and sinew, and a cowl of white was lowered over my head, and my forehead (and stomach) were annointed with a bloodish-oil, and I sat -- kneeling -- side-by-side with a row of sisters.

We waited, "just do as you feel, and if you feel uncertain: do as your sisters do," were my instructions; I felt a sacredness to the atmosphere -- so I prayed, as had my sisters chosen.

Minutes later, the pastor came-out with two other sisters in attendance, carting out what was called "the bound skeleton," which was a broken-apart human skeleton, that had each individual bone roped together as-though it were some halloween decoration, and the whole macabre totem was affixed into the center of a steel wheel.

We prayed to the bound skeleton; and -- from doors, deeper in-to the basement sidehalls that I had wholly ignored, came the sound of regurgitation; the sound of cats and dogs beginning their vomit repeatedly with no 'release,' and then the regurgitations began to sound more like dull-hammering as it grew nearer; from the dark of the hall came God (as the pastor announced, in reverence with head bowed -- I bowed my head, as did everyone), as a wall of pus, sinew, and bile unbound by form.

God bled in-to the center of the basement, before the congregation, and stood in majesty under the raised sun that shone overhead, through the roof that had been cracked-asunder by some unknown beast from heaven: here was God, on Earth; and God heard our prayers, but only sought to hear the prayers of the Antichrist; in hope that the Earth underneathe us will one day equal Sky overhead, or overtake; that those children of Underground will be recognized.

And I woke up.

Orcus was sitting on my bed, leaning near me, holding my cheek; her face was lit in the soft gold of our christmas tree -- "Merry Christmas, Sumire."

I smiled at her, "Merry Christmas, Orcus."

I sat up, in my bed, and Demi-Detritus waved at me from the doorway, offering apologies for not being here earlier. I smiled back; it was all OK, because I was happy they were here now.

In the early morning (this happened at maybe 4 AM), I told them my dream; Orcus brought us coffee, insisting she makes it and not the nurses, and Demi-Detritus stayed since he had no work. Each of our stockings were full of silly garbage that made me happy to see, all the same; there was a fruit-cake (I had never had one before, but Demi-Detritus said that monks make these over several months by feeding them whiskey, and I thought that sounded awesome).

A distant voice inside me raced around, trying to point me to recognize this as being my second-to-last Christmas before I have to obey God. The burden God placed inside me, as a bleeding mass, was being covered up (easily) by a bunch of stupid nonsense and holiday shtick.

It was just a bunch of stupid nonsense, but,

In the quiet of morning, and in the dark-gold of the lights,

Seeing everyone smile had made me happy.

Merry Christmas.

---

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