My wrists hurt already. My brain hurts already. Just call me a protagonist. By the time I finish writing this I will become in memory just another narrator of the tired old prose. By the time I finish printing I will have run out of food. I don’t believe in the afterlife or immortality. I believe in evolution. And a key component in evolution is dying and lots of it. But before I lose it completely and implode, and crumple down, diffusing into the smaller organism we observe as decay, I want to make my memory, however twisted it may come down, as my isolation draws me further from the grammars and logics of regular, standardized communication. If any documentation of this most wretched of manuscripts survives it will be a map and puzzle delved through a miles deep mine of dangerous ores.
She was the wild child wolf of the night, I remember, circling, curious carnivore, in and out of the same forests and halls as me, the herbivore, the meat. Once I nixed a glance at her stealing printer paper. Later, when I confronted her in the dorm, as I used to work as a computer lab assistant, and understand how difficult a job it is maintaining order around such machines that could be used as equally for mischief as for papers and one could look about the same doing either, she said it was for her art.
She agreed to return the paper, with sincerity so sharp as to seem out of place in a generation jaded by the redundancies of life. But, she had said only if I saw her art. Later I would know what a risk it was for her to show me such things as her art. We were attending a catholic college after all. I had no idea what to expect. What could someone even imagine in a roomful of drawings, who had never been moved by any sort of art, a spirit fully jaded and desensitized to the industry standard money maker three dimensional movie experiences?
Blair was not a traditional catholic by even the most avant-garde logics. This following description of her has been, in my mind, fermented and brewed for many year to the very limits of what one can possibly observe and think about another. She is the greatest cancer in my consciousness and the most prominent pigment in my pens. She stole every rich last bit of innocence from my freckled visage. She broke into my brain and spread her mischievous virus, her freewheeling, hell bending, storm of oppression, bound down upon what she called my very oppression by the system, that I began to call my oppression of the system, and with what I soon ran over my old life, trying to wrestle it. It was brain staining. It started with her drawings. I do not remember any detail of what I thought of her before I saw the drawings. They screamed evil blasphemies which were pure and terrifying but nullified by one minor detail each, like smooth skin on a ghoul, and plunged you down inevitable thoughts, of neutral empiricisity. They broke the symbols and logics of the religious state of mind and with that evil gesture, created a neutrality of perception, which lead to a very quantitative state of consciousness. She was the computer virus that infects you like a file, turning your being inside out, until you become part of the viral computing power, part of her organism of consciousness. And her half of that union was a natural genius, wreathed in decorative insanities, if anything in control of the expanding chaos of the universe.
She made love to every individual part of my existence with every corresponding part of hers. And for her parts that had no corresponding ones in mine, she fucked the raw surfaces of my brain, spreading the stem cell wetness, which began the slow and painful process of becoming new nodes. I write to you as a gross backwards mutation into my former being, around the expansive carcass of her attempted control of me, which invaded more than 90% of my brain, and now just hums in a restless motions, scaring the tiny remaining neurons around it that have not been converted.
She is the rotting effervescence. She is the divine gift spoiled by the corrosive ideas of biology. She drives a firebird.
But I will save the apogee for the end of the text, I will wait as long as necessary, until the most avid insanity within me can capture that moment. In the end, it was that the old muscle that ran the college got wind of what she was doing, and made her disappear. It was months later that an unexplained explosion in one of the school’s out-dated chemistry laboratories, which caved in the whole North-West wing of the build of the sciences turned up DNA identical to Blair’s. It seems in a desperate attempt to escape, she took her own life. And that was the end of her story. Because these Catholics only make up their own monsters, never daring to record those of others. And the only other person who got away was me, and I am trapped in hiding in the husk of Mexico. There was no infrastructure through which I could communicate with other sentient beings. All the facets had been set, and I was not identical to any one of them, but think of myself instead as a purged imperfection.
I guess I came to realize that I had wanted out the whole time. Or else I never would have survived her. I would have gotten myself killed long ago if I hadn’t wanted out since the day I started loving life and the moment that love was reworked by the redundancy, repackaged into neatly distributed plastics. But it’s hard to tell now what was there initially and how it went before she came along. I can only imagine the past passed that, and guess the rerun details. Now I feel like her DNA defines me more than my own. But I cling to the details of the era when I was complete and innocent. I often hallucinate vividly; in direct continuation of my thoughts and desires, and my brain pattern mimics what it must have been like, when my greatest concerns were the battles of Pokémon and getting to the movies for some vivid mimicries of hallucination. When I wake up from those hallucinations I barely know myself at all. For those first moments, all I can feel is the anonymous hatred, that confuses me at first because I cannot place its cause, although it consumes and manipulates me whole, but then the epiphany always comes and I remember her, and not that all of the hate was aimed at her, but as if she caused the very hate itself to exist, and expand indiscriminately into my memories. In the end, I viewed her as awesome. And she was my end all.
When she knew the end was near she never slept. She worked furiously to create as much of her art as possible, with the hope that the odds would increase that anything made it to the outside, to another facet. If it only took hold in one facet it would die, strangled on all sides by the others. But if her philosophy managed to infect two facets, they would support each other enough to recruit others, until the whole world was corrupted and decomposed down into a very down to earth existence. I let her down, however, on account of my own stubborn idiocy. I felt I hadn’t got enough of the old world, my golden age. I rebelled against anything so radical, even if I agreed with everything she said, on account of how incredibly persuasive she could be, dangerous beauty that she was.