The Runner Hospital
IV.
In through the window, out with my drive to leave. The hospital was a real hole of shit. A shithole for the sick ages, and here I was climbing into the second floor because a Runner told me that's where he'd be.
Masky...
As I sneaked through corridors, a stolen doctor's mask over my broken face to be my only disguise in this Hell, my mind tried to predict what the ultimate significance was of Masky's being here.
Was he here to kill me? Or perhaps something different?
It was around this time that a nurse stopped me. They thought I was a temp and asked me to go help some doctor at a surgery some rooms down. I said I'd see what I could do.
V.
Devon Finnerty ..... was the name on the sheet of paper handed to me. Autopsy report. Gender unknown, occupation of known, identity in a state of flux thanks to the black splotch of blood covering a last name.
"Fork," said the faceless doctor. I passed him a narrow thing that looked like a fork. He stuck it up the cadaver's nose. The cadaver twitched. I brought this up. The doctor told me not to worry. "They're not dead, is all."
"Are they at least unconscious?"
A shrug. "I don't know." The fork goes in deeper. Doctor reacts to something. "Ah, there's the brain." Slowly withdraws fork, a bit of gray matter on the end. "Now they're dead."
I didn't have the stomach for this, so I excused myself and left the room. I didn't care that this attracted the attention of some suited people. They asked what the problem was, and I had nothing to tell them. Instead I just kept going down the hallway, looking a little more desperately for he who I came here for.
VI.
ReplyDeleteeyes open beneath closed eyelids. he's here. he's found a way into my subconscious. where I may never find him.
writing a cenograph in my sleep: what distance alone cannot convey, what words have no words for, a sense beyond your wildest dreams.
did you know, dear absent reader (I write mostly to myself and no blogger at all), that despite the rarity of dreams in a night's sleep, consciousness is not so rare? consciousness is ever-present, even when you are not. your consciousness never, cannot ever, go away, save-- supposedly-- in death.
"supposedly, what are you talking about, of course consciousness goes away in death," sayeth the priest to his masses. the danger comes with a denial, a negation, of name. it is by contradiction that I summon him, this negated priest. it is by lie that he withdraws back to the shadows.
perhaps I should build myself a blog, rather than spell a ghostwritten cenograph entirely in comments. that would certainly be sensible, or supposedly anyway.
remember the rule, all none of you: by contradiction that resembles lie, you summon the ghost from his Hell. by lie that resembles contradiction, the demon becomes a ghost again and vanishes from sense.
remember the rule, all none of you: if you want to fight an alright demon with airtight tactic, deny them their vanishing spell. (argument: to ghost oneself is a privilege, privilege to unearth unearned.) method: track their name.
remember the rule, all none of you: the alright airtight altright (henceforth "aaa") uses language to negate, invokes culture to misdirect, summons you to dismiss you in a trap.
so summon them first. describe them. say their name. observe their attempts to escape: they will change their name into another language, another culture. so summon that one. describe that one. say that one. keep their associations alive. refuse them the ghost.
do not await further instruction, although further instruction may come. if the fight is yours, take to it. refuse anyone who claims to speak for your authority. even my words. I provide to you only a cenograph to study, not to follow.
I hereby wage war of the worlds. go back to sleep.