It's like a balloon at the funeral of someone dear and departed. I imagine popping it. But the picture and the inane text accompanying it won't go away. They just get bigger.
I try shrinking it, deflating it till the image shrivels. Inconsequential nonsense. Fan art of my real life, the comic book?
I know where I've been. I know who i am. It's not a memory, it's a non existent remnant of Mr Lime's plan to send me crazy. And it's gone.
He’s really quite exhausted as he mutters, ‘I need to understand what happened to me.’
I cannon a stern look replying, ‘Don’t be so sure about that. Listen, Lance, tell the police a bear did it.’
His confusion takes a back seat as he follows my finger pointing to the wreckage of the trailer. His befuddlement stifling the oncoming sob-fest that’s begun to ripple through hunched shoulders. His eyes, pale blue duds blinking through the bucketing rain, they’ve latched onto a frozen grey stare.
Lissie, blood soaked and mutilated. She lies several feet from us crushed under Lance’s trailer. And Hollywood’s new kid on the block begins to wail his sorrow. Lance Cesar-Young, his tanned features so visible now beneath the make up the rain’s washed away, his face rashed from the fake beard that’s been applied and reapplied this last month.
After he’s lied to the police about his girlfriend and his trashed trailer home, after using his actor’s imagination to lie about the size of the bear, Lance might then consider scripting what really went down. I’m sure he will, cash-in sort that he is.
That would be a seriously unfortunate move on his part. The wisps trailing around here aren't the kind of natural phenomenon that would appreciate any of this pointing towards my existence. These sneaking smoke-like minions are in collusion with Gaia. Collectors. They'll take over your life Lance. Better tell the police about that bear.
‘Lissie Hinde,’ a gulp of nothing, ‘She was cast as Courtney Love.’
So, I find myself crawling out, I’m trudging around in this fake London night till I meet a snow covered statue to talk to. It’s a statue made of bronze bricks and for my use it’s perfect. I take off my long coat and hang it over its Arctic shoulders, considering for the first time that I've never worn clothes - I wear a costume.
I crumple into a ball beneath it for god knows how long, alternate realities pushing in on me. Variant events, they push me out of the way, challenging my right to feel unique...
Variant takes on my time in L.A. The scripts try to tell me what they consider to be fact. and I squeeze the life out of them. The images though, they expand. They want to be seen. They need the attention. They crave it, like food.
Black material floats out of my recent recollection and soon I'm remembering the whistling during lime's work in progress. That whistling.
'With the lights out, it's less dangerous.'
Not long ago, a dead rock stars lyrical garbage became my life-line.
How can I not be aware of the stage boards underneath the grass, the distant mountains being paintings on a wooden set? The morning sun is a clever blend of ten or more theatre lights hanging above me and the beautiful morning sunrise will forever be a cycloramic lie.
There is no Lance Ceaser Young. There is only this guy that looks like a guy from a movie my creator has seen. One of my favourites which is really her own. This guy that this land has sent to keep me doing what I do within it, he’s not bad an actor. Still, I’ve seen it all before. There is no choice but to get myself together.
My only choice is to warn Steph of Aronson’s plan, maybe even help her escape from a bad place so that she may save a very real, very unique planet. Then I notice something. There’s a statue, very similar to the one I’m slumped against. It even has a red trench-coat hung up on it. Naturally, the surrealism heightens as there is a black man sitting in front of it.
'We're just drafts, you and I.'
I could kill this replacement if that's what he is but I've so much murder in my life. So, I'm back to my own statue, I'm grabbing my own coat and I’m moving as I holler over my shoulder, Stay away from any theaters.'
I slip and I slide on the snow as I run away from my sibling.