#and you can only really discern what's Good Transgressive and what's Damaging Transgressive through doing i think

[thedreadvampy]

btw about Neil Gaiman I periodically agree with the 'Neil Gaiman is annoying' stuff bc I feel like both he and Amanda Palmer seem like people who I would go insane stuck in a room with bc we have very different ideas about art and suchlike. and I also do think that the career trajectory he's on lately is cynically redoing his greatest hits and pretending that was the dream all along when it clearly was not. which is at best meh.

having said which

as far as I can tell by far the most common complaint about Neil Gaiman is "Snow, Glass, Apples is problematic/gross/it's got incest and rape and frames the child as the aggressor"

which strikes me as a weird complaint to pull out of a 40 year body of work tbh when that short story is pretty clearly coming from a place of 'how far can I push this'. like you don't have to like the story. I don't really like the story. but it is. a horror story.

like and this is the thing with particularly 90s alt horror right? a lot of the interest is in transgression and sitting in the worst possible perspective and seeing what happens if you pull those strings. like I really like Clive Barker for example but there's a good chunk of his short stories that I'm like I'm not picking up what you're putting down Clive this seems Kinda Off. but that willingness to write some trite or Bad Message horror fiction that doesn't land is imo a side effect of being willing to try writing uncomfortable and unpleasant fiction at all. which is what horror is for, among other things, it's for creating discomfort as a form of catharsis or engagement.

like I am not a huge fan of the type of sex-horror that pops up in a lot of Gaiman's work and other contemporary horror writers - to me I don't find it upsetting or horny it just ends up feeling kind of edgy and tryhard - but I'm also a bit like. it does seem like a lot of people's beef with Neil Gaiman is that In The 90s He Was A Horror Writer

and this approach to Problematic Horror in Snow, Glass, Apples I find kind of microcosmic of how The Discourse often approaches art in this kind of 1:1 way. if you write a story which seems to line up with rape apologia it can only be because you agree with it. if you write a story about transphobia you're a transphobe. if you write a story that makes me genuinely uncomfortable you're attacking me.

but artwork, especially art like horror that's not necessarily trying to provoke enjoyment as its main response, is necessarily hit and miss. and if what you're shooting for is discomfort then whether it works, falls flat or goes too far incredibly depends on your audience. and making good art - as in art that makes its audience think, art that opens the audience up to discomfort and catharsis and sticks with them and changes them - requires the space to experiment and tbh the space to fuck up. like they aren't all going to be winners and they certainly aren't all going to work for you as a singular audience.

personally I don't see the appeal of Snow, Glass, Apples, less cause it's nasty and more cause it's hack. ooh an edgy monstrous version of a fairy tale where there's lots of rape and cannibalism? you're soooo original Neil. but like. that's fine. I don't really vibe with like 70% of Neil Gaiman stuff I've read but I still like Neil Gaiman because the stuff that works for me really works for me.

idk I think there's a lot of folk on this website who shouldn't interact with horror cause they clearly aren't interested in being horrified. that's not everyone who dislikes Snow, Glass, Apples, but it's a real undercurrent to a lot of the criticism and tbh this kinda vibe is shit for art. making standout art What Is Good also requires being ready to make art which stands out for the wrong reasons. sometimes they'll be the same art to different people.

#red said #not to Cancel Culture this but isabelle fall springs to mind in a lot of how folks talk about stuff like this #like she wrote a transgressive piece exploring her own negative feelings about transness and her anger around a transphobic trope #and she made something which i found really resonant and interesting #and she got torn apart for it because it Might From Some Angles Agree With Transphobia #and I'm not making a direct comparison. because i think attack helicopter is a really GOOD story and i think SGA is gratuitous and hack #but that's the thing right? transgression and discomfort and speaking about unpleasant things in an openended way are KEY #to making art that engages directly with your own pains and angers and discomforts #and that's hard to mediate tbh. but it's also very necessary. #i think as well thinking about Gaiman this is also a thought I've often had about Amanda Palmer #who over the years has written a lot of songs about things i find genuinely uncomfortable or offensive. #and i can engage with 'it's fucked up to tell your ex they transed their gender At You' or 'your partner's suicide is not about you' bc yeah #but #you can't celebrate someone for making confessional music then get mad because you don't like everything they confess #if you only take about your socially acceptable thoughts it's not really confessional is it? #if you only talk about discomforting things that people are comfortable hearing about its not really discomforting #and you can only really discern what's Good Transgressive and what's Damaging Transgressive through doing i think #so if you want challenging art you are going to have to get some art which challenges you and you go hmm no i still disagree #is what i think #so yeah you can hate the artwork but when an artist is specifically setting out to make challenging art it's weird to hate them #for making 50 pieces of art you like and 1 you hate

[monchikyun]

24. sticks and stones

“Look at it, It’s just a dumb police bot, it’s not gonna tell anyone. Not after I’m done with it anyway.”

His brother can be a cruel thing sometimes, but Connor thinks that this time it’s only because he doesn’t know that they’re dealing with a deviant. 

The android tries to keep it a secret for fear that he gets deactivated, Connor thinks. He has been trained to observe human behaviour and make assumptions based on what someone’s body language says, and deviants are as close to real people as something can get. He’d like to believe that what they’re feeling is real, even if it makes their situation that more tragic. But there’s something special about this android… person, something that makes him want to protect him from Niles’s inhumane treatment. Maybe it’s the scar on his nose, making him look a little more authentic, a bit more like a person with a real past.  

But how can it be deemed inhumane if his target is not a human? That’s the reasoning his brother has fed him with ever since the creation of the first artificial existence advanced enough to be easily mistaken for something living. The one thing preventing him from fully ending these mad escapades. 

“Do you have a name?” The android still acts like he isn’t here at all, like this doesn’t concern him.

“It’s Gavin.” Connor isn’t afraid to admit that he knows his name, he isn’t the one who his brother likes to punish.  “That’s what they call him anyway.”

Although there are some scars on his body that Niles could be blamed for. Maybe not directly, he’d never hurt Connor like that, but he would never have to wear them if he was strong enough to say no to his sick ventures. There is a beast living inside of his brother, and it shows its ugly head more often than he’d prefer. Maybe it’s a bit fortunate that he doesn’t have to rely on human beings in order to satisfy his compulsions. Not that it makes any of this okay.

They have lead Gavin into one of the empty rooms in the department’s basement, in order to test what a certain type of corrosive substance will do with the material of which androids are made, stripping the android of his shirt to make Niles’s work easier. It’s a wonder that his brother is even able to keep his job as a lab technician at all, considering all his transgressions. It suits him perfectly though, he’s always been interested in analysing things and deconstructing them before putting them back together ever since they were small. Trying out his weird experiments on insects and electrical devices just because he couldn’t deny the itch inside of him. He figures that Niles just can’t fight the power that dictates his unsavoury behaviour, or that he doesn’t want to. It’s most likely the latter. Connor has often been there making sure his action don’t go too far, policing his misdeeds while confirming that his brother is aware of the harm he’s doing.

Like now. He can see the fear in Gavin’s eyes, despite his effort to appear as machine-like as he possibly can in this situation. But if Connor speaks up, he will reveal his beliefs regarding artificial existence, and he isn’t ready to have that conversation with Niles, not now and definitely not here.

So he lets it happen. Connor watches as the substance burns through the skin on Gavin’s bare arm, singeing the white shell, but not enough to create a hole in his chassis, just a large spot resembling a burn mark. The android doesn’t even flinch when the rest of it gets poured onto his torso, painting his chest the bleak colour of ash.

“There you go, you fucking piece of rotten plastic.”

It’s starting to seep inside of him, and Connor doesn’t dare to imagine the consequence of this particularly merciless test. And since Niles has a way to make androids disappear without a trace, or conjure up a perfectly reasonable excuse for their damage if it came to that, Connor is the only one who has the potential to stop this, before the anger takes over his brother entirely.

“Why don’t you kill me already you sick phck.”

Or so he thought.

“Ooh look, it can talk!” Niles grips his jaw, making Gavin look straight at him. “And it has quite the way with words too.” He lets go of him in disgust, menacingly stepping away from him and Connor is too stunned to do anything.

“You want death you fucking deviant? Well guess what, you won’t get it.” There is a vicious smile forming on Nile’s face, one that Connor is way too familiar with. He must talk him out of it somehow, or he’ll have to carry the guilt of letting this happen for the rest of his life.

“Things that are not alive can’t die, you-“

“Enough!” It’s a little louder than he expected, but it fulfils its purpose so he doesn’t care. “It’s been enough, Niles.” His voice gets little softer, like he’s trying to calm a feral animal. He can feel the sweat on his forehead, reminding him just how unnecessarily terrified he is. His brother might be unpredictable, but he’s still part of him, and Niles usually listens to his older sibling, out of love or obligation Connor can’t be really sure, but it’s enough that he’s able to exude some kind of authority over him, no matter the reason behind it.

Niles seems like he’s struggling with himself, judging by the absent look and the heavy breathing, so there’s still a chance to turn him around, at least for this moment.

“Who do you think you’re-“ Gavin slumps against the wall, his voice laden with heavy static. He can’t help but feel sorry for the android.

“I am a friend.” It would be a shame to let him die like that. He’ll do anything in his might to save him, Connor decides. It’s his responsibility, or so he feels like.

“Can you fix him,” he asks Niles with the most serious tone he can summon. 

“No, I don’t-”

“Do you know someone who can.”

“Maybe.”

Connor can sense something heavy in the air, like the conscience that Niles has been running away from has finally caught up with him.

He should have done this a long time ago.

“Just call them and leave. I’ll cover for you.”

“What about…” He nudges his head Gavin’s direction, refusing to properly look at him.

“He won’t tell, I’ll make sure of that.”

Connor waits until the call gets through and then goes to Gavin, checking for a sign that he’s still alive. His LED is still fiery red, which is a good omen, in this case at least.

“You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

The android lifts up his glistening eyes that convey all his doubt toward that statement.

“Liar.” It’s barely discernible among the static, but the word still manages to cut deep.

“I promise I’ll try my best to help you, whether you like it or not. How about that?”

Connor gets a hint of a smile for this one, a seed that makes his determination grow tenfold.

He will keep this promise at all costs. 

@convinseptember gavin just wants to live but doesn’t know how to express that wish xD

#convinseptember #convin #reverse AU yeaaah #I usually like Nines but in this he's a bastard xD #connor is a detective and niles is a lab person idk anything about jobs #also this begs for a sequel

[the-erickson-labrynthian]

Death, by Brandon Erickson

Another short story I wrote recently about the final moments between two close friends before one succumbs to his wounds. This one’s a bit longer than the last one, I apologize in advanced for mobile because I know sometimes the ‘keep reading’ doesn’t show up and this is over 4000 words XD. Forgive me for my transgressions, please, I just didn’t wanna separate it into parts, ruins the tone.I hope you enjoy, if you like my writing or my style be sure to check out more of my blog, or check out my commissions, they’re pretty coolio to the moolio. And uh, yeah. Enjoy. Be sure to tell me what you think.

Death, by Brandon Erickson (Word Count: 4424):

The two boys were struggling to keep forward as the small crowd chased behind them. They were far back, but making headway, tumbling towards the pair at breakneck speeds for the social reward of bring their bodies back to the Duke. Dead or alive, because they were only special for their opposition, nothing more. Certainly why, of course, the Duke felt no discouragement from attacking one of the pair right where they stood, in the middle of their diatribes of peace and honesty and justice, and why of course he felt no apprehension towards making the attack as strong and piercing as he did, a little beam, struck like a bolt with deep seeded fangs into the chest. A familiar light and beam, to one of them. And after it struck and they got to their feet running, once again the Duke had no quarrel with sending his troops to finish the rest, end it all, bring back corpses.

Cyrus did his best to hold tight to his friend and push him forward, but the damage had left Dutch limping, and screaming, with his face morphing through a thousand expressions a minute as a flurry of feelings circled around him.

“Urgh,” He gritted his teeth but the anguish pushed through, “This is very painful.”

Dutch could crack a joke at his own expense, but Cyrus couldn’t stop thinking ahead, looking all around in desperation for something hide in but seeing nothing but an expanse of silent buildings and grey empty streets. They twisted and turned as best as they could to confuse their pursuers, but each time they had to even tilt a direction other than forward another sharp yell would come from Dutch.

“I’m just incredibl-ahrg-crediby surprised by how much ehhhh” He groaned, “Pain I’m in.”

Cyrus couldn’t avoid speaking in a whimper as his mind worked on a plan, “Stop talking, you’ll make it worse.”

“Oh… breathing makes it worse. I… think being, ehr, makes it worse.”

“A few more turns and then maybe we’ll lose ‘em.”

From the hollering echoing throughout the streets, that seemed like a lie. But, into another alleyway that almost turned into a dead-end—a near fatal mistake—Cyrus spotted that what he thought was a wall was really a large gate, a fence with green metal behind it that covered the other side. No barbed wire. Mistake turned miracle. Could go to the other side and hide. He turned Dutch towards the fence and flinched at the painful response. Dutch’s expression worsened as he saw it.

“Oh no… we’re not-”

“They might not see us behind it. Think you could climb up it?”

He laughed, “Uhhh, I… can climb it. I don’t what I’ll be like once I’m down it, though.” “Easily our best shot. I can help you up. C’mon.”

Cyrus hurried Dutch over and bent down, letting Dutch step up his back to grab the top of the fence. Cyrus then held onto his feet until he pulled himself to the top, before jumping up and grabbing the top himself, lifting up and over before Dutch could lose his balance and fall to the ground. Once he was on the other side he reached his arms out towards Dutch.

“I got you.”

“Hehe, I would have my doubts, but I don’t have a… ehhh,” He leaned over and fell into Cyrus’ arms before finishing his thought.

Cyrus held onto him and looked around. Standard walls of slimed grey like the other side of the fence, though behind them was a rusted door that was so evenly split between blue and burnt brown one couldn’t tell which color came first. The door was partially opened, but he could barely see what was inside.

“C’mon… we can go inside and get you lying down. Maybe then I can figure out how to help you.”

Dutch laughed at the notion, but Cyrus had no idea why. The two carefully went over to the open door and Cyrus moved it open as slow as he could, though that didn’t stop the creaks from being any less screeching. They stepped inside carefully, Cyrus eyeing everything he could to see if it was safe while Dutch barely looked at anything, continuing his small exclamations of pain in a softer tone. From his estimation, Cyrus couldn’t see that anyone was here, or had been in here, for a long time.

As he got his bearings, he realized it wasn’t anything abnormal at all, just a few empty rooms with standard wooden walls. A house. A real one, too. Nothing was in it, though. Not in this room they first entered, which from the ripped apart carpeting below appeared to be the living area. Cyrus took Dutch to the far corner of this room and carefully let go of him, telling him to lay down and rest while he found a light switch. Dutch obliged and slowly sunk down onto the carpet, feeling at the texture of the small and tightly woven strands that were like bristles. Cyrus rubbed his hands all along the walls, but nothing rubbed back except for cold and faint dust that he wiped against his pants, until the fourth wall yielding a small sliding switch. He moved it up and down and looked up to the ceiling. Nothing. Not even a hum or a spark. Time did that to things.

He went back over to Dutch and starting rubbing his hands together, “Okay, I was gonna save a bit of my energy, but it would be nice to be able to see a bit, so…” He held his hands outwards with his fingers extended and spaced out, trembling as he darted his eyes between the two of them, his pupils enlarging until a faint glow emitted from the distance in between the hands, a softer caramel light that was easier on the eyes. He clenched his fist and the light released from its prisionment and circled about until he moved his hands and guided it to the ground beside them. He let out relieving sigh as his shakiness left him, then got down on his knees and observed his friend.

“How are you holding up?”

“Constant pain, but now that I’m not moving as much, it’s muddled down. Hurts to talk, but I like talking, so I guess I’ll deal with that.”

“Where’s the pain coming from? If I know the source I might be able to discern the spell, and maybe then fix it. Is it here?” He applied a small amount of force onto Dutch’s side.

“No, that feels nice, a little. Touching me doesn’t make it worse. And… the pain is everywhere.”

“What do you mean, everywhere? It can’t be everywhere.”

Dutch laughed, “Pain spells have that tendency.”

“Even then there’s a source. Something. And it wouldn’t hurt to move if it was just neurological, right? Those spells just simulate pain, they don’t cause real damage.”

“They don’t… yeah, but that’s because this isn’t a pain spell.”

“Urg,” He rubbed his hands against his cheeks, “It’s gotta be something else then. Some internal hemorrhaging. That’s ridiculously powerful to be so precise like that… but then again… there’d still be a source.”

Dutch watched his friend get up and pace about the room—like he always did—trying to work out some solution. Every problem is fixable to some people. Can’t see what’s right in front of them, or they’d lose the only grip or power on reality they have. He chuckled a bit.

“Please don’t try to lighten the mood. This is serious.”

“There wouldn’t be a need to lighten the mood if it wasn’t serious.”

Cyrus dug his face into his hands, “We could be found out in any moment. We need to get help back at one of the stables or something, but you’re in no shape to keep moving, clearly. Unless, you could-”

“No. It’s pretty bad. I doubt I could get up without going into hysterics again. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. We’ll have to work with what we’ve got. Maybe I don’t have my book on me, but I can figure something out nevertheless. I knew I should’ve kept my bag with me.”

“The book isn’t a miracle worker, Cyrus.”

“Went from healing a cut to healing a severed arm reading it. I’d be better right now. Better equipped to get out. But I had… I had to leave it.”

“Stop whining, you don’t have it. Doesn’t matter anyways. That was just healing an arm.”

Cyrus circled about in frustration, his hands fidgeting around while he thought. Dutch felt the small pressure of pain increase, yet this time he made no sound. Maybe he built up a tolerance fast, he thought. If only he could build a tolerance to the damage, too.

Before he held onto that thought long Cyrus was already back by his feet and patting around his body, “Please give me anything your feeling, I need to know if there’s any weak spot.”

“I just feel pain, everyone. No part is worse. But, pressure feels good.”

“I’m sure there’s somewhere on you, maybe where he hit you, your chest?” Cyrus pushed into Dutch’s chest and Dutch let out little more than the slightest of moans from the intensity of the force subsiding the feeling of pain, even if for a moment. “Nothing?” He asked.

“Nothing wrong. You’re trying hard but I’m telling you it’s just constant. I just… am feeling pain.”

“What… just feeling pain? Like… it’s… just infecting your consciousness?”

“Like it’s… becoming a part of me. My existence just feels like its pain. I don’t how to describe the feeling, but it’s like every possible action is tied to pain. Breathing, talking, thinking, just the act of existing is bring me pain.”

“That sounds unbearable.”

“I’m used to unbearable things…” He chuckled.

Cyrus let out a huff, “But, there’s no spell I’ve ever heard of that does that. It makes no sense. Just pain? I could just kill the pain, then, if there’s nothing being damaged. Just… a painkiller trick, simple,” He started rubbing his hands together again.

“I told you,” He couldn’t help but laugh, “There’s nothing you’re gonna be able to do about this. Nothing you can heal.”

Cyrus grabbed at his head, “You’re making no sense! You act like you know what’s happening-”

Dutch let out a few coughs, “I do. I know exactly what’s happening. I knew it the second the spell hit me.”

Cyrus’ expression widened and he resisted hitting his friend, “What do you mean you already knew? You knew the whole time what was wrong with you and you never gave me a word? You just let yourself get worse and made it impossible for me to help you?”

“Well, you couldn’t.”

He held back in a scream in his anger, “What do you mean? What spell was it?”

“Cochlea Mortem.”

Suddenly his confusion made Cyrus speak in the same whisper as his friend, “What?”

“Cochlea Mortem. Or for the French it was La Mort de L’Escargot. Death of the snail. Snail’s Death. Funny wording, makes it sound like I’m the snail. Snail’s are pretty nice, I guess.”

“Snail’s Death? That spell… what? I heard about it once in old books, but people basically thought it was just fear mongering from dark mages to scare people. It was an old myth! From like… hundreds of years ago.”

“Myths because those people are dead. Most people are dead when they hear of it. Only way to know about it is to see it. And… I’ve seen it.”

“I’ve barely ever heard of it. Never seen it. How could you have seen it?”

“I knew you wouldn’t have seen it. Soldiers see. Bookworms learn. Usually that comes in handy, but not with death. Books don’t really do much for dead people. Can help dispose of them properly, though.”

“It can’t be that, though, right? You’re not… dying?”

“Cochlea Mortem is exactly what it sounds like. It’s slow. You couldn’t see it. Only I can feel it.”

“How? You’re not cut. Damaged. Anything?”

“Funny, I feel pretty cut. It looked the same back then, but it was a good ten years ago when I was just little more than a scout, I saw this much older man dealing with it. A lot like me, he kept talking. But, soon it was hard. He described it like a man… going through a house, turning off every appliance as he goes through. A slow shutdown of everything you are… on a consciousness level… until you’re nothing. Like… boiling your spirit into vapor. I feel it now.”

“Feel what?”

“Like I’m draining away, drop by drop.”

“Well… okay, maybe you have this Snail’s Death, I’m sure I can heal it. There’s gotta be a cure.”

Dutch let out a small sigh, “You said you heard of it. No one talks about it without mentioning that there’s no cure.”

“A hundred years ago there wasn’t a cure for petrification. We learn. We get better. I can do this. I’ll be the first one to do it.”

“Go ahead. Do something. I’m not going anywhere. Not sure if I can feel my legs at this point or not. I can wiggle my toes, but… I feel like if I stood on them, I’d phase right through my own legs.”

Cyrus stood up, “Of course I’ll try. You need me to, even if you won’t admit it.”

He rubbed his hands together for a minute, his eyes closed and visualizing as he did. There began to be a vacuum like feeling in the room, like thoughts were being ripped right out of the air to fuel his hands. Dutch found it hard to think, and his feelings were being pulled from him. At least it took the pain, too. Everything as Cyrus worked with his face clenched tight in focus. After another moment he stopped rubbing and moved his hands outwards once more, opening his eyes. His body trembled this time, with his legs shimmying weakly and his head twitching about. Like before, his pupils grew, and of course with so much power this time they grew to consume his whole eyes, this pure black that Dutch almost got lost in looking at. From his hands there began to emit a forest green like glow, but this glow also seemed to come from his head, like it leaked from his ears. Dutch had no clue what he was doing at this point, that kind of magic was never his thing.

Without warning the glow on his hands turned blue and he flicked them towards Dutch to pass the light over. Dutch closed his eyes in a wince of fear, but after a moment of no feeling he opened them to see nothing. The magic did nothing at all, like it went through him. He looked up at Cyrus to see his eyes still engrossed, yet sad. Next thing he knew all the energy in the room dropped and Cyrus’ head fell forward as he let go. He tilted his head back upwards at Dutch and walked over to him.

“Nothing, huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course. Not even putting all of my energy into thinking helped me come up with the right spell. I’m too weak.”

“You’re not weak. I told you, there’s nothing to be done. I just get to sit here and watch it all fall away.”

“I wish I could be better for you. It’s not fair.”

“I spent forever wishing I could better for you. That’s just how life is. But, you don’t have to keep wasting your energy on helping me. Just sit here. I’d feel a lot better if you would just be here and talk with me.”

“Really?”

“All that magic will get someone to find us anyways, and you’ve gotta get out of here soon.”

“We’ve got to head back soon. Escape and tell the others about his attack on Eastwick.”

“Yeah… we do. But… I need to lie down here for a while. Just sit with me. Please?”

Cyrus looked into the eyes of his long faithful companion, and they pleaded at him. Pleaded for comfort and warmth. Pleaded to sit with the person they love most.

“I’ll sit here with you. As long as you need me to.”

“Cool,” He chuckled.

Cyrus patted his hand against his friends stomach, feeling as it rose and fell with his breath, “Well, how are you feeling now?”

“Better, but lesser. Things can get better before they get worse. Everyone always says like a calm before the second half of the storm. In some ways that makes the oncoming pain not seem as bad, but in other ways it makes it seem worse, like I won’t be as ready for it.”

“If you wanted me to, I could try easing the pain a bit.”

He shook his head slightly, “No, I can handle it. You’ll need all the energy you can muster to get out of here. Just keep your hand right there. It feels better. Right. I think it might always have belonged there. You are like the whole troops caretaker. But… always me more.”

“Yeah.”

“I was always a rambunctious little shit.”

“Yeah.”

“The fact that I didn’t get my head lopped off years ago is probably a stroke of luck. More the debt to the universe piles up, though, the more that luck runs dry and you’ve got nothing to protect you. Nothing more than a loving friend.”

Cyrus said nothing, he examined every inch of Dutch’s body, still studying, wondering.

“From down here, you look so much more powerful. I used to think I was the stronger one. The brash and bold. But… strength, eh. Not much at the face of demise. You were the real fittest to survive. The smaller target. The larger mind.”

“You do a wonderful job.”

“Eh, I did my best. Better than a lot of sick and misguided people. Worse than a lot of beautiful and good people. Alright enough to not feel guilty. In that sense, at least.”

Dutch kept his gaze mostly at the ceiling, but every now and then he would move his eyes to Cyrus and stare for a moment before they went back forward. He never tilted his head.

“I’ve seen a lot of death. Lots of it in books and stuff, too. Death is a lot like an evolving myth, itself. Everyone spreads these stories about what it is like, these guesses and such. Even people who almost died try to tell people how it feels and spread this story. But… do any of them really know? I mean, could any of them really know unless they truly died? Death doesn’t happen until the brain is dead. Gone. Mush. No one can come back from that, either. So, no one knows. Nothing but what they feel beforehand. And on that,” He let out a small cough, “On that, I hear nothing but people saying that they feel… content. More and more so the closer that they get to the edge. That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel it,” He started tearing up, his words turning into whimpers, “I’m just sad. I don’t want to die.”

Cyrus hung his head low, “We can figure this out. Stop worrying.”

“But… I can’t move my body anymore. It’s just… gone.”

“It’s right here. Feel my hand. That’s your stomach.”

“I feel your hand, but nothing’s there. It touches nothing. The body’s drained away.”

Cyrus darted his vision away and tried not to tear up as well.

“Normal death is a lot like this, too, just faster. If you think about it, from all I’ve seen, death does this thing where it takes away every piece of you. With this stuff, this spell, it’s like these little bits that make up who I am are being shaved off, they’re falling though. And when the last bit is gone, I’m out of time. It remind me of. Of a… of. Of. An…” He closed his eyes, settling his thoughts, “An hourglass. Yeah, that. A hourglass, where the sand slowly pours from the top to the bottom. From life to death. Grain by grain. I’m… I’m those. Those grains. And every bit is taking its time, but soon it’ll all be out, and I’ll be gone.”

“Stop talking like that. You can still try to hold on. You can still try to grab onto yourself and persevere. It’s just determination, right? People put there hands in fire and feel nothing because of their determination. You can push through it all, if you try.”

“Trying hurts. Being hurts. The spell actively is pushing for me to stop being. Designed to make me… stop.”

“Don’t let it get to you. You can fight if you just don’t quit. Open your eyes.”

“No… I don’t need to. It would hurt too much. I can still see you. Right inside here, inside my head. I always see you when I close my eyes, whether I want to or not. Heheh,” He snickered.

“Dutch…”

“Oh, don’t worry. Most of the time it’s good that I see you. Sometimes you can be a real nagging Nelly like right now, but hey, I get it. I’m stupid. I deserve it most of the time. I know you’re just trying to make things better. Tryin’… to… make. Make things seem less. Less bad than they are. They’re pretty bad, and that can be scary.”

“I’m here for you,” He moved his head close to his friend’s.

“And I know that you’re sad. Very. Very… sad. I know. I’m sad too. Crying my eyes out…”

“You stopped crying already, Dutch.”

Dutch continued talking, “But… I guess in a little way I’m lucky, I won’t have to deal with being sad much longer, best case scenario. If not, then there’s no way of stopping it anyways. Knowing me I’d deserve it. But. But, uh. But… oh, I was saying… I know that even if I get to escape being sad, that you’re gonna have to deal with it. You’re gonna have to be sad when. When I’m gone. Yeah. That sucks. I’m sorry. I know that’s why you’re trying to hurt.”

“Help.”

“Yeah. Help.”

Cyrus bent over and wrapped around Dutch, hugging him tightly, “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be better.”

“Oh. Oh shush. It was all me. Me and my ego, screaming at that jerk like I was gonna change his mind. I should’ve been more prepared. We know his power. But… shoulda… shoulda… coulda.. Buddha. All in the past now. You can go past all this. You can be happy even after I’m gone. You’re a smart, cute guy who's gonna change the world for the better. I know that.”

“I don’t know what I would do, without you.”

“Anything and everything. You’re divine. I’m a bitch. Simple math, I’m a thorn in your side. You’re a rose bud. Pretty little thing, with this radiance. An authority. A… right to be better than all of us. You’re so much better than me.”

“You were everything I wasn’t…”

“And that’s a good thing. I mean… look at me. I’m dying. Almost there, too, I think. While I still have any feeling left, you should be holding me.”

Cyrus winced and hugged tighter.

“I would say you can kiss me, but my lips… I don’t know if there still feeling. Shame. Your lips are pretty nice,” He chuckled, “Sorry again for making jokes. So easy when you’ve got nothing else to do with the rest of your life.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“It’s weird, I feel, the order in which all my parts are. All my pieces are. My gears are… stopping. The order. It’s weird. Like, what determines it? Is it random? What is the last grain to drip from the hourglass? Is it me, that last grain, or am I everything? I… even if I could come back, I know everything else would be gone. Might mean I’m a husk of my former self. I mean, no good as a fighter if my body doesn’t work. If I can’t stand on my own two feet. Feel the grass. The breeze. The warmth of another. These things, I think. These things, I think, are a part of me, too. But I still feel like I’m here, also. I’m still here. So… maybe? Maybe the last grain is the most of who I am… maybe. Maybe the other grains are just tools to help my one grain experience the world. But why does that grain fall last? To give me time? Is Cochlea Mortem secretly a blessing? Death is awful… but… how many deaths guarantee a final testimony? As long as someone is here to listen.”

“I’m always here to listen.”

Dutch’s head bean tilting to the right, slightly, slowing falling towards the floor.

Cyrus tried to feel his friend as best as he could, hold on to every second that remained. “You’re smarter than anyone ever gave you credit for,” He said.

There wasn’t a response. Just the rise and fall of his breath that had been growing more dull as the conversation carried on. Cyrus shook his friend gently to no avail. “Dutch?”

After another few moments of silence Dutch chuckled, “I see. Playing quiet with me now, huh.”

“I’m right here, Dutch.”

“Don’t worry, I get it. It’s getting sad, hard for ya to come up with ann word. I’m gutting cloos new, I thn.”

“What?”

He started slurring his words more, “Bu, you dun ned ta be sad, Cyren.”

Cyrus moved over to his friend’s face and slapped the side of it, “C’mon, Dutch, don’t do this to me. Please...”

“I wan yu ta new smm, cyr… I stul loo ya.”

Cyrus’ breathing became sporadic as he leaned close to Dutch’s ear and desperately spoke in a hushed whimper, “I love you, Dutch. And even after all these months, I forgive you. I always forgave you, you stupid try-hard. Please hear that. You don’t need to respond, but please hear that.”

Dutch let nothing else out but faint grumbles and groans as his breathing slowed down until he his didn’t rise at all and all the subtle movement of his body winded down to nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

Everything seemed to stop, like a final little leaf that floats to the dirt and leaves the tree barren. Cyrus held close to his friend and hugged him tight, but his friend was gone.

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