All the frames returned to reality. Xing looked around, waking again, outside of history and something.
As he came to, he saw a tiny red flower, a plain poppy. Not a pretty flower, just red, with spots all over it. It was a full-grown poppy, somehow sprouting right out of the gravel to a tuft of grass nearby around the block. Xing looked at it, picked it, and looked a little closer. He snapped the poppy and requested the AI model to identify it. The AI model told him that it was a common poppy. A common poppy, and not an opium poppy. Some tranquilliser, rather than a silent death.
Xing started to think about the flower; it would wither within a few minutes. But then the flower seemed so beautiful too. He picked it and put it in a book. Subsequently, he tried to make some progress and head back to the office, but on the desk was the same book. So, ordinary poppy, not the opium variety, ordinary plain poppy. It will be of no use.
But then, Xing started dozing off on his desk, messing around with some words, where the poppy slips.
And then, he started story, so story tells, staring at the dashing flower nearby. So, here am I, I'm. think. And I'm 28. Call center officer. What a wretched life. Then, I remember something. A quite fascinating story. From the past. It was like. And then he started nodding and muttering. And the words just came tumbling close. In no particular sense, he started to talk of life, he started to talk of many things.
And then, our previous, past, the sun goes. And Xing remembered that today he needed to go to the office. His phone was ringing for hours. But he forgot somehow. He forgot that he should work. He forgot that he should wait for something.
And then, it was like, it's nonsense. He rummages over his notebook. It's so nonsense, because I work for everything and I get almost nothing. I'm a slave. I do minimum wage. And that is my sister. She has taken everything. All of me. Nothing else than my pure life. At least, in general, just here. All day. Because never mind what I believe. I've already lost my job. I'll start reading. Or writing a story. Yes. A trap. Or a masterpiece. I don't care. But I shall send it. To someone. Regardless of who. Somewhere. Maybe my life will matter. A little. For the man who is going to read my trash. But let's get some tip back. Over it. I don't know. It's kind of less. How much less will it be? To write a masterpiece book? I don't know. But somehow, I hope not too much. Minutes. Or hours. Writing straight, that is. Asking back for the worst. Or best book. Of each time? Guess I can do around probably. Ha ha. What a rubbish. And yet. What to do? No paycheque today. And as my phone rings. I think I've already been dismissed. But what cares? Nothing to gain. Nothing to lose. Just.
And then he remembered something. He wrote about this. He saw a small piece of paper, a list of what he wanted when he died. And one of the efforts assumes that he would write the worst novel ever written. Two hours straight. Of garbage. What is worse? Or better? He thinks. Just. Anyway. Reality was something I never liked.
It's not something we can manage. Not what psychologists proclaim. Or string. Of reality. Really, we cannot do much. Change our life little. The only gift. God has given us. Is that. We can die. A gift. Not a threat. Naturally. We will lose the people we love. Some. They will be lonely. But that day. I have a decision. Go ahead. Continue life. Or leave. Or die. That is my decision. Currently. I am aware. I want to do only the minimum. The final departure. Like flying over the top. Of a hotel. Or trying some revolting. Soaking blood. I don't know. Enough meds. We use. But lately. That option. Too tangible. For such a big event. Like my death. Anyway. I will be killed. That is regardless of circumstances. But what I am certain of. The way I die. Is my choice. And I will make it myself. But in the meantime. I want to do something. Change something. And recently. This is merely. Writing down all of it. From memory. Composing the book. Of everything that I came up with. But I don't remember. Years. Since I started daydreaming. And a good deal of this. Senseless. Pieces of story. Spurred at random. Somewhere. Anywhere. Sometimes. They add up to nothing. Sometimes. They add up to an end. But only for another start. This. Tragedy of hyper-hope. Mean. You did like rap. But one always wants something better. Recall me. Of times. And then he recalls. Him. A battle of medication. Just a medication. Over his own. But into the mouth. Nothing happened. He didn't do it. And then he recalls. Why am I still here? And then. Looking upwards. Posters of anime. His list of things. Scattered common pieces. Of nothing. But I believe. He said. Snippets of hope. Despite. I always ended up somewhere. Someway. No matter how brief. Or how prolonged. But eventually. Somewhere. I always discovered the song. And now. I sense that somehow it isn't so marvelous. When I didn't feel a thing. It was like the whole world was numb. But now I start over again. To feel numb. Despite my medication. You didn't just. I just feel so. And then the ghost of the past. Like what is so? They always pursue me. How permitted me. Make me feel that I'm finished and useless. What a tragedy. To always be the worst. But the others always complemented you in some way. I'm useless. I'm probably unemployed. And I believe that life doesn't work, living, even being optimistic, was quite strange. There are times when I am sure that everything will be all right, but most of the days aren't like that. Though, human can sacrifice to trash. And I am human, so I sacrifice to this trash. All right then. What can I lose? I'll just write the worst book. And send it. To the greatest professor.
His room was broken by a call, and his heart started racing.
On the line, his sister. "Hi, good morning. Hi, can you talk?"
"Oh yes, I can. How are you?"
"Oh, fine. I just thought of you, you know, about that incident. Yeah, don't worry, I'm fine with that. Good girl, so how are you?"
All the words, all the sentences, were nailing him down like a needle to his chest. His heart was pounding, it pounded, it pounded again. He kept on talking, but there was one sentence that made his heart pound in particular, that heart, that until he felt like his heart was pounding his chest. "You know, what do you say to coming to us, stay with me a week? Come on, Xing, when you're free."
I don't know, it's physical. Maybe no, but no, no, it's too hot. I do not think of him.
The play was over in a few minutes, but his heart still hammered. He chatted with himself, Why are you doing this to me? I thought it's over. I thought you let me go. I thought. Then he recalled every time she had made him feel guilty. It was like a crush; she was always mean to him, always arguing with him. What happened with this attitude change? Why is she doing this to him?
Well, bizarre or not, human beings are bizarre creatures. We adore at times, detest at times. But what of Xing? Xing's heart pounded and he had a perpetual situation that would never, ever dissipate. But I do not have to see her if I do not desire. I may reject her. I may inform her of the truth. But then he remembered something: if I tell her the truth, it would be like, you know, my responsibility, about something that occurred once that I. I don't want to see her anymore. Xing thought about how to do this, how to get past this, but nothing seemed to come easily to him. What about sending her a letter saying that I hate her, and including it along with a box to the doorstep?
Lately, such a scene was most appropriate for him as he took a sheet of white paper and sat down to write, "Well, dear Lily," and then wrote, and he wrote and added. His mind turned towards his story. This time, his story of adventure started taking an ominous turn.
All of them seem lost. Sorry, it's something to take care of dream.
"She's arriving, really, Crimson. I believe that we do not have any opportunity," but it was the combined voices of the crowd around.
"Yes, this is the world without God, the peopleless world. They weren't like heaven. Without people, we are them to live without a sun, and with the rain. Those were for never-ending rain. Nothing grows. They had to live inside cities, full of fake places to make things grow plants, and the rain killed everything. Every pet left outside died, every bit of sun exposed outside died."
"So you say if these filthy creatures existed, we will. yes, unfortunately, yes. If this filthy creature existed, we are going to have a sun. But by the way, what about the old Magos? I think he knows something, because, you see, I don't have to tell little lies. What? Malakay is not on that Tree of Worlds. That fellow on that tree, I found him on a gale, but it was very odd. While I always sleep on the deck of the gale, he sleeps on the deck. He has a cabin, while I sleep outside. It was not a cabin that the workers had, it was like, he was something up, or something up, or like, yes, I think that Malakay is from another island. He is suspicious, but he did not just say, 'I know what I said,' but then Lev, I cannot. I know, that's very odd. I think they see our world, but they can't get on a gale with you. I know, and I do not know why. Normal blood, primary is my blood. So, but what about the idea of a mix between our own and Malakay? What do you suspect?" she asked the black Arlechino, Lux, who passed by.
"Well, let's be clear, you know Anton has that house. He can afterward enter the garden, the Tree of Worlds. Yes, I know, but, well, let's be clear, the gales could be some kind of houses as well, you know, it's moving from different dimensions. But I think all you see, you saw, it's just under the Tree of Worlds. So, you think that the gales are not the sole means to move between worlds? Yes, I think that. The gales are not the sole means. I think Anton can move as well, but I think he doesn't know how to move between worlds. You know, Anton is not like Raizel and Kadis; he's young, a new generation."
"But what if the next generation is going to be more powerful than the other?" Zoe asked.
"Well," Crimson went on, "I don't believe so. I believe each generation does have something unique, but we are weaker than Anton, we are weaker than him."
"So, Lux, you have Arons' blood and Malakia's blood, so you're selected. I believe that if we capture old man Raizel, we can find out more about that."
"Maybe," then he glanced around. "And what if we follow him? That's a brilliant solution," says the red-hatted Adel Arlechino.
"So, a brilliant solution, but where do we find him?"
"I don't know, but I do know: he was sleeping in the woods near the Kujir Village."
"Oh, oh, that's gonna be fun!"
"Yes," and the Arlechino left. While he looks around and she just find a place we need a tree to look at the stars, but she says something, I'm sorry, nobody heard her, but the quietness of the year and the sparkling of the stars later made her trip, sing the wake up from his sleep, he's looking around like nothing happens, he's holding a piece of paper full of different nonsensical words, trying to explain without trying to tell her the truth, but something's funny, he doesn't know exactly what to do, he only throngles about the same things, the same things as before, well, then he gets up
All the frames came back to reality. Xing looked about, once again awake, outside of history and something.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a little red flower, a normal poppy. Not an elegant flower, just red, with spots inside. It was an older poppy, somehow popping out of the gravel directly to a clump of grass nearby around the block. Xing looked at it, picked it, and looked slightly harder. He took the picture of the poppy and asked the AI model to identify what it was. The AI model reported it a common poppy. A common poppy, not an opium poppy. Some sort of tranquilizer, more than a silent death.
Xing started thinking about the flower; it perished in a matter of minutes. But afterward, there was something classy to the flower. He picked it and put it within the book. Afterwards, he tried to make some overtures and return to the office, but on the desk was the same book. So, simple common poppy, not the opium part, simply the plain common poppy. It will do no good.
But then Xing started to doze at his workstation, mixing up some words, where the poppy slips.
And then he started to story, so story tells, looking around at the beautiful flower. So, here am I, I'm. think. And I'm 28. A call center officer. What a miserable life. Then I recall something. A quite interesting story. From the past. It was like. And then he started nodding and mumbling. And the words had arrived close. Without particular significance, he started to speak of life, he started to speak of numerous things.
And then, our past, past, the sunlight goes. And Xing believed that he needs to go to work today. His phone rang for hours. But somehow, he forgot. He forgot he need to work. He forgot he need to wait for something.
And then, it was like, it's a nonsense. He searches over his notebook. It's a total nonsense, since all that I do for a living, I get nothing in return. Practically. I am a slave. I work on the minimum wage. And that's my sister. She took everything. All of me. Nothing else than my innocent life. At least, in general, just here. All day. Since no matter what I think. I've already been fired. I'll read something. Or write a story. Yes. A trap. Or a work of art. I don't care. But I am going to send it. To someone. Whoever. Anywhere. Maybe my life will mean something. A little bit. To the man who will read my babble. But let us get some feedback back. Over it. I don't know. It's rather less. How much less will it be? To make a masterpiece book? I don't know. But it seems, hopefully not very much. Minutes. Or maybe hours. Or writing straight out. Asking back the worst. Or best book. Of any occasion? Guess I can probably around. Ha ha. What a bunk. And yet. What can I do? No pay this day. And when my phone rings. I figure I've already lost my job. But what is it? Nothing to win. Nothing to lose. Just.
And then he remembered something. He wrote about it. He saw a small piece of paper, a list of what he wanted before he died. And one of the attempts suggests that he will write the worst novel possible. Two hours consecutively. Of rubbish. What can be worse? Or better? He thinks. Just. Anyway. Reality was something I did not like.
It's not something we can control. Not what psychologists say. Or chain. Of reality. In fact, we can do nothing. Change our life nothing. The only present. God has given us. Is that. We can die. A present. Not a threat. Of course. We will lose the loved ones. Some. They'll be alone. But this day. I can decide. Go further. Go on with life. Or leave. Or die. That's my decision. At this point. I know. I want to do just the plain. The final exit. Like flying off the top. Of a hotel. Or either trying some terrible. Drenching blood. I don't know. Too many drugs. We have. But lately. That option. Too available. For such a huge event. Like my death. Anyway. I'll die. That's no matter what. But what I do. How I die. Is my option. And I'll see to it. But not yet. I want to do something. Change something. And recently. This is only. Transcribing all of this. From my memory. Making the book. Of all that I did. But I don't remember. Years. Since I've been daydreaming. And much of this. Senseless. Pieces of story. Independently. Somewhere. Somewhere. Sometimes. They go nowhere. Sometimes. They go to a conclusion. But only for a new beginning. This. Hyper-hope tragedy.". I mean. You enjoyed rap. But always yearn for better. Recall me. Of times. And then remembered. Him. A battle of medication. Just a medication. Against his own. But aimed at the mouth. Nothing happened. He did not do it. And then he recalls. Why am I still here? And then. Staring up. Posters of anime. His list of things. Random everyday things. Of nothing. But I believe. He said. Shards of hope. Irrespective. I always found my way somehow. Somewhere. Irrespective how brief. Or long. But eventually. Somewhere. I always found the song. And now. I feel that somehow it is not so lovely. When I felt nothing. It was like the whole world was numb. But now I start again. To feel numb. Despite my medication. You didn't just. I just feel that. And then the specter of the past. Like what is so? They always always chase me. How permitted me. Make me feel that I'm done and worthless. What a tragedy. To always be worst. But the others always admired you somehow. I'm worthless. I'm most likely unemployed. And I think that life doesn't work, living, despite optimism, was very strange. I sometimes think that everything will be fine, but most of the days aren't like this. Although, human can offer to nonsense. And I'm human, so I offer to this nonsense. All right then. What will I lose? I'll just write the worst novel. And send. To the best professor.
The phone in his hand vibrated again, pulling him from the edge of his thoughts. It was Lily. He stared at the screen, a cold dread coiling in his stomach. Why now? Always now. When I'm… almost… there. He took a deep breath, the air thick with unspoken words. He answered.
"Hello?" His voice was flat, a thin line stretched taut.
"Xing? Are you there? Didn't I answer before. Is everything all right?" Lily's voice, usually bright, was edged with concern, her words piercing at his exposed nerves.
Okay? Anything is okay. Never was. Never will be. Just… words. Null.
"No. Not okay. Not really." He paused, the words stuck, then blurring out. "Look. This… us. It's… not working. I… I don't want to… see you. Again. Not… anymore." The final words were barely spoken, a shard of shattered glass.
A beat of silence. Long. Too long. He braced for the obligatory fight, the guilt trip-by-proxy sigh, the manipulative words. None of which arrived. Lily's voice, when it finally did, was soft, faraway. "Oh. Okay. I… I understand. If that's really what you want. Then… okay. I won't bother you." Her voice faded, a tiny click, and the line went dead.
Dead. Like the rest of it. Finally. Free. Or… just… empty. More empty.
He placed the phone down, his hand trembling. The ticket booth screen gleamed tantalizingly in the darkness. No one else had come. The counter woman was absent. Alone. Him. The empty chairs yawned before him, a cold, black gulf. A mirror. Of me. Always alone. Even when… not.
He stood, the movement heavy, as if his limbs were made of metal. He emerged from the cinema, the sliding doors opening in protesting sigh, disgorging him into the indifferent afternoon. The streets churned, alive, with laughter, with hurrying feet. He saw none of them. Only… blurs. Sounds. Not mine. Never mine.
He walked. Aimlessly first, then slowly, purposively towards his apartment. The poppy in his book felt heavy, a heavy mocking silence. A gift. From the void. Or. a curse. A reminder.
In his room, the same four walls closed in around him once more. Seated on his bed, the planner laid out before him, pink. He clutched the half-written letter to Lily. "Dear Lily," it began. He stroked his fingers over the words, then crumpled the paper. Worthless. The entire operation. Words. Words are nothing. To her. To me.
He looked at the poppy, now crushed and wilted between the pages of a book. Normal. Not special. Like me. Not opium. No escape. Just… this.
His eyes drifted to the anime posters stuck on his wall, the to-do list, the random everyday pieces of nothing. He noticed them, actually noticed them, not as objects, but as pieces of a life that he had constructed, a life based on sand.
It all… started. So small. A seed. Of… misery. Of… never enough. Always not enough.
He closed his eyes, leaning against the cold of the wall. The fantasy world, the Call of the Arcons, twirled on his eyelids. Suna, Lev, Feitan, Anton, Nar, Chiara, Lux, Mikasa, Crimson, Adel, Raizel, Kadis, Seok Gin, Gin, Zoe. All of them. His creations. His escape.
Childhood. A fog. Gray. Always gray. In contrast to the bright. Colors. Of the game. Mothers… occupied. Always occupied. Working. For… bills. For… survival. Not for me. Never for me. Alone. In the room. With… books. Not friends. Books. And then… the screen. The flickering light. A portal. To… somewhere else. Better. Always better.
He remembered the pressure. From school. From his parents. Be good. Be intelligent. Get a job. A good job. Don't fail. Don't be like… them. The failures. The term echoed in his mind, a steady, malignant hum. Failure. My shadow. Always present. Waiting. To consume.
The call center. A cage. A cubicle. Like a tomb. Minimum wage. A slave. That's me. A slave. To… what? To a life. I did not choose. To a fear. I cannot escape.
The game. My universe. My escape. Where I am… Suna. Strong. A warrior. Not… Xing. Not the pathetic. Call center agent. Suna. She battles. She endures. She has a purpose. A clear enemy. Not like here. Here. The enemy. Is… me. Or… everything.
He opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. The Consul institution. That's… them. The rules. The expectations. The system. That restricts me. Makes me feel… worthless. Like a pawn. In their game. Not my own.
The Arlechinos. The red. Adel. They're… the puppeteers. The strong ones. The string-pullers. Like my boss. Marius. Or… Lily. Pulling my strings. Making me dance. To their melody. Not my own.
And the Titans. Immortal. Superhuman power. That's what I want. To be immortal. To be powerful. Not to be. this. This weakness. This constant. fear. Of. failing. Of. breaking.
The Nastrophies. Ghosts that eat souls. That's. my desperation. My ineffectiveness. Devouring. Me. Slowly. Gnawing away. Until there is nothing left. Just. a shell. A ghost.
The Tree of Worlds. That's. the choice. The choices. That I could have taken. Should have taken. The ones which I didn't. Out of fear. Out of fear of. myself. The different worlds. The ones which are equitable. The ones which are haunted. All possible. All. lost.
My childhood. Tragic. Lonely. A haunting echo. You're not enough. You'll never succeed. And I did believe. Keep believing. So I built this. This world. In my head. Where I could be… somebody. Somebody. But me.
It's a defense mechanism. A shield. Against the rough edges. Of life. But the shield. It's cracking. The edges. They're cutting through. And now. I don't know. What's real. What's… a fantasy. A trick.
He recalled the letter he had started, the worst book in the world. A final act. Of defiance. Of… suicide. Maybe. If I write it. Everything. The trash. The pain. The fear. Maybe… it will disappear. Like the poppy. Withered up. Vanished.
But then… what? Nothing, just? Is that all? The end? Or… a new beginning? That hyper-hope. It's a curse. Always hoping. For better. Even when there is none. Even when I know. It's just… a lie.
He looked at his hand, the one that held the phone. The hand that had ended Lily. Another bridge burned. Another strand severed. Because… I can't. I cannot abide it. The real. The gritty. The… human.
I'm worthless. Jobless. A burden. On my mother. On me. Exisiting. It's strange. Every now and then. Things improve. A fleeting moment. Of light. But most days. Darkness. Always darkness.
But humans. We commit. To rubbish. And I am human. So I commit. To this rubbish. This tale. This worst novel. What am I to lose? Nothing. I possess nothing. To be lost.
He took hold of a fresh sheet of paper. His pen trembled. The worst book. For the best teacher. A final irony. A final howl. Into the vacant air. He started to write. The words, raw and jagged, began to pour, charting the twisted landscape of his mind.