Chapter III.

ARK: E à la G

To defy G, one needs E.
In other words, energy inverts gravity, and vice versa.
Via the power combined by light through matter, gravity [powerful] gives rise to energy [power].

Forty-five hours and one minute from when my long-lost BFF, Ernest Quinn, asserted that he would contact me (“in EXACTLY 45 hours”) with instructions pertaining to a specific location for rendezvous, we’ve been circling Dallas, Texas on I-635 for upwards of seventy-five minutes, and still he has not contacted me.
By now, my sweat glands have more or less fully acclimated to riding shotgun (alongside Thierry).
I’m not being lazy; she just really enjoys sitting behind the wheel, and I find her enjoyment (of  anything) to be enjoyable.
She’s adorably complex.
Every day, without trying, and unbeknownst to her, she motivates me to be better. At everything.
At present, we’re listening to the closing moments of a song about waiting for someone. I can’t quite relate to these lyrics, but only because I never imagined that a girl like TNT could exist, let alone “come into my life.”
I can’t stop stealing glances at her. I blame her luminosity; the girl simply glows.
Holy god, I’m in trouble.
Now two minutes beyond the time that Ernest pledged to contact me with instructions, he has not contacted me still.
My brain leaps to irrational, worst-case conclusions. He’s dead. He came down with amnesia. He quit his job. He’s a double quadruple agent. He’s lost. Cruetzfeldt-Jakob disease. Mauled by a hippopotamus. Impromptu walkabout. Spontaneous combustion. Quicksand. Abduction. Brainwashed.
Blah.
After another minute elapses beyond the exact time that Ernest solemnly vowed [whatever; I’m getting antsy] to contact me with instructions—for those of you keeping score, he’s three minutes late—finally I get a text:

Ah, so, my base layer of deductive reasoning skills alert me to his strong suspicion {if not his virtual certainty} that Bessi has more “moles” than have been identified; thus, in the name of caution, we’re rerouting to another city.
“Hard” = Easy, “Small” = Big.
So far, though he means only to exercise hyper-prudence, his codes have been a bit too simple for my liking, but I’m choosing to believe that our transmissions were/are insusceptible to interception.
I instruct our happy-go-lucky driver, “Take exit 6B.”
Thierry winks [she’s an exceptionally graceful winker], busy partying to a song about a lady [assumedly] by the name of Eileen. The tune sounds absolutely nothing like the track we heard most recently; nonetheless, we’re on an unmistakable eighties kick, it seems. My ear-holes aren’t mad. Fittingly, this woman’s taste in music pales only in comparison to her bewitching personality of multilayered intricacy. In other words, she’s like a stunning tapestry.
No, far superior.
Speaking of any one-hit wonders, how awful must the second single have been? A fairly fascinating concept to me. Can’t decide whether it’s more akin to winning the lottery or a blind squirrel scoring a sweet nut.
Rescuing me from a useless rabbit hole, another text vibrates the cellular device in my hand:

I have no reason not to trust him; as such, I’ll respond:

Exiting the bypass around which we’ve been cruising, I request, “Help.” Meaning left or right. Atlas gets me.
“Right then straightish for about thirty miles.”
“Pretty sure that’ll take us outta Dallas, boo.” Oops, shite, that straight-up slipped.
“Erring on the side of extreme caution. Diverting to New Orleans.”
Either he didn’t notice the pet name I unveiled inadvertently, or he thought nothing of it. Truthfully, I declare, “Oh, neat. I quite liked my lone visit.”
Nah, he’s tryna stifle a grin. Definitely noticed. Just like I subconsciously planned. Hmph.

Gah. Thierry flat-out trusts me. Automatically. As hard as life is, particularly these days, she makes breathing easy. I would do anything (within arguable reason) for her.
And she called me “boo”! I wonder if she meant what I wish she meant by that.
I yearn to kiss her (with tongue) soon.
Why did I admit that? Now I’m distressed to the point of blushing.
In other words, I’ve embarrassed myself in front of me (because you’re paying attention).
Ridiculous!
I hope that I know innately how to kiss her the way she likes/wants/needs to be kissed.
At this point, I feel the urge to think a new thought because the previous one makes me long for an inexplicable loss of consciousness.
I feel feverish, but that can’t be real. I haven’t had a fever since the early seventies.
I’m saying things heretofore unsaid {in my case} due to feelings never before felt.
Have I been compromised to a degree that portends fatalities?
Not sure if I’m capable of caring, honestly, because I’m aching to taste her lips. (Take your pick which set.)
Goddammit, I’ve fallen victim to demonic possession; I just know it.
I don’t say things like that/this.
I do care. I need for neither of us to perish. Moreover, I want us both to live forever. And together.
Somebody, put me to sleep. Permanently.
What if I smooch her so poorly that it amounts to a dealbreaker?
I’ll mourn. I’ll implode. I’ll quit life.
Goodness gracious, there’s so much to consider as far as technique.
I cannot believe what I’m admitting to you, reader.
Essentially, I’m a sixth-grader.
Ugh, I should do some research.
Naw, I should wing it.
Yeah, I’ll allow emotions that I don’t understand to dictate my actions spontaneously as they assail my senses.
Nah, I should just make every effort not to press my lips against hers since that’s the only surefire way to avoid doing it wrong.
I’m aware that (at best) I sound like a deranged clown. Do us both a favor—forget everything you just read.
I’m still raw about coughing up Halcyon. Let’s blame that.
Please?

***

As we approach The Big Easy, I can tell that Atlas wants to say something, but he’s hesitant. He does this a lot; it’s cute. Knowing I’ll detect his desire (to speak up), he waits for me to tell him it’s okay to flow freely. Sssh, we’ll work on it. Eventually he’ll feel secure in knowing he can tell me anything.

Healthy repetition reduces imperfection.

As always, I’m too curious not to pull it out of him. “What’s spinnin’ aboot in that head of yours?” That’s my go-to invitation. On this occasion, though, the Canadian inflection was spontaneous; no clue where it came from; maybe cerebral wires got crossed; I’ll likely never do it again. Three semicolons in a single sentence—two firsts in a row!
Atlas responds, “Nothing much.”
“Lie again.” Another go-to expression of mine, apparently. (He pointed it out a couple weeks ago.)
He chuckles then tells me, “Neural gaps are being bridged beyond my control and comfort.”
Sometimes, when he assembles verbiage, it’s as if I’m reading my own mind. Grinning, I roll my eyes. That’s all I have to express. I know he’ll expand momentarily.
“Okay…”
There we go. Here it comes.
“Would you like to, uh, phone home?”
Not what I was expecting. My brain replays the plot of E.T. in a handful of seconds. Now I wanna watch it for the hundredth time. Perhaps I’m trying to avoid reality. (In many ways, I am, but aren’t you, too?)
“Ernest can make it happen. He’ll take extra proper precautions.”
I’m a deer in headlights. Atlas almost winces.
If you would, please allow me to contextualize my headspace.
In early 2012, after a tragic sequence involving the untimely death of my infant, Iris—subsequently followed by two miscarriages [yes, I’ve been a mom three times but have no kids to show for it]—I took a one-way flight from the United Kingdom to the States with the ambiguous intention of getting lost, searching for my soul and, with any luck, finding myself. Eventually shit went sideways. Got myself into an unholy, monstrous pickle. Had to go into hiding. (Perhaps by now you’ve heard/read the/my story.) To safeguard my family—and if only due to paranoid ignorance—I didn’t (attempt to) make contact; none of them have heard a peep from me since late April of 2012 via a half-assed email. They must assume that I’m deceased. I was scared even merely to look for them on any social media platform. Because what if? I dunno. Better safe than sorry. I had no idea what kind of person-finding tools my homicidal stalkers might be in a position to access.
Late at night on Christmas Day in 2014, fully bollocksed off spiced rum, I searched for Mum on Facebook; although, as of my departure from home, she didn’t have an account. When I typed her name, I didn’t expect a result. Then I pressed the enter key. And there she frickin’ was. Her most recent post was from the day before Christmas Eve:

Anyone have fun recipe for stuffing ? Would like to mix it up this year

Nevermind the absence of punctuation at the end; focus on the space before the question mark and try not to twitch.
I’m fine.
The post before that, from over eight months earlier, read:

Sometimes I just miss my girl..

Instantly, I forgave her for falling one dot short of a properly formatted ellipsis.
In that moment, I saw the oh-so strong lady who carried me into the world, but I knew assumed that I could should not communicate with her. The pain of that realization demolished me.
Then I deleted my fake account.
Then I cried for five days without interruption.
Then I embarked upon a path toward raging alcoholism.
Then I spent 80% of my existing funds on light dresses and heavy blankets.
Since then, I’ve made no attempt to gather information about my family.
I hid. I’ve hidden. In every sense of the words. Insulated myself in the name of their protection.
Doing whatever I can think of that might ensure their safety trumps the possible alleviation of my excruciating anguish.
Atlas proclaims confidently, “Your instincts to protect them speak to your inner strength. You’ve done nothing unnecessary in a consistent display of inspiring bravery.”
Friggin’ Atlas and his words. Stubbornly, I’m rejecting my ducts’ inclination to release a steady stream of tears.
“Anyway, it’s just a thought,” he remarks. “Up to you. No pressure, but the option exists.”
Emotional conflict compromises my mentality. I want (*almost) nothing more than to reconnect with my most immediate kindred; however, now I fear for their safety more than ever.
He asks, “Hypothetically, is there anyone you think would be able to handle hearing your voice?”
Hmm. Good question. Lemme think. Mum, no way. Daddy, yes, if he could avoid Mum, which he never could and surely can’t. Of my four sisters, starting from oldest to youngest: hell no, nahhhhh, nooooope, maybe.
My heart/gut tells me that Chryssie would be my best bet. We got along. We were close. We understood one another. I dunno why any of that would’ve changed in seven years of continuous separation.
Atlas reinforces that it’s: “Just something to think about.” He doesn’t usually repeat himself. Hmm. Why is he off? My first instinct is to fret about the possibility that he doesn’t like me anymore, or that soon he won’t, or that perhaps he never did and I’m a lunatic. He’s probably just tired; I most certainly am.
But anyway, yeah. I nod. “I’ll think about it.” And I will.

*More than anything—can’t believe I’m about to divulge the following info; I feel funny about it—I want to be as close as possible to Atlas, which (TECHNICALLY) would involve more than one type of “penetration.” Negative closeness, in a (physical) way. Maybe? Omigod, I’m such a slut these days. I should be shot in the neck with a tranquilizer dart thrice daily.

In what feels like an hour, 10 minutes tick by.

Okay. I thought about it plenty. “Okay,” I say. He looks at me. “I would like to call my youngest sister, I think.”
He nods. “What’s the name on her birth certificate?”
“Chrystal Heidi Drinkwater. There’s an H in Chrystal in the only spot that makes sense. She might be married by now. Obviously. I’m sure you thought of that. Sorry.”
Atlas smiles affectionately, sensing my painful turmoil. He whips out one of his phones and sends a text. At least I think that’s what just happened.
I could cry, but at the moment, for whatever reason, I refuse to let myself.
Kinda sick of crying, I guess.

===

Atlas and I settle into an extravagant local suite right smack-dab in the middle of the French Quarter two blocks from Bourbon Street. Our accommodations are excessive for a group of 6, let alone 2{-3}. Pickins were slim, and money is no object, so here we are.
On the way in, nearby, I spotted a voodoo museum; naturally I’m itching to tour. Maybe we’ll have time. Not holding my breath, though.
I can’t find my new favorite phone ever. I look around the room. Ah, hell. I’ve been here for twenty minutes and my belongings are already EVERYWHERE. I have a way of doing that. Oh, look, a surface—I better put something on it!
Multiple times per day, my eyes roll at myself.
Atlas, fiddling with two of his phones, sits quietly in a corner on a vintage chair which features a glorious old-lady faded floral pattern. (Fuckabuncha commas.)
Oh, right, I was looking for my phone. I resume my search, get distracted by shiny objects [namely my rose-gold, leaf-shaped earrings; they’re so dang cute], can’t decide whether I wanna change knickers. Maybe two minutes pass. Maybe eight.
Then he informs me, “Got a text.”
Pretending not to be joking, I kid, “Who is she?” My voice was so serious just then; my face still is. One of my trademark funnies. He likes it every time.
And right on cue, his dimples emerge. As usual, I swoon. This boy has made me a swooner. He holds up a finger, telling me to hang. I hang. He finishes messing with a phone, glances my way. My left ass-cheek vibrates. Ah ha, found my device! I check it. A message from him, digits only, a phone number, British format.
“Never married, by the way.”
My heart rate goes bonkers.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Atlas assures me. “This is your decision.”
I know myself. I’ll overthink this.
Where’s my cocktail? On the coffee table? Nope. Nightstand? Nope. Countertop? Nope. On the floor next to a small trash bin? Yup.
I don’t even like the taste of this particular beverage, but I needed a drink, and now I need another.
The bar downstairs is super luxurious. We’re acting like tourists. Trying to blend in, I suppose.
I stare at Chryssie’s number as it appears in my text thread with Atlas.
I chug. Gross. This adult beverage contains ample Aperol, a substance I don’t like even splashed; the faintest hint tastes like liquid plastic. Why the fuck did I order it?
I tap the number. Phone asks if I wanna call.
Another sip. Still gross. Grosser, maybe. Despite the sink five paces away, I pour the remainder of my beverage into the bin. Clearly didn’t think it through. Don’t care!
In a strange daze of sorts, I decide to accept my phone’s invitation to dial, an action which hurls me back into complete lucidity. Eyes undoubtedly wide, I stare at Atlas, who stares back, also surprised.
FUCK. It’s (past) the middle of the night over there. Too late to hang up, though, no? My thumb hovers over the red button on the screen. When my youngest sister answers before the second ring, she sounds wide awake.
I’m taken aback. Cat got my tongue.
Chryssie repeats her standard greeting. (Believe it or not: “Hello.” However, note that she doesn’t ask it; she states it; always has.)
I don’t know what to say, but I do genuinely wonder where she is. Sounds like a public place. This pops out: “Where are you?”
Silence.
Prolonged.
Intense.
My ticker challenges itself to a race and dominates.
I don’t know what else to say.
I can tell that she recognized my voice.
“Sec,” she says. Now I think she’s in motion, assumedly seeking privacy. I hear doors opening, chatter, wheels rolling. Tears slide down my cheeks. Finally, my baby sister confirms, “Maddy??” She’s crying.
“Hey, girl. Hey.” She bawls; I join her. “I’m so sorry, sis.”
Emotions upend her speech capacity. Half a minute elapses as neither of us can put together a third of a sentence. Finally she chimes in: “Can I ring you back straight away?” Pretty sure that’s what she said.
And I understand totally since I’m also none too near regaining my ability to use words. “Yes.”
She ends the call.
On the spot, I embark on a mission to pace the floor for five kilometres.
“Are you okay?” Atlas asks gently.
“Umm,” I begin, marginally worried about suffering a myocardial infarction, “I don’t know yet.”

Truly real bonds don’t can’t break.

I figure I’ve almost hit three kilometres when my phone vibrates. It’s my littlest sissy, Chryssie. I answer, “Hey.”
“You sound so American now.”
We share a giggle. I could unleash another round of waterworks but I’ve got to keep it together. I repeat my earlier question: “Where are you?”
“We’ve been at hospital for five days. Granda had two strokes.”
Oh, no. Ugh. “Will he be okay?”
“I reckon he won’t.” She fights off more tears. “He’s in a coma. Braindead, I think. But Mum can’t accept it yet.”
“What about Granny?”
“Goodness, Maddy. Been dead five years.”
Ouch, my heart. “What’s Dad saying?”
“Dad and me are the only ones not in denial.” I’m not surprised.
“How’s everyone else?”
“Let’s see. Reagan just birthed her sixth boy, says she won’t stop ‘til she gets two girls—good luck with that, Rea. Phoebe’s still a bitter fookin’ pill, divorcin’ yet another abusive donkey, and Darcy’s at university over at Dublin. She beat breast cancer couple years back.”
Despite my best efforts, I’m getting upset. I miss me fam.
Chryssie inquires, “Where ya been, love?”
God. Where do I even begin? “I took a wrong turn, Chryss.”
“What do ya mean?”
“It’s a long story. I’ve been stuck. I’m in hiding. People want me dead. Bad people. Fuck, it’s a long story.” She’s speechless. Understandably so. “I’ll explain soon. For the time being, don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Give Granda a kiss for me.”
“I will.”
“I gotta run.”
“‘Kay.”
“Okay.”
“Maddy?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m glad you’re alive.” Now I wanna cry again. “I love ya.” Now I’m gonna cry again.
“I love you, sis. Ta for now.”
I hang up and head for the toilet so I can sit on the floor and sob for a while and possibly toss my biscuits.

When it needs to rain from within, let it pour out.
Sooner or later, bottled emotions will demand release.

Thierry’s still in the bathroom. Been about half an hour. I’m choosing not to invade her privacy. I hope that’s the right decision.
Why do I think that I can feel her pain? No, actually feel it. That can’t be possible.
What is wrong with me?
At last, having collected herself, she reemerges.
I stand. Not sure what to say. Oh, I know: “Hi.” That was probably wrong.
She submits a request that strangles my heart: “Don’t ever let me exist as a vegetable.” Ew, I don’t want to ponder that scenario for one more second. “Pull the plug. Promise?” Stop.
Reluctantly, I shake my head in agreement. I don’t know if I mean it.
No. I would exhaust every resource to keep the light in her alive.
I don’t wish to contemplate this further. Changing the subject:
“We should go somewhere and try to consume calories.”
Thierry barely acknowledges my suggestion with a nod. Not one of her signature nods. No, this one’s empty. Understandable. I judge her not. I’m compelled to offer support, but I abstain. I must be patient.

On occasion, a person may need time to heal.
Should you not oblige, you will only exacerbate the wound.
Unequivocally, patience is a virtue.

It’s late. Almost midnight. Took me a while to prepare for venturing out into public places. Judge me (if you must).
We exit the premises and walk toward the hustle and bustle. No real plan; just gonna find a place to eat. I’ll have to force-feed meself. Been there, done that.
I feel bad about being sad around Atlas. He understands, though. I know he does.
Wait, does{n’t} he??
Fucking hell.
Who am I kidding? I’m not good enough for him.
Should I try to make him hate me? That thought nauseates me.
But I’m legitimately afraid that he’ll die because of me. I’m not joking.
Maybe I’m PMSing a bit early this month.
Eventually, maybe 20 minutes later, Atlas and I wander into a hip little coffee-/cocktail-/french-cuisine-themed bistro and grab seats one space from the right corner of the bar, the only side-by-side empty spots {although seven (of fifteen) stools are unoccupied} because most people don’t know how to plant their squishy asses considerately and efficiently in climates of open seating.
Sorry. I’m in a mood.
I check my phone. Nothing. Atlas checks his. Something:

Atlas sighs, tells me, “We’ve been rerouted once again.”
I don’t mind at all. Kinda relieved, in fact. “Seems like he’s being extra careful.” That’s the best I could do. Can’t be arsed to respond cleverly at the moment.
He nods—yeah, classic Ernest, apparently. “Biloxi,” he further informs me. “Tomorrow night.”
Yup, I’m totally fine with this since my present mindset isn’t conducive to making a good first impression.

While he’s texting, insane intrigue develops inside me thanks to the trio of ladies seated one chair from directly adjacent to us. They appear to be around my age. And just by looking at them and eavesdropping on their conversation, I’m strangely certain that we’d get along quite well.
OMG, sometimes I forget that Atlas has 72 years on me.

And, as it turned out, my intuition didn’t fail me. We made friends. No, we connected. Zita Wilson, Liza Hooberry, Peyton Coop. Witches, basically. Sorta. Oh, and their fourth wheel, Walker Davis, blood-brother to one of them, baby-daddy to another.
Interesting night.
I needed the distraction.
But I’m not sure I’ll reap the rewards until later on down the road.
If ever.

— — —

By half past noon the next day, having traveled less than 90 minutes to Biloxi, Mississippi on less than two hours of sleep, we’ve checked in to yet another cookie-cut hotel room.
He drove. I gave no fucks whatsoever about the music. We listened mostly to instrumental electronic stuff that he likes.
I fear that I’m losing whatever part of me I thought I’d found. Surely it’s temporary.
And he’s worried about something, acting somewhat distant, which in turn worries me.
I’m as sick of worrying as I am of crying. I have a headache and I don’t get headaches.
I need a nap.

Sleeping repairs brain damage!

Okay.
Logged a three-hour siesta.
The time of day ticks to 18:36 precisely.
Atlas informs me that our meet-up has been scheduled for about four hours from now and that the location lies within walking distance. Good. I like walking.
Also, hmm, I’ve barely got time to dye streaks into my hair; therefore, might as well!
I don’t enjoy my own company today. I annoy myself. I’m trying to spare him from my toxicity via subtle avoidance. Hope that doesn’t backfire somehow.

An hour later, we set out on foot.

Do you like people-watching? Visit a casino. What a riveting experience. Bunch of overfed drones with their tongues hanging out, wild-eyed wildebeests panting like hot dogs, emotions inflamed with false hope, feeding coinage into slots, pulling levers, dying to score big.
Welcome to America, where, though astronomically unlikely, you could get rich quick.
Anyway, here we are. Public place. Supposedly safe. The plan is to join forces with Mister Ernest Quasar Quinn. I feel like I already know him. Also, if you ask me—nevermind that you didn’t (until now, perhaps)—his mama kinda misfired on that middle name. Don’t tell ANYONE I said that.
Then again, he was named prior to 1911, I think, so maybe I’m okay with it.
Not that it matters.
As I’ve stated previously and will state again later, I know nothing.
Dunno where Atlas is, but I know he’s got eyes on me. Although he doesn’t expect things to get hairy, we’re proceeding as if shit jussssst might hit the fan. I’m less concerned than he is, and he seems rather relaxed.
I’m sitting in front of this dumb slot machine, feeding it about two coins a minute, sipping on bottled water and feeling terribly guilty about the plastic bottle.
Accidentally, I make eye contact with a late-twenties couple. I look away. They approach me regardless. God, they seem to be coming right at me. Please go away. OMG, STAHP. Shoo!
“Scuse me,” says a basic country boy. (Mother eff, I gotta work on my mind-control skillz.) He’s with a girl who could’ve been a runway model had she played her cards right several years ago. They do not fit together. I’ll bet she could beat his ass, too. He continues, “Would you mind takin’ our pitcher?”
Oh, is that all? “I would not.” His face reveals profound confusion, thinks I’m refusing his request. Lord, help me. I clarify, “No, I would not mind takin’ yer picture.” Enunciated the shite outta that C.
“Ah, heh. Thanks.” Still confused. What an utter simpleton. I can’t decide whether to pity him or hope like hell that he’s sterile [you know, for the future of humanity], so I’m choosing both! I accept his phone/camera and wait for their pose.
Within five seconds of examining this girl’s facial features/expression and body language, I have sized up their relationship. She does not love him. Hell, she hardly likes him. But she has allowed herself to be enslaved by his financial support [probably inherited] because she doesn’t reckon that she can afford to lose access to the source of funds his presence provides—at least not currently. Maybe they have a kid or two. Maybe she’s got demons similar to mine. Worse yet, maybe she’s unexpectedly prego. Whatever the case may be, she’s in survival mode, forcing herself to pretend; otherwise, he’ll explore other options, meaning her bills would require more effort to pay than she’s presently capable of expending. And he’s too oblivious—and unintelligent, frankly—to pick up on any of this.
Can’t fool me, girlie. Smile all you like—your pain bleeds through. But I’m rootin’ for ya! (It is possible that she will read this one day, by the way, hence the direct address.)
Now that I think about it (pointlessly), I would very much like for her to be the subject of my second Tarot reading. (My first occurred last night early this morning.) That seems unfeasible, however. (Duh.)
Blimey, I should procure my own deck (of cards).
Of course, I could be wrong about all some of my off-the-cuff assessment. My brain tends to travel and sometimes I get carried away. But my intuition doesn’t often fail me. I can read people, ya see.
Anyway, I take a handful of pics as she fakes it while he thinks about sport-fishing or Nascar or raping heroin-bombed hookers in their sleep or whatever—I’m sure he’s a swell fellow outside of his shallow horribleness—and then they go on their merry sad way.
Ugh. I’m bored of this slot machine—on to the next.

When you’re in tune, you cannot be fooled.

I’m patrolling the second floor, which surrounds and overlooks the main level, where Thierry drifts slowly from one slot machine to the next.
As a precaution, I’ve disguised myself with a backwards baseball hat and hipster glasses.
I will not take my eyes off of her for more than three seconds.
I’m worried that I jumped the gun on spearheading contact with her family.
In other news, the hint of lavender in her hair looks positively magnificent.

When you notice something you like about a person, consider telling him/her.
Because you could be the only one who does.
And s/he might need to hear it.

I watch people drowning in their own self-absorption, steeped in an ignorance they can’t identify, let alone rectify. Unwitting cogs in capitalism’s ever-warping wheel. Slaves of/to greed, by both their own externally imbued desires and under the rotten powers-that-be.
No one sees me (except you-know-who), not the mindless menfolk who spit unwanted attention my way, nor the insecure women who auto-hate me simply because of my appearance. With every blink, eyes glaze over. I swear to god—I think some of these people are literal robots. They’re all just doing what they think they’re supposed to do—trying to fit in, falling in line, playing their parts, going through prescribed motions, acting like characters they’ve seen only on screens in two dimensions. In other words, the vast majority of humans live a life of suffering under hypnosis.
Ooh, here’s a slot machine I wanna touch! Yeah, it’s as fruity as the rest, but I spy the Union Jack and (what I believe to be) the Finnish flag. I wanna stick a token in the hole and yank the lever. I’m gonna.
Done. Spinning.
Nothing.
Again.
Again, nothing.
Let’s go again! (The hell else am I gonna do?)
Uh oh. I hit something rare. Exciting sounds erupt amid flashing lights. Oh, frick, what have I done? I think I accidentally won money. Ack!

More often than not, you’ll find what you’re looking for when you stop looking for it.

Shit.
Unluckily, Thierry just got lucky.
But I’m sure we’re fine.
Right?
Nonetheless, just to be safe, I scan everything within the umbrella of my sightlines. These stupid glasses hinder my vision; I ditch them.
She’s still okay, but people are nosy.
You know, in general.
I’m on edge.
Scanning: an obnoxious bridal group, all sorts of people wearing visors, a man wiping a booger under a craps table, a woman stretching her quads, an escalating spat between a group of seniors, a {fe}male [honestly can’t tell which sex] slumped over in a chair snoozing, another ruckus across the way as somebody else must’ve landed on a winner—and, finally, a face that I have seen before. Only once. Four decades prior. Underground in London. With half a minute more time to spare, I would have slain his wormy ass. This is Vilfred Hammershøi. He looks about 15 years older than he did in 1979.
If Severus is a twisted, murderous version of Batman, then Vilfred is Robin, only much taller.
His eyes are fixated on Thierry. Looks like he’s sending a text.
Indeed, we’re busted.
But how??
Fuck.

What to do, what to do…

Already I can feel my pits sweating. I’m hot. My face has to be red. This mind-numbing machine pukes up the noisiest preprogrammed response EVER and I just want it to STOPPPPPP. Glad I’m not epileptic. Unwanted attention looms. Trying to make sense of this. Come on, brain, process. Okay, just won $1,199 that I can’t collect. Not that I need it.
I look around for Atlas. Everywhere. Scanning in a big damn hurry. Don’t see him.
Onlookers encroach wearing idiotic, often slobbery grins; a particular (but irrelevant) double chin drips canned nacho cheese. Another dunce drops his full cup of beer and stares at it in disbelief. Oh, that’s the bumpkin from earlier. Now he stomps away like a lil tit as my would-be soul-sister’s shoulders go slack.
(In another life, perhaps, baby girl.)
I feel an invisible spotlight burning my skin. Panic threatens to overtake me.
Once more, I survey the next level, desperately hoping to spot my bodyguard. Can’t find him. Maybe he’s not up there anymore. Yes, surely he’s swooping in to my rescue. I’m stressing because this is stressful. Now I’m laughing nervously at a drunk fatass who just tried to high-five me [I whiffed on purpose]. Still looking for help. My eyes dart here and there frantically until zeroing in on a shape I’ve never seen but recognize his presence immediately as a threat. He’s very tall, very pale, very hairy—standing perfectly still on the upper level against the railing (roughly 40 meters away). He sees me, no doubt about it, and he appears to be one minor facial flex from a majorly sinister grin. I know he’s out to get me. More than that, I am positive that his blood pumps not one iota of the human genome.
Hmm, am I positive? Instinctively, I question my instincts. Perhaps he’s just a creepy-as-fuck, tall-as-shit, hairy-as-ass, pale-as-hell, fully human male. Fingers crossed!
But, just to be safe, I divert my eyes and backpedal away directly while maintaining vigilance peripherally. He hops over the guardrail, drops a solid twenty feet, lands with unnatural ease, walks my way like a supernaturally gifted 80s-movie slasher. Yup, definitely belanockian. Or, shite, could be galacian, I suppose; I’m not exactly an expert. Either way, no thanks.
Yeah, I know when to GTFO, and right now would be such an occasion; therefore, I pivot and run toward the main/front exit/door, dodging folks left and right. Three seconds later, I realize that I should be sprinting. Hauling ass now! At this point, I’m not worried about drawing attention. Survival instincts have kicked in (yet again). Yup, fuck everybody. I’m running for my life (AGAIN). And, again, I have no idea where I’m going.
And I’m sick and tired of using the word again.

Sometimes, surviving requires blatant disregard for (your concept of) external perceptions.

On the ground/main level, Vilfred’s on Thierry’s tail, and I’m on his.
As far as weaponry, I have a dagger, a tactical tomahawk, and four throwing knives on me. (All are handmade of moose antlers, by the way [to slip by metal detectors].) But in other words, I’m ill-equipped to fight.
How the fuck did this happen? Bessi must have been catastrophically breached.

People are capable of more than you know.
Including yourself.

I’m out the door. I don’t feel as safe as I did indoors; fewer tourists. Not that any of them could save me. I try to get my head around the possibility of dying. I hate it.
Ever thought about what it might feel like to die? Try it. It sucks.

All people possess more strength than they realize.

I exit with violent speed, barreling over an elderly gentleman. Shoot, I’m sorry, fella. That’s gonna leave a mark. A lady yells shrilly at me. I can’t stop.
Per instinct alone, I turn right, and there they are.
Vilfred can’t be more than three seconds from pouncing on Thierry—an agonizing realization. In desperation, and although it delays my advance, I hurl my tomahawk at his melon. I must confess that it’s an amazing throw—incredible pace [135 mph easily] on a frozen rope. But it misses. Just barely. Enough to get his attention and warrant a glance back, though. He recognizes me—it slows him down as he snarls—but maintains his aggressive pursuit. I’m convinced that he aims to (sacrifice his own life in order to) kill her in front of me out of hateful spite.
He’s ready to pounce again, and I got nothin’.
To say the least, I’m freaking out.
Then, in the nick of time, automatic gunfire rings out as a steadily powerful bullet-spray tracks Vilfred, shredding anything in his immediate vicinity, including his legs as well as two innocent civilians {probably on their honeymoon}, unfortunately.

Collateral damage can’t be avoided.
People aren’t perfect.

That was so fucking loud and scary, but after hearing it for two seconds without being torn apart, I knew it was friendly fire.
Still running, I sneak a peek behind me, almost tripping in the process. (I’m not usually clumsy.) The creeptastic belanoc, having clearly suffered (nonfatal but) temporarily disabling wounds, has sought cover behind a tour bus, pinned down by intermittent bursts of hugely destructive automatic gunfire, all the while glaring at me as if this is my fault and thus wants to kill me a lot over and over.
Wait, where’s the source of the endless projectile-storm?
My eyes find the shooter, a lanky old-timer [looks about 65] who appears to be unnaturally spry. I think the heat he’s packing is called a “minigun” [later confirmed]. What a stupid name, by the way; the damn thing can plow through 4,000 rounds before running dry [later learned].
Anyhoo, this has to be Ernest; I’d bet my bottom dollar. (Nevermind that my bottom dollar is also my top one.)
Verging on panic, I look for Atlas. Oh, there he is—whew—across the way, moving toward Ernest and motioning me along.

Tactical retreat denotes intelligent foresight, not cowardice.

Ernest backpedals and posts up against an oversized matte-black sport utility vehicle. “We got about twenty seconds.” To explain that declaration, he motions with his head.
And there’s Lisbet, comin’ in hot from across the lot. He adds, “Keys are in the ignition.”
Guess I’m driving.
We (all three) pile into the Erniemobile, the back of which has been gutted; the only two seats are in front. Thierry hops in beside me and buckles up.
Crank. Drive. Go. Tires squeal. I check the rearview.
Lisbet’s speed on foot has to be in the 99^th percentile for females of her ilk.
And I see that Ernest thought ahead—he has always been very good at that—as the rear windshield is already down. He opens a crate full of armaments. I assume that he intends to snipe. Should he miss, Lisbet’s crazy ass will be diving in, at which point things would get terribly weird. Flat-out not exaggerating: he is the best marksman the world has ever known, no matter how fast and erratically his target moves. Presently he looks indecisive. Come on, Ern. I have faith. One bullet for the win. Let’s do this.
Instead, he whips out a fantastically modern bazooka, aims, tracks.
Also Lisbet is fucking insane. Easy diagnosis. I don’t know if she can’t see the weapon being pointed at her or what, but she does not stop. Hell, I think she speeds up.
Off to my right, I notice Severus in the distant background making a beeline for us. To compensate, I drift left, delaying our egress from the parking lot.
Ernest fires. The rocket whistles through the air. A fiery explosion rattles our atmosphere.
In my head, it should be obvious that I’m wondering about the result of the fresh blast, but no one offers a preemptive recap; thus, I ask, “Ern?”
“Uh, I guess I hit her in the face.” Evidently, Ernest has surprised himself.
Thierry confirms, “Yeah I’m pretty sure he blew her head off.”
They each appear rather astonished. Hate that I missed the epic bullseye. Plus, they just bonded slightly, which pleases me.
I check in on Severus. Fat fucker’s faster than I realized.
I decide to roll the dice, risk a collision, take a hard left with the intention of jumping a curb onto the main drag.
Here we go. Indeed, the beaten path has been abandoned.
Ernest worries, “Umm…” Thierry braces herself.
The pedal under my foot stays down; otherwise, nearby brakes get stomped, vehicles swerve/stop, horns blare.
A few jostling bumps and tense seconds.
But we’ve made it onto the road intact. Rearview mirror reveals no pursuers. Punching it.
Ernest seethes. “Gotta ditch this thing.” I infer that he suspects the vehicle itself of being tracked by a previously unidentified double agent. “Asap.” I know. I advertise my knowledge with a five-fingered hand signal. Turning left.
Ernest stews, pissed at himself.
Turning left again, Ernest wonders why: “Hmm, almost appears as though we’re doubling back.”
“I know what I’m doing.” But I’m not entirely sure that I do. If Thierry were me and she communicated my last thought via text message, then she’d have added the shrug emoji at the end.
Aloud, she wonders, “Back to Gloria?”
Via nothing more than eye contact, I confirm her assumption.
“What the Christ is a Gloria?” Poor Ernie.
Right now, I don’t have time to brief him; I’m busy (in my head) solidifying my bond with TNT. She trusts me because, instinctively, she identifies my thought process{es} based on my body’s actions. Our room/car lies barely over a mile from the casino where all hell just broke loose. They couldn’t know this and will should never expect that we’d (be “dumb enough” to) reverse our trajectory from the cardinal direction by which we were last seen in flight. Even if our vehicle is being tracked by a traitor, they could easily assume that we, uh, gave it to someone else?
Whatever, we need our stuff, and this doesn’t feel like much of a gamble. This ride will be abandoned by the time it is found.

Occasionally, one has to step back in order to take two steps forward.

“I fucked up royally,” Ernest laments. “You had him.”
“No,” Atlas corrects him, “besides obliterating two people, your actions were ideal.”
“Bullshit. As soon as he jumped on her, you had him dead to rights.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Huh??”
“She’s not expendable.”
“Sorry, what?” Already I can sense where he’s going with this. “No offense, human lady, but the life of Sevy Rex for yours would be more than a fair trade.” Yup, pretty much what I thought. And, hell, in the grand scheme of things, he’s probably not wrong. I assure my future new friend, “No offense taken.” In reality, my feelings are somewhat hurt. And I feel silly and stupid. But I tell myself that Ernest doesn’t know any better.
Atlas glances at me and, with his face/head, plainly refutes his lifelong comrade’s assertion.
That’s all I needed. I’m good now.
Ernest keeps yapping. “Wait, what all does she know?”
“Essentially everything.”
“Goodie.”
“More than you, honestly.” Ernest eyeballs Atlas sharply. Now his feelings might be hurt. Aren’t we just a bunch of titty-babies? Atlas detects the unease, offers sincerely, “No offense. I’ll explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“First things first.”
“Naturally.”

Two minutes elapse in a span that feels like ten seconds.

Atlas parks (off to the side) at a struggling resort/hotel. He begins, “We’re less than half a mile.”
“I see where this is going,” Ernest groans, already packing. He’s kind of a wiener, I’ve noticed. From the glove box, of a dozen or more cellular devices, he pockets an old flip-phone and a lighter, nothing more.
“Whatever we can carry,” Atlas adds. “Gotta move fast.”
Ernest doesn’t bat an eye, keeps inventorying/organizing his supplies.

At least tonight’s weather is dry and comfortable, eh?

Unbeknownst to anyone else, I summon a Lyft to the restaurant across the street. No intention of accepting the ride. I have reasons. (I’ll tip extra.)

Misdirection can save a life.
Always assume that your enemies know more than should be possible.
Better yet, avoid making enemies.

Less than two minutes later, I’m wearing a backpack that reminds me of seventh grade while clutching carry-on bags with each hand/arm. Gonna be a challenging workout.
Ernest sets a timer for seven minutes in his former ride, which now houses less than fifty percent of the supplies it once contained.
Both of my superhuman escorts strap rather enormous, identical hiking packs to their backs, one arm hauls a giant gym bag, another totes a sizably lengthy hard-shell carrying case, their other hands hold either end of Ernest’s toybox of weaponized wonders. Yup, our hands are absolutely full. This is all we can carry.
Away we walk from the vehicle en route to our room/Gloria.
The timer Ernest set, incidentally, is connected to a bomb. He declares, “Welp, I’ve officially gone rogue,” and remains noticeably salty.

Without salt, pepper wouldn’t taste so spicy.
(Probably.)

From across the street, cloaked in shadow behind a petrol station, each of us sporting unequal layers of sweat [Ern is sweatiest by far; I’m least], we survey our objective. Well, to be fair, Atlas seems to be doing the vast majority of the surveying. Looks safe to me, but what the hell do I know? But we should do this if we’re gonna do this. That’s what my instincts suggest, anyway, but I’m not exactly a highly trained/skilled operative like these two.
“Now or never,” Ernest points out, reinforcing my self-belief.
Atlas knows, instructs his pal, “Stay here with the loot. We’ll be back to scoop you.”
A halfhearted thumbs-up from Ernest, still ornery after a miscalculation that I don’t yet grasp.
As usual, Atlas leads and I follow.

Decisions, decisions.

Considering all the extra space Ernest and his supplies would occupy, we’ll have to manage our inventory wisely. Everything won’t fit. I think fast{er than usual}. Easily replaceable stuff like clothes (except for 3 outfits a piece), camping gear [including cookware], most of my books, consumer electronics, some luggage, a telescope, all get left behind. Even abandoning some shotguns, handguns, tomahawks, daggers and knives [none of my handcrafted items]. Keeping a silenced Triple Action Thunder, Ruger Super Redhawk, hundred-year-old double-bitted battle ax, two sawed-offs [one silenced], three daggers, four grenades, five tactical tomahawks, ten throwing knives, and anything that holds sentimental value.

When you know that you can get it back, if necessary, let it go.

Fifteen minutes later, having packed up Gloria and left room for three passengers as well as all the stuff we carried half a mile, we return to Ernest, who has been waiting impatiently. Atlas pops the trunk. Ernest immediately begins loading his gear.
“Stop,” Atlas instructs. Ernest stops, shoots him a look. “It’ll be faster if I just do it myself,” Atlas explains. “Already visualized.”
“Of course you did.” Ernest relights a half-smoked cigar.
Referring to the sizably lengthy hard-shell carrying case, Atlas inquires, “What’s in this?”
“A professional-grade keyboard,” Ernest informs him behind a cloud of smoke.
“And what makes this equipment essential?”
“I picked up piano a few years back. Keeps me more sane. No, less insane. I’m off meds, okay?”
“I’ll bet we can acquire a new keyboard.”
“Certainly, but this one’s irreplaceable. I’d rather ditch half my rifles.” Atlas doesn’t get it. Neither do I [not that I should]. Ernest goes on to say, “Look, trust my flare for the dramatic, okay? We need this particular keyboard.”
“So it’s more than a keyboard, then.”
“Yes, god, I hate you. Get off my thunder. Stop knowing everything. I’ll explain later. I’m busy being pissed right now.”
Atlas squints. “If we pack this keyboard, then you’re sitting in back.”
“That’s exactly where I insist upon sitting, dick-cheese.” (It’s not.) And, ha, in my book, Ernest is an entertaining name-caller.
“It better come in extra handy,” Atlas adds.
Ernest rolls his eyes. “Just wait.”
A few minutes later, Atlas has finished packing.
And indeed, we end up leaving behind 5 of Ernest’s old Sharps rifles, plus some of his clothing and a very nice air mattress. He had 10 rifles, by the way; he kept the oldest 1 and the 4 best. Merry early Christmas, somebody.

And we’re off.
Where we’re going, we know not.

On the road again, packed into Gloria like the fattest fuckin’ sardines. Ernest in back, cramped as hell, not happy, but not exactly mad either, just kinda being a whiny ham.
Atlas asks, “Got any particular coordinates in mind?”
“Waiting on Bosslady to respond.” (That would be his mother, by the way.)
“Then for now I’m headed northeast.”
“Why?”
“Instinct.”
“Why?”
“Physics.”
“Of course—what else!?”
Ernest is an absolute delight. Such a melodramatically grumpy wanker.
Out of left field, Atlas asks point-blank, “Did you use her as bait?”
And now I kinda shrink into myself.
Ernest doesn’t deny it; quite rather, he confirms: “Okay, not exactly, but kind of. Only because I deduced that you wouldn’t.” He shrugs, slightly ashamed, “Correctly, it seems, no?” Via a very noticeable adjustment by Atlas to find him in the rearview mirror, Ernest can feel his more youthful superior staring a nasty [“judgmental”?] hole through his soul. “Listen, I made calculations on the fly. You said she could run really fast.” [Awww.] “And her running form and speed didn’t disappoint; truly remarkable for a human girl.” [Loving this, actually.] The hole grows in size and intensity. “We needed a win.” The hole expands further. “I can only play the cards in my hand.” The hole gets holier. “Make no mistake, I would trade my life if it meant the death of Severus.”
With a matter-of-fact tone, Atlas states, “Then I hope you never get the opportunity.”
“You would,” Ernest blurts. Does he even know what he means by that? I rather doubt it.
Atlas is unfazed, moves on to his next line of inquiry: “When the rocket hit Lisbet in the face—”
“—Lisbet?”
“She named her.”
I can feel Ernest looking at me. “I like to name things,” I explain with a shrug. “Especially things that live.” Might even be kinda grinning. Oh, I am. Whoops? I lock it up. As I write this, I’m shrugging about my past grin. You know the shrug emoji, don’t you? I use it often (in text and IRL). Apparently I’m a shrugger.
Atlas genuinely wants to know: “Where were you aiming?”
Ernest can’t help but smirk. “At the spot where I anticipated her feet would be, approximately, by the time the rocket detonated on impact.” Atlas chuckles, prompting his old friend to joke seriously, “Thank god I missed.” They share a laugh.

The drive unfolds.
We don’t stop.

After a long spell of silence, Atlas asks, “Aphelion?”
Proud of himself, Ernest informs, “It’s safe.”
“Has it been test-driven?”
Ernest’s eyes widen. “Oh yeah, and it fucks shit up.”
“Composition?”
“All the elements you assumed—strong stuff that doesn’t rust—don’t remember the ratios; mostly tungsten and chromium; but the grips are made with traces of bamboo and spider silk. Found that interesting.”
“That’s because it’s interesting. Weight and length?”
“Almost 5 stone, and I don’t remember exactly—something like 168 centimetres.”
“Fascinating.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“Tensile strength?”
“Listen, nerd, just wait ‘til you touch it.”
“That might never happen.”
“Eh, got myself a feeling. You’ll sling it around soon enough. Might even do some damage.”
For what it’s worth, I believe him.

The ability to see truly past a person’s front is really uncommon.

I’m worried about Thierry. She’s not herself. Quiet. Sadness in her eyes. But, I suppose all that makes sense given that we just fled from gory death again and there’s a new (and rather big) personality in the mix.
But I see her. And I think there’s more to it. More than what’s obvious. It’s as if I can feel her energy. Literally.
Am I risking her life by keeping her in the fray? Why would I do that? Is it because of my undeniable draw to her personage on a previously foreign emotional level? Now I seem terribly selfish to myself. I question my rationale. Though she might feel safer within my swiftly reachable orbit, would she, in fact, be safer stashed somewhere far away?
I do not know the correct answer.
But.
At any cost, I find myself driven to protect this woman, even if I have to pay for it with unfathomable hurt.

Mutual feelings can’t always be evident.

I’m sad.
Because who am I kidding?
I don’t belong by his side. I’m just a normal human. Below my hardened surface, I’m still quite broken, more so than I realized until right this second.
Perhaps I should push him away. Historically, I have been very good at that. Been known to abandon a precious gem (outta nowhere) in order to shack up with a lump of coal. Life’s easier when you numb yourself. Less likely to get feel hurt that way.
I carry a lot of old pain with which I’ve yet to deal.
Still, the mere thought of not being near with Atlas crushes my soul.
I don’t know what to do.
I just want him to be safe.
Perhaps I should get shitfaced and then decide. That sounds smart on all the levels.
Yup, definitely PMSing.
Plus I’m done with booze indefinitely. I mean it (this time).

4.5 hours since our departure from Biloxi, we enter a new city’s limits.
This time, it’s Birmingham, Alabama.
How are we back in the Heart of Dixie?
Somehow, it’s poetic.

Ah, here we are in another hotel parking lot. I’m ODing on repetition.
As far as provisions, we gather the bare minimum. Well, almost. I happen to end up carrying the “keyboard” case. I assumed correctly that Ernest would refuse to leave it in Gloria overnight; we’re kind of in a sketchy area. I notice him noticing, but he bites his tongue, doesn’t wanna draw more attention to the mystery, I presume. I wonder, “Are all professional-grade keyboards this heavy?”
Ernest shrugs [copycat]. “I don’t think we can team up to answer that because you’re a skinny human female. How many professional-grade keyboards have you toted in your life?”
My honest retort: “You may be able to find the answer in my last question.” (See, my answer to his question, in and of itself, implies that I’ve never carried a professional-grade keyboard before now, which I haven’t. [I don’t {often} lie.])
Ernest kinda gives me a sassy look. I wink. Half his face grins. Okay, cool, he enjoyed my smart-ass response. Now we’re getting somewhere.
But, sorry, dude, I’m taken (by either your “halfboy” or no one).

Yet another standard-issue hotel room.
By now, they’re all the same.

We’re getting situated.
I’m fresh outta the shower yet feeling rather rotten to the core.
Atlas and Ernest have been talking shop and catching up, no doubt. And they’ve been discussing something about which they don’t want me to know. Have I mentioned that I can read people?
I can read people.
It’s fine, though. Circumstances are strange.
Regarding this mysterious-as-all-hell keyboard, I can’t ignore my curiosity. I ask Ernest if he’ll play us a tune. He declines, claims that he’s not in the mood.
I wanna open the case. I contemplate whether to ask for permission.
“Where’s Halcyon?” Ernest asks.
For Atlas, that’s like jalapeño juice in a fresh paper cut. “I stuck it in Severus and he kept it.”
“Mind if I vomit on your behalf?”
“Feel free.”
Quietly, I open the case. No one notices. Yep, it’s a fancy keyboard. Or so it appears. Am I being an impish shit? Moreover, do I care? Ha, at the moment, I don’t.
Ernest questions, “What happened?”
“Space was cramped.” Atlas explains. “I tried to skewer the brain through its chin. It reacted in time. It’s quick.”
“That just absolutely sucks,” Ernest states frankly. Atlas agrees. Ernest then offers, “I’m working on the early stages of a plan to eliminate his variable from the equation.”
“Do tell.”
“Tomorrow.” Ernie taps his dome. “Marination required.”
Hmm, this is fishy. I can’t help but wonder (aloud), “Where’s the power cord?”
Ernest spins in his seat, notices that I’ve invaded his privacy, scoffs, “Lady, what are you doing?”
What can I do at this point? I simply shrug. Wut. Is. Uppppp.
“Fine,” Ernest says crabbily as he collects the keyboard. “Let’s do this now. Come with me.”
Atlas and I share a moment of like-minded eye contact.
Then we follow Ernest outside, around the building, across the parking lot, finally landing at a pair of dumpsters enclosed by a tall wooden fence. He pauses dramatically. We wait patiently. Then, inferably disappointed by our patience, via a powerslam onto the pavement, Ernest shatters the huge “keyboard”—a.k.a. the thing wherein the most legendary weapon in the history of the world, the halberd wielded by King Magnus Rex across hundreds of millennia, Aphelion, was hiding.
Dramatic indeed, Ern!
“I really can play the piano now,” Ernest boasts.
Almost in a trance, Atlas picks up Aphelion carefully, reverently, almost ceremoniously. It’s kinda like he’s a Jedi Padawan who just earned his first lightsaber.
Ernest interrogates, “Did you already know it was in there?” But before Atlas can respond, Ernie insists, “Don’t answer that. You didn’t know. Shut up. Have I mentioned that I hate you?”
“Yes,” Atlas answers, entranced by the shiny weapon he clutches grasps (entirely). “It’s heavy.”
“No shit.”
Atlas strides into open space, flips/twirls Aphelion around/about or something/whatever; I don’t even know what’s happening but he looks fancy and capable as fuck and I’m wet again [HUSH]. “The weight is perfectly balanced.” Mmhmm, I can tell.
“Again, no shit.” Ernest lights up a fresh cigar before adding, “The lab geeks at Bessi sort of refurbished it. Or whatever. Science.”
No matter what he’s doing, I could watch Atlas forever.

Your truest love will enrapture you merely by being.

The sleeping assignments assigned themselves. Ernest gets a bed all to himself, meaning obviously that Atlas and I share the other.
But we’re not touching.
I can’t escape my own brain. I feel the old me rearing her ugly head.
I dunno. I’m thinking about whether I should ask him about hiding me.
I don’t want to leave him, nor do I want him to leave me. Either outcome would prove comprehensively devastating.
However, sometimes people have to make impossible sacrifices, don’t they?
Should we split, he might come back and collect me later, right? When it’s safer?
Fuck. I know nothing.
Except I love him and, thus, I don’t want to be the reason he loses his singularly important life.
As for whether to stick around, this raging conflict within me makes either decision terribly, heartrendingly, gut-wrenchingly hard.
I’ll sleep on it.
I need diphenhydramine. I have a full bottle in my purse. I get up and pop three. No one asks what I’m doing. (Atlas already knows.)
I return to bed. Still not touching my soulmate. I can’t let myself. It’ll feel so good it hurts.
And it’s killing me.
And my feet are so fucking cold.
And I’ll bet he’d rub them if I were extra pregnant with our child.
Is “child” even the word?
Wait, I know this one. She’d be a “lumina.” Yeah. I’m right.
Not sure why I think our imaginary firstborn is female, let alone a darling girl whose name starts with M.
Not sure why I think I’m physically capable of carrying his seed to fruition.
Not sure why I’m thinking at all right now.
Not sure why any of this matters.
Ugh. Come on, sleep. Hurry up. Save me.

The more powerful the attraction, the more difficult the decisions.
And the more easily mistakes will be made.
Illegal U-turns simplify roadways.

Vaguely put, I feel odd.
Never have I experienced internal sensations such as these. My emotions continuously mix in response to her topsy-turvy wavelength.
I don’t have to be with her, clearly, as I lived nearly a hundred years without her.
But that was before I learned of her existence.
Hmm…
Merely by being, Thierry Nova Tuck casts an otherworldly gravity that imbues the type of energy which inspires me most, and it’s not even close. For a significant other, she’s far more than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’m rather absurdly adept at imagining. Also, still, technically, I have no concrete evidence that she even likes me in that particular way. Plus I don’t deserve her—not in my current state—because in terms of emotional maturity, I’m an infant. I can only strive to rectify that condition. Upon her heavenly, earthly body, I have dropped my anchor happily, confidently, intuitively. I can’t exactly take it back. Granted, I can roam physically with other bodies and, quite honestly, at this point, who knows, perhaps I shall—arguably, it would be wise to test-drive impregnation on another full-blooded human before exposing the woman of my dreams to such a potentially volatile wildcard [again, this is assuming that she wants/needs/loves me, of course]—but, in the other two realms of existence, I will never leave TNT. She accepts my flaws and turns them into assets. She merits more goodness than she’ll ever accept, I’m afraid.
I need her to tell me the answer to a question that I cannot formulate.
This is a conundrum!
Because, in my heart of hearts, I’m aware that I owe her all that I have to give, my life, a new world, our legacy.
If I am unable to deliver, then it will be because I died trying, which, alas, is a possibility all too increasingly real.

When it’s inevitable, by definition/golly, it’ll be.
Someday.

Even in the midst of all this unbelievable madness, there’s one thing I know for sure: we each embody mirrored halves of the same soul. Tonight, that’s enough to relax me enough to let this generic Benadryl knock my psycho ass out.
G’night, fam. Night, moon. Goodnight, ({my} whole) world.
May tomorrow be a better day.

V.