This is a stream of consciousness sort of thing, both fictional and true. I rarely write anything other than "divine rage" type of things. it's hard to be open. it's easier to be open in the form of a story. Preceding it are two videos that sort of set the mood for what my mindset was when I wrote this.
smoke swirls upward from the clove cigarette. thin, delicate fingers don't so much grasp the vintage cigarette holder, as they simply balance it between themselves. he's in full rococo tonight....or is it regency? i can never tell them apart, though i'm sure if i asked, i could arouse in him a two hour lecture on the finer points of eighteenth century human fashion. the lace edging of his cuff bounces as he neatly flicks ashes into an open mouth. apparently, some dwarf or another has gotten on his bad side tonight, and was serving as an ash tray. He glances at me, as if aware I might judge him as cruel for it. "He owed me, darling. Anyway, he's a masochist. If you don't like it, you're free to remove yourself". The sparkle in his eyes dared me to complain further.
I look around his hall tonight. "GILD ALL THE THINGS" seems to be the theme. Tiny cherubs peep out from every conceivable place one could imagine placing a chubby, winged infant. Gold, of course, some with gemstone eyes, the overall effect being demonic-eyed gold babies staring at you everywhere you turn. Rococo then, Definitely Rococo. The walls were draped in pastel fabrics, pink and lavender, baby blue and a foamy green so light as to be nearly white. A riotous peal of giggles erupt from the chaise he's ensconced in. "I decorated just for you dear." The cherubs echoed his giggles. "Brandy, then?". He rose and glided elegantly towards the end table, where a intricately carved glass bottle of brandy and two crystal snifters were displayed.
i took the time now to drink in his appearance. deep red hair, streaked with blond and golden highlights, tied back in a ivory lace ribbon. his face was lightly made up, porcelain skin, eyes lined in smudgy black, a light glittery sheen on his lips. Our sigil, done now in rose gold, hung on a thin chain around his neck. He must have long since discarded his cravat, judging by the pool of pale green silk crumpled on the floor by the chair. His jacket was some sort of pastel brocade. If you looked closely, you could see the design was a skillfully woven map of the nine worlds. It hung loosely, unbuttoned, and the ivory lace-edged shirt beneath was open, allowing a peek at his lithe body. His cream suede breeches left little to the imagination. All in all, he resembled a overly sexed parody of a dilettante lord of the manor. But I like that sort of thing.
He filled the snifters to the brim, and handed me one, a playful grin on his face. "All this, just to wet a pair of mortal panties. Such trouble you lot are." He scanned my face again, squinting his eyes this time. "But...no.
No, you are indeed not here for a game of slap 'n tickle, are you? You never are. So, what now? Still afraid of dying and afraid of living at the same time? Mommy-ruined-my-life again? Oh, or maybe more " save me from killing myself or i'll turn atheist? No? Hmmm?" More giggles. More puffs of clove, More ashing in the dwarf.
He folds himself back into his chair, and I perch on the cherub-covered couch across from him. We sip our brandy in silence for a bit, while I try and gather my words. I try and force them out of my mouth, but all that emerges is short grunts, single consonants....no words. Tears, however, I have in spades. I weep, harder and harder, while he stares at me, much like a child entranced by the television. He knocks back his brandy in one fell gulp, and suddenly rises, throwing the snifter down. It explodes in a shower of glittering glass bits.
"ENOUGH!" He bellows. "Enough of your weakness! You can't trust anybody, not even ME. Not even the person who has stood by you all your life. You stupid woman, you will be your own undoing! I know what's wrong with you, even if you can't balls up and say it. You're unhappy and you have no right to be. You know you have no right to be. Simply put, you choose to be ungrateful for what was given to you. You can ostensibly look at your life, and see that it is good. You not only have a loyal, beautiful, mortal man who practically treats you like his goddess, but you also have ME, and do you have any idea how blasphemous and insulting it is when you sit there and say "I hate myself"? You may as well piss on an artists painting! You are my great work of art. All of you are. You are all my beautiful paintings, restored and glorious, from the shit heap that was your fate before me. We won't even get into how Deus must feel about your blasphemous little emo bullshit. You are a fucking god and it's about time I teach you how to act like it." He rips off his jacket, hurling it a corner. He picks up his cigarette and again and inhales deeply. "Drink your fucking brandy!" I take a sip. "LIKE YOU FUCKING MEAN IT". I knock back the rest of the glass, glaring at him with an almost teenage level of defiance. The cherubs laugh sinisterly, their high voices echoing through the hall.
He fills my glass again. "Once more. Drink. But this time, you drink to your own divinity. " I do as I am told, this time it burns less, instead forming a nice warmth that spreads, and flushes my cheeks. Again my glass if filled. " This one you drink to your own memory. Others may remember you fondly when you pass. But you must remember yourself as the glorious creature you are". The warmth becomes a glow, the flush becomes deeper. I am calm.
He sits beside me then. The anger that flowed so fiercely had died down, evolved to whatever resembles sympathy for someone like him.
"Listen, I could have done that without the screaming. I have a lot of far greater problems right now. That's not a put down, it's just fact. I'm sorry. I'm still right though. You have no reason to be unhappy. Your misery is self created." I nod. I know. I created it. He patted my tears away with his handkerchief, my eyeliner leaving black streaks on the pink fabric."Come here" he said, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet. He tugged me over to stand in front of the grand mirror hanging on the wall.
The mirror was possibly the most beautiful mirror in all existence. The top was crowned with a yellow, rose, and white gold sculpture of Yggdrasil. The trees roots cascaded down the huge mirror, ending in a an complex knot of roots at the bottom, entwined with a serpent. A tiny squirrel of gold set with topaz and jet scurried up and down the mirror, around and around the frame. He grabbed my shoulders and lined me up so my reflection was centered.
"What do you see?" He asked.I replied, "A short, fat girl-cripple with a back curve. Who's trying too hard to be fashionable. Like when a crippled or retarded lady tries to dress up cute, and everyone around her tells her she looks great, in that sing-song voice liberal women use when they encounter the handicapped. The implication being, you look great, for what you are. "
"Well, aren't we a superficial little cunt today?" He murmured. "Go deeper. What do you see?"
"Me. Just me. As I am. Not perfect. Not fucked up enough to elicit true sympathy from anyone, but too fucked up to ever fit in to normal society. Someone who tries to make the best of what they have, as much as they can.
A collection of damages, traumas and personality conflicts shoved inside a dysfunctional body, and ran by a dysfunctional mind".
"Accurate, but quite negative. This is what you feel like inside, isn't it". He waved his hand in front of the mirror. My reflection changed. I stood about 5'6". My breasts were perky, and round, My stomach gently curved, but lean. My back straight and healthy. Full, lush, feminine hips. Strong thighs and sculpted calves. Feet in fashionable heels. My skin was smooth and pale and perfect. He waved again, and the image faded. "You feel like a normal girl, who is somehow trapped in this prison of a body." I nod. I do a lot of nodding with him. "This is what you're stuck with". He gestured towards my normal reflection.
"This is what could have been". Again with the waving. The mirror showed a woman, not standing, but in a motorized chair, strapped in at the waist. No makeup. Hair short, but unfashionably so, and greasy. Instead of dark jeans and a cute tank top, my reflection was wearing grubby sweats. Beneath the sweat pants, my legs were shriveled and useless, never able to walk. "And that's just what the outside of her looks like....the inside is worse. So much worse. She can't read. She was locked up in a place for the lame and crippled. No one. She literally had no one. No friends. No love . Nothing. Ever. She never touched a pencil. She never put paint to canvas. She never even thought to question God or reality or try magick. She was born "wrong" and locked away by the same parents you had. This would have been you without me, and my work. This was your fate. This is why I call you ungrateful."
He waved again and images flashed. There was my grandmother, at my age, deciding to pick out a new lipstick at the store. As her hand lingers on the orange-red so popular with her generation, I see a man in the background. Auburn hair, short and slicked with pomade. Black suit. Reading a newspaper and staring hard at her while she tried on the shade, purchased it, and left. Flash. I am three. My grandmother is sitting on the couch, holding a lipstick of the same shade out at me and I teeter on my two recently healed legs. I stumble a bit. One foot goes forward. Then the other. I walk. I see her putting the lipstick on me, holding me up to the mirror as she told me what a good girl I was. Flash. Scene after scene, of Himself in the background. Influencing my choices, my past, going back decades to make one tiny change that would lead to my inevitable current state of being. Ensuring that each opportunity for beauty, for knowledge, for perseverance, for survival, was met to the fullest possible influence. I see abuses, that though they seemed horrific, were so much less than what could have been. I see him making chances for me to thrive, to be more than a result of what was done to me. I am speechless.
He turns and smiles at me then. "You are the best possible outcome of your genetics. I will do all I can to turn the chances in your favor. But you have to work towards your own evolution . You cannot stagnate. You cannot drag yourself down. Do you hear me?'
"Yes," I said, looking him in the eyes. "Yes, I do".
"We need to make a contract. A binding contract." I nod.
"Rule one: You will not hit yourself. You will not bite yourself. You will not cut yourself. Period. It is blasphemy of the worst kind. A rejection of creation. You will call to me. You will ask me for help. You will talk to your husband before your issues build to that point. You will ask him for help. You can do this. You've went years without self harm. It is possible".
"Agreed. I will call to you. I will ask for help. I can and have done this before."
"Rule two: You will stop referring to me in terms of mental heath crap. I am not "an alter persona of your idealized self". I am not " some dissociative hallucination". I am not " that crazy Loki stuff you ramble about". That shit drives me mad, woman. It stops now. I am Loki. or Loke. Or Loptr. Even Lodur, should you interpret it that way. But I am not something that rose from your abusive childhood. I am what saved you from it".
" I agree. Even my husband has corrected me on this. I'm sorry. I let one arrogant chaos magician convince me I'm crazy, and allowed one man's opinion to dictate what I think of a lifelong friend. That is wrong of me. And Dustin was wrong for assuming you were part of my other mental health issues."
He smiled, and did the sign of benediction. "I forgive you, my child".
"And the last rule. You will create for me. You will paint and cook and make music for me. You will keep yourself in good enough health to continue to do this for a long time. Everything that comes from those hands should be for me, for my amusement or pleasure, or for your own. They are one and the same"
I laugh, then. "What do you think I do? I agree, easily".
Everything fades then. The mirror. The gilded palace of opulent tackyness. The psychotic cherubs. His legs. His dick. His torso. His face. Fading. I am sitting in my bed, at a loss for words. I sleep, healed.