Mrs. Bond looked down at little fourth grade me, all dark eyes, pale skin and serious demeanor and cautiously asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
My reply, "Dead."
The class had done water color and crayon drawings of our future ambitions, all of them worthy of inclusion on any family refrigerator. There were brave astronauts, United States presidents, happy mommies... and mine. I'd drawn a house with smoke swirleys coming from the chimney. My dog, Possum, woofed in the front yard, and beneath the meticulously drawn blades of green grass was a little coffin. And there I slept. My arms folded across my chest.
The principal called my mother, of course. It hadn't been the first time. Wouldn't be the last.
Having met the dead version of myself almost two weeks ago, I wonder if ten year old Dandy Darkly would find some bit of comfort knowing his revelatory artistry eventually comes to fruition. But then again, it doesn't take a psychic to know we all end up dead. It's the coming back from the grave that's the tricky part.
And about that...
I am a bit concerned that I'm all icky and Voldemort-ified when I, presumably, have my First Death and come back. Really? Tattered robes? Skeletal frame? Black coffee with no milk? As an out and proud gay necromancer, I'd hope to be more of a fashion icon for aspiring young, gay exorcists...
I've been processing what I saw that night on the floor of my former waitressing job. And also considering what to do with the Metrocard given to me by the alternate-me, the rotting self who finally responded when I conjured a witch's brew in search of an identity. The brew was a nasty one, really old recipe. ... I can't help but smile because... as vain as it sounds, the rotting me seemed pleased that I'd decided to use such a dark means to communicate with it.
I remember rotting me squatting above waitressing me. It was bitchy. Very me. Everything was freezing cold. I do remember flashes of something else though, a blue business suit. I really want to believe it was me. A future me who eventually regains his power and comes all the way back in time to save me!
That's awfully sentimental, ain't it? There's really no room for sentiment around these parts. More than likely future me ends up pledging my eternal soul to some lower power, who in turn gives future me enough influence to put the dominoes in motion to my ultimate demise... And let's consider those flashes of the the blue suit, and the cliche nature of the robes, the swarm of flies, the skeleton... this entity, whether it truly was me or an illusion, was deliciously malevolent, enticingly so...
Sure bells and whistles are sounding off, but when gauzy sentiment meets power hungry madness, the resulting combination is wonderfully distracting.
I haven't discussed any of this Ms. Margerie. She had been helping me down a less wicked path as of late, but now... I honestly can't live like this. Powerless. Useless. So fuck it. If this is the path back to even some sliver of the abilities I once had, I'll be skipping down that aisle wearing toddler skin slippers. I mean it! Line the toddlers up!
... Alas, who am I kidding? Of course I have reservations. I'm not the soulless demon in booth twelve. Yet. I can't help but think some (all?) of my past misdeeds are the reason this shitstorm was brought down on my goat's blood drinking ass. But I can't start playing mind games. Thinking about past lives or future selves. I have "Lost" for that. All I can focus on is the present. And presently I have this worn out, expired Metrocard given to me by an undead future version of myself.
I need to do research before I swipe this thing at a train station. I've written before how such places are powerful areas of spiritual influence. I also need to read up on accounts of meeting oneself, dead or otherwise.
At least research is painless.
