Sometimes I feel like a broken record on here, always saying the same stuff. “This is a two-parter.” “Here’s the following entry.” “Check some other parts out if you want.” “These journal excerpts were originally written in 1981 by my estranged relative”. Blah. Blah. Blah.
But yeah. This is a two-parter in a series of many. There’s a lot you could read, but the only part that is entirely necessary for today’s post is this one. With that out of the way, here’s a continuation of last week’s shit show:
Loud footsteps echoed as I saw a familiar face.
Bozo the clown.
Bozo the FUCKING clown.
I was stunned. My body shook, and I was practically blinded by outrage. I wanted to be terrified; I mean, this was the guy who nearly bit off my finger and forced me to witness mass hysteria. But I felt more aggravated at the clown than anything.
He was fully clothed, thankfully. A polka-dotted undershirt laid under his prison jumpsuit. Surrounded by countless books, he sat on a feeble rocking chair without a care in the world. Disturbingly enough, Trotsky’s unconscious head was resting in his lap. Bozo petted his silky umber hair like a villain petting his sleeping cat.
My cellmate looked as if he had just sat on the floor and…dozed off. The fact that his head lay on the clown’s lap seemed unintentional on Trotsky’s part. His face was heart-wrenchingly calm, though pale, exhausted features remained despite his supposedly solace slumber.
I pointed a finger at the clown, blood boiling with malice. “You!”
He comically waved his unoccupied hand. “I finally got to meet this Trotsky fellow you always rambled on about.”
Bozo hummed a brief song. The rocking chair creaked with every slight movement. “Trotsky, Trotsky, Trotsky.” His eyes beamed towards the ceiling as he choked out a sick, borderline perverted giggle, “stupid, sexy, sadistic Trotsky.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s my stupid, sexy, sadistic cellmate! Go find your own to caress!”
“Oh, I’ll have to.” Bozo looked down at the snoozing head in his lap with sad eyes, “he won’t last long after this, anyways.”
I froze. Last long? “What the hell have you been doing to him?!”
With that same unoccupied hand, he pulled a thick book out of nowhere. “Just readin’ him some bedtime stories.” He eyed the cover with an irritated face. “It’s really just another failed attempt….”
“Bastard!” What was he even saying? My fists violently shook, “whatever you’re doing, cut it out!”
“Why?” He petted Trotsky’s hair in a more ardent manner. “This is a mercy killing.”
I scoffed. Bozo continued with a malevolent cackle, “nobody will miss him. His father is an incarcerated alcoholic. His mother resents him with a fiery passion. His older brother tries to forget he exists. He has an ex-girlfriend back home. She wants him dead.” The clown smiled, “you don’t hate him, but you don’t like him. You certainly don’t love him.”
Bozo laughed, “I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone. You’re a guy who’s had a whole lotta sex, Mista’ Monroe, but you’ve never made love.”
I stayed silent. The clown chortled.
“Why start lovin’ now? This is a powerful way for him to go, is it not?” He exhaled, savoring his moment of bliss, “he’d die at the gloved hands of the man you so desperately tried to replace him with. He’s always been pestering you, always been a belligerent fool. Always leaving you conflicted on how to feel. Well, this way, he’d be out of your hair forever.”
I gazed at the clown with uncertainty. This satisfied him.
“Think about it. I know how you are, Myles. Your feelings on Trotsky are too complex for you to sort out independently. Every day, you wake up wondering where your relationship will go. You pull your hair out over it. ‘Will we be fine? Will we hate each other? Will I be Trotsky’s next victim?’ If you just let me do this one thing, you’ll never have to wonder again. Your days will be so much more tranquil without him. You won’t be tolerating him until the next gruesome discovery rolls around. You won’t be arguing. You’ll be at peace. You’ll be happy. All you have to do is let him die, right here, right now. Just carry on with your day, and he’ll be dead in a few hours.”
Fuck…
Bozo sure knew how to grow the utmost enticing forbidden fruit.
I could just picture it perfectly; laying down in a solitary cell with a cleared mind. Trotsky was…such a pain. He recklessly rampaged whenever he felt like it, which overshadowed nearly any good quality he had. The clown was right; life without Trotsky would be good, marvelously mellow, and stripped of almost all conflict and tension. I let myself drift off as I thought about a life without Trotsky.
….
I took a step toward Bozo.
He raised a delightfully curious brow. “Oh? Coming to thank me for makin’ your life easier?”
I punched him square in the face.
Once, twice, three times; I didn’t keep count after that. Every hit brought a tidal wave of swift anger and utter shock to the clown. He cringed in agony, and I took my opportunity to snatch the book out of his hand.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even give me a glance, but his message was clear. Why are you doing this?
I still don’t entirely know. I mean, I could speculate. I might’ve been motivated to spite Bozo. Or perhaps life without Trotsky would be too dull. It’s Ophelia Hollow Prison; bad things would still happen, and there would be no annoying cellmate to comfort me. That idea promised heart-wrenching reclusiveness that I wasn’t entirely keen on experiencing. A part of it may be because, despite all the bullshit, Trotsky was still there to get me out of upsetting and potentially fatal scenarios. In a way, I had done the same for him. It was simply our nature, and I didn’t want to go against that. Perhaps I felt I was in debt to him in some sort of sick way. Whatever the reason, I decided to save Trotsky while I still could.
I opened the book with an extreme abruptness. As soon as my eyes landed on the pages, my vision went foggy. The room spun, and my hazy head ached.
The next thing I knew, I was in a completely different place.
I blinked a few times, naively thinking that I would eventually be back at the library. That didn’t happen.
I didn’t question it; that was easy to do, yet it was pointless. There wasn’t time for questions; Trotsky’s life was on the line. I opted to look around instead.
A door almost hit me in the face. There was no framing, just a single door surrounded by a drab, cheerlessly cloudy sky. Was Trotsky behind it? Was this an exit? I reached for the knob, but the entire door vanished in front of my eyes. Of course it did. Shit.
I was stuck.
The only thing to do was turn back around. Good lord, where was I? I had never seen a sky so miserable—never seen grass so dry and bleak; and I’m from New York, so that’s really saying something. But I did, however, see a corn maze.
Much like the surrounding area, it was devoid of any color or joy. A chilled breeze flew by, and the depressing maze rattled with a somber eolian sound. I listened for a second. The cries of the wind…were forming words. Faint whispers, unheard by those who would not -and could not- invest their attention into Mother Nature. But I picked up on the words like a child discovering how to read.
“There is another door ahead—one who shall lead you to the lake. Go on, child. Let your skin be soaked, and may you savor your moments knee-deep in the water. Go on, child, and the door you desire shall re-emerge when you return.”
Huh. It felt strangely comforting to be called a child by some murmuring corn maze. It made me feel like an innocent, doe-eyed virgin again. I put that aside, instead analyzing the words spoken to me. Where was this other door?
I quickly concluded that the door didn’t exist. It was a metaphor. The door was, in actuality, a path of some sort; an opportunity to see this supposed lake. But if that were the case, where was the trail? The husk-ish void I stood in went on for miles and miles, never-ending in its sad, stark existence. There was no lake. It seemed to lack any sort of landmark except the maze. Well then, that had to be my “door.”
I entered the maze thinking about my cellmate. Was he here? I believed so. I had briefly read the manuscript, and it transported me to this dreary hellhole. I knew Trotsky had heard the words, and perhaps that was enough to send him here. Of course, our physical selves were still at the library; Trotsky’s unconscious body proved that much. But why wasn’t Bozo stuck here as well? He was reading and narrating, yet he seemed unaffected by the book. How was that possible?
Wait, don’t ask questions. Just. Act.
I began to walk through the maze. If Trotsky were indeed in this little world, I would encounter him eventually. Perhaps he was in the labyrinth itself. That thought sent my heart racing.
Mazes were the worst place to find anything. With so many twists and turns, I could’ve easily missed a plethora of spots where Trotsky lay dying. I could be searching, forever ignorant to the presence of my dead cellmate only a few turns away. I imagined it clearly; looking around, checking every spot except for one. And this spot, in my mind, would harbor a blue-faced corpse. Maybe if I had just looked there earlier, I could’ve saved him.
…It would take all day to look in every nook and cranny of this maze. Maybe I could call out to him? Play a game of Marco Polo with Trotsky? No. Don’t be stupid; that’s idealistic to a ridiculous degree. But then it hit me. I’m Myles Monroe; why don’t I just move my hands around a little and clear this entire maze? I tried that. I was beyond unsuccessful. Trapped in a world far from reality, gifts didn’t work.
I wasn’t left with many options. All I could do was try and make my way out of the maze and hope a breathing Trotsky met me at the end. I slowly began to navigate my way through the fields of corn. Going down a particularly long path, I tripped, shoulders accidentally brushing against one of the crops. This act on its own was a relatively insignificant thing.
But it set off some sort of reaction.
As if eagerly awaiting the moment I slipped up, the corn grew taller. Suddenly soaring high from their stems, essentially creating fully-fledged walls around me. And from these elongated crops emerged dozens upon dozens of black objects. Slowly moving, like a big cat preparing to pounce on its prey. I squinted for a second, attempting to make sense of these objects.
A bit chunky, yet square and slightly shiny.
Television screens.
“What the hell?”
I got cold feet. I froze for a bit, eying the screens with uncertainty. What was going on?
All the televisions turned on in consummate unison, displaying various scenes; all unique. I stared at the one closest to my head. A dim, dazzling room met my eyes. Neon signs were the only light sources, radiating with a flashy flamboyance that I found undeniably alluring. The furniture was fussy, modern, yet romantic in its own right. Many gorgeous women danced around with their short dresses and fun, fancy drinks. Of course, hot guys could be seen too, either at a lady’s side or another man’s. I recognized that place.
The camera whirled around to display a tragically young man. He must’ve pulled some strings; he was far too young to be there legally. He dawned himself in sensually suave party clothes. A mauve fur coat with no shirt underneath. I recognized that, too. That was my coat. That was me.
Holy shit, I remember that day.
I was trembling. Wide-eyed with a stiff posture, eyes glued to something out of camera-shot. My lips shook, and I looked as though I were about to cry. The camera zoomed out, only to reveal a table with various lines of snow prepared. That was what I was staring at; I was contemplating.
I remember that well enough. Faint whispers formed around me, and my head appeared to be racing. I forget what I was thinking, but it couldn’t be anything good. I was loveless, hopeless, and most likely searching for some sort of quick fix. I looked borderline erratic, just standing there, nervously fixated on the lines in front of me. My thoughts were most likely on a scale, weighing the outcome of my actions. I knew a little push was all I needed to go in either direction. I faintly heard a noise emanating from the TV.
“Just do it already.”
That pushed a button in my younger self’s head. I briskly pulled out a fifty-dollar bill with unsteady hands. I was visually distraught, obviously nervous, yet desperate to feel better in any way possible. I swallowed my worries and rolled the cash up into a rumpled snorting straw. I was gonna do it. I bent over the table and-
…I looked away from the TV. I already knew what happened; I lived through it. I wasn’t going to put myself through that again.
I carried on with an uneasy feeling in my chest. The quick glimpses of other screens proved what I had been speculating.
The televisions showed some of my biggest regrets. Some of my lowest lows. Some of the worst things that have happened throughout my life. Various distressing hookups, instances of me getting high and recklessly drinking, moments stuck in the rusty truck, and, as strange as it sounds, seven-year-old me popping my tongue at a cat. I might elaborate on that some other time. But the worst showcase of all, the one that replayed in the deepest, darkest depths of my mind…was the masquerade.
That horrific event. I witnessed and partook in countless torturous things that evening, all of which I tried so desperately to forget. But there everything was, broadcasted on these TVs for me to vividly remember. I tried to ignore them; I tried to seal my eyes shut and let it slip my mind. But every twist in the path, dead-end, and every turn guaranteed another dreadful reminder. The maze, stuck in a grey-skied void, cast a brutal, patronizing shadow over my soul. I was being taunted. I shook my head, reminded of my own self-hatred. I needed to get out of despair’s ugly chokehold. I wanted to cry, but I forced myself to keep going, attempting to contain any sadness or sorrow. It was miserable, but I promised myself I would get through it with a numb feeling in my heart.
When you see the end of a maze, you’re supposed to be happy. You’re supposed to smile and think, “you did it. You triumphed over the challenge and navigated your way out of there.” I wanted to be joyous. I wanted to pat myself on the back. But I didn’t. I just stared at the end with a blank face before walking out of my television-littered hell. The things I saw, the regrets I relived, all of it desensitized me to my victory.
…But then I stepped outside of the maze.
Lush, gorgeously green grass met my shoes. The sky around me suddenly brightened, turning a brilliant baby blue. The clouds were clear. The bleakness was dead. Breathtaking flowers coated the ground, and beautiful trees brought their own shades of tranquility. The sun shined bright, blessing a sparkling lake with shimmering slivers of starlight. The water was calm. The breeze that brushed against my face was warm, soothing my suffering until it was no more. This place…was absolutely stunning.
The corn maze behind me was all but forgotten until it whispered against the wind once more.
“Go on. Indulge. Let your despondent self soak in the masterful genius of the lake. Do it.”
Reluctantly, I listened. Taking timid steps towards the lake, I embraced the wetness that greeted my feet. I walked until the water was near to my knees. I bit my lip.
I was entirely uncertain of what I was supposed to be doing. Wasn’t I supposed to be finding Trotsky? What, would I just stay here? The dampness on my socks was uncomfortable, and I wanted to get out. Perhaps I could.
Before I could think about it much more, a burst of euphoria blessed my brain. A typical high? No. This was anything but the standard quick fix I had become so infatuated with.
Within seconds, my vision blurred, and everything became tinted a beautiful rosy pink. The lake around me morphed into a pool of pleasure, and I quite literally saw stars. Shapes and patterns unknown to humanity. I bit my left thumb. That’s what I always do when the rush is too overwhelming. God, I always loved that feeling.
Everything sensually spiraled as my heart fluttered. My mind was somewhere in the heavens. Or maybe somewhere in Hell. Any rational thought was gone by then, obliterated into glorious madness. I had lost control, and a grand feeling of jubilation jolted through my entire body. Straight down to my soul. I fell to my knees, trembling and clenching my chest. I couldn’t feel my heartbeat; it had either entirely stopped or was going at an uncannily fast rate. I was too blinded by ecstasy to care. All of my troubles and traumas had burned up into a sweet crisp. They melted away. They weren’t important anymore. The water went up to my abdomen, bringing a sea of bliss I couldn’t fully comprehend. I felt everything I had ever wanted; victory, happiness, validation, love. All finally within my grasp.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I bit my thumb harder. Blood trickled down my hand. It was all so great. I couldn’t tell up from down, left from right. Right from wrong. Everything was mind-boggling, inexplicable, and so very confusing. Yet it all made sense.
The distant corn maze mumbled once more. I knew the gentle voices were close, yet it all sounded so terribly far away. I was smitten by that fact.
“We know what you deeply desire. We know what your vulnerable heart craves more than anything.”
The greatest and utmost divine high.
I could never honestly describe this experience in a way that does it justice. Not even the greatest authors nor the most extraordinary poets could ever begin to describe its true glory. Shakespeare, Homer, Hemingway, Twain, Poe. None of them could do it, let alone someone like me. Goddamnit, it was all just so good! Nothing could even hold a candle to a feeling like that. Not my first time trying blow, not any romantic encounter, and certainly not my first time drunk. Nothing.
Of course, I got the most glorious grandiosity to go along with it. I acknowledged all of my flaws. All of my fuck ups and shortcomings. Myles A. Monroe: the hedonistic, self-indulgent, noncommittal, comfortably numb son of a rich, elitist, cruel whore. But I didn’t care. That was the best part. I hated myself; I was aware that I hated myself, yet I didn’t feel anything resembling a negative emotion. I loved it! If I could’ve, I would’ve jumped for joy. I fucking hate myself! It feels great! Hooooray! This rocks!
I convinced myself that somehow, because I was such a piece of shit, I was the best thing since sliced bread. I heard the corn maze’s soft mumbles, yet I couldn’t truly distinguish the words. I was too far gone.
I started laughing. Cackling. But feverish giggles quickly turned into a bundle of messy sobs.
I began crying.
….It wasn’t real.
Any of it. All of it. I remembered that I was stuck in a book—a wonderland designed to give me what I had chased nearly my entire life. This great, grand high. This buzz I use to substitute things like love. For a second, in this little world, it almost worked. Almost. I had finally gotten a taste of the ultimate high, yet it wasn’t enough. It was all fake. These feelings; they were forced upon me, and I would never see them again. I would never see them in the real world.
I realized that was it; everything I had ever wanted, superficially obtained in one moment. And now it’s lost. At the ripe age of sixteen, I had experienced the greatest moment of my life…and it wasn’t even real.
“Don’t be sad, sweet, sweet child. You may come back tomorrow to relive this glorious feeling. We can make you happy. It’s always more orgasmic the next day. Just come back.”
No.
With wobbly legs and a blazing realization, I stood up. My clothes, drenched and damp, weighed me down. I struggled to stand, but I didn’t let that stop me.
I didn’t want an ultimate high anymore. I was sick and tired of always being sick and tired when the buzz ended. This feeling; the low after the high, made me regret everything. It always did. I couldn’t have that anymore. It might’ve been tolerable back in New York, but the last thing I need here is to come knocking on addiction’s door again.
Wait…why was I here in the first place?
Ignoring all of the divine distractions around me, I noticed something bubbling in the lake a few yards away.
Trotsky.
“Trotsky!”
I did everything in my power to walk forward. It wasn’t easy; I was not only working against the water, but also a borderline crippling buzz. But my cellmate was in danger. This was my only opportunity to save him, and fate practically served it to me on a silver platter. I made my way through the thick water, attempting to see past the mushiness of my mind.
With each labored step, the world around me changed. My vision would become more precise. The patterns around me would become less distinguishable. My rose-colored view would fade into a drab, dreary grey. The wistfulness of the world was entirely gone, revealing my actual setting—a bland, dirty lake.
I stood with shaky legs. I crouched down, hands desperately searching for anything resembling my stupid cellmate.
I touched upon wet fabric.
I yanked on this piece of clothing with both hands, angling myself to drag Trotsky in the best way possible. As we got to shallow waters, I observed his unconscious face.
He hadn’t drowned. The pain and injuries in this strange place didn’t seem authentic. The rules of the real world were foreign in this domain; I don’t think you could bleed to death or drown, even if you tried.
But at that point, Trotsky looked sickly pale, almost entirely drained of life. He looked as though he had inched uncomfortably close to mortality. Though, interestingly enough, his cheeks showed hints of a blissful blush. I realized something.
Of course.
Trotsky had been here chasing his own ultimate high for these past couple of weeks. This lake, much like the clown who led us here, offered the most astonishing forbidden fruit: what a broken soul craved the most. I didn’t know what that was for Trotsky, but clearly, it was good enough for him to return every day. That’s why he was so fixated on the damn library. Why he would come back every time, to keep reliving the most fantastic feeling that would ever grace his mind. It wasn’t necessarily the clown who kept him hooked; it was this alluring lake of deep desire.
I dragged Trotsky out of the water with a nearly normal view of the world around me.
My cellmate had once told me he and I were not so different. He listed a few reasons, most being absurd. But he left out the most valid reason.
We’re both tethered to our addictions.
He had mentioned vices, but never elaborated on them in a meaningful way.
We were constantly running, trying to appease our own personal demons. Both of us were prone to it. Some moments of our lives seemed to exist solely to tend to our nasty habits. But a life spent tending to nasty habits is not a life worth living. A life spent tending to nasty habits is miserable and unfulfilling in almost every other aspect. I needed Trotsky to realize that. I needed him to wake up.
I shook him a few times. “Come on, come on.” I muttered with a shaky breath, “get up!”
He didn’t budge. I backhanded him in a familiar fashion.
“I’m sorry, okay?! I’m sorry for saying mean things all the time! I’m sorry for always being so indecisive! I’m sorry I couldn’t save you sooner! Is that what you want to hear? C’mon, do somethin’! Please, don’t leave me! Not like this!”
No response. He was unmoving, trapped within the clutch of unconsciousness. I thought about the words I said before we departed earlier that day. I’m done with this. Keep going to that stupid library. Marry it for all I care. I was so stupid! What if that was the last thing Trotsky ever heard me say?
…
“Goddamnit, wake up! I need you!” I may have started to tear up, “I…need you. A lot. More than I’d like to admit. More than is appropriate with someone as cruel and nasty as you.”
After dozens and dozens of irrational smacks, he faintly opened his eyes. Violence fueled Trotsky, so it was only fitting for him to be woken up by it. The moment I saw him stir, I stopped. He squinted at me with a look of confusion.
“Myles?”
I flashed a melancholic smile. Really, fireworks were going off in my head, and I was mentally jumping for joy. “There you are.” He was safe. Thank whoever the hell’s upstairs for that!
He looked around with dazed eyes. “Why…why are you here?”
“To save you. This place is like a parasite.” I shook my head, “it’s been feeding off you, Trotsky. Sucking the life out of you while you bathe in paradise.” That was a reasonable conclusion. After one encounter with the lake’s powers, I was drained of almost all my energy. It took everything in me not to collapse after every step. I couldn’t imagine how Trotsky felt after dozens of visits.
I blinked a couple of times with a foggy head. “I…got distracted along the way, but hey, you’re alive.”
“Barely.”
I eyed the corn maze with uncertainty. “You’ve been here before. How do we get out of this place?”
He tilted his head, “have you been in the lake?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you can retrace your steps in the maze. At the entrance, there will be a door. Go through it, and you are out of here.”
“Can you stand?”
“…No.”
“Alright.” With a quivering frame, I helped Trotsky up. Then I let him piggyback off of me as though he were a little toddler and not a communist prisoner with a bodybuilder physique. Obviously, with my cellmate’s bulk, it didn’t work as well as I wanted. My legs buckled a bit.
“Holy shit, dude, I’ve sat on furniture lighter than you.” I took a slow step towards the maze. “How much do you weigh?”
“100 kilos, maybe?”
“Jesus Christ.” That’s like, what? Two hundred twenty pounds of nearly pure muscle? “Whoever wrote the definition of a brick shithouse must’ve been looking at you the entire time.”
I could tell the walk back to where I began was destined to be painstakingly long. All that weight on top of me nearly knocked the wind out of my chest. I almost wanted to express my sympathy for Trotsky’s poor ex-girlfriend, but I decided that was far too insensitive for the moment.
Every step was exhausting and agonizing, but I managed. I was determined to arrive back with Trotsky alive. I emerged into the maze once more, getting caught up in its sick web of corn and television screens.
But something was different.
These screens seemed to multiply, showing things and places I didn’t recognize.
“Please do not look at the televisions.”
He said that in such a desperate tone. His throat seemed to tighten, and it sounded like he was getting emotional himself. It all clicked. Because we were both stuck in the labyrinth, both of our darkest moments were on display. I was looking at grisly fragments of Trotsky’s life.
“Myles.” His breath hitched, “please do not look at them.”
“Why?”
“It ruins the mystique.”
The mystique was ruined quite some time ago. All my speculation about Trotsky wasn’t glamorous; it was dark and sinister. But I nodded anyway. “Alright.”
I honestly tried to avoid looking at his designated screens, but I would make mistakes. I would meet a dead-end or suddenly turn with weak, weary steps, only to gaze upon an unsavory part of Trotsky’s life. A lot of it aligned with what Bozo said. A lot of it aligned with what I already knew. But the pictures painted on the TVs were much grimmer.
Eight-year-old Matvey Trotsky getting yelled at by a beautiful yet neurotic woman in a language I couldn’t understand. A younger Trotsky getting relentlessly beaten by the same woman, presumably his mother. Young Trotsky sporting a black eye in an ice cream shop alongside a cold, calloused man who couldn’t stand up straight. Trotsky desperately trying to cover up revoltingly dark bruises while watching an old communist propaganda film. Trotsky, older than his previous selves, punching a mirror with watery eyes in front of who I could only assume was his ex.
Then there were the gruesome scenarios I expected. Trotsky ruthlessly beating up various guys at once. Trotsky breaking an elderly man’s nose. Trotsky gouging a well-dressed man’s left eye out. Trotsky leaving a strangely satisfied group of guys with a blank, regretful stare. I briefly witnessed various fights between vaguely familiar inmates as well. The toothless inmate flashed upon a few screens, though it was before his fateful attack. I concluded that he often argued with Trotsky, maybe even taunting him at some points. Back then, my cellmate bore a fresh scar on his right cheek. I also saw the notorious incident itself; Trotsky forced the guy’s mouth open while a loud action scene played in the theatre room. He yanked the poor kid’s teeth out one by one with messy malice, and I couldn’t tell if he hated or loved his actions.
…On one screen, I saw my cellmate’s aforementioned suicide attempt.
I looked away as soon as I saw blood. I know this timeline of tragic events doesn’t look like it, but I truly made an effort to respect Trotsky’s wish. There was a lot more to see; a lot more screens that never met my gaze. I couldn’t even imagine what images those screens could display, but I did imagine that trying to end it all was Trotsky’s rock bottom. I was soon proven wrong.
Nearing the end of the maze, I stumbled upon a particularly large screen. I saw a man smash a broken bottle over Trotsky’s back. The glass shattered everywhere, impaling my cellmate and drawing blood. His face showed a look of utter shock and heartbreak. The pain drew an agonized noise from his lips that clarified one thing. That moment right there was his rock bottom. I gasped when I witnessed this. The current Trotsky took notice, trying his hardest to cling to consciousness.
“What is wrong?”
I tried to play it off. “Nothing. You just weigh a ton.”
Trotsky seemed amused by that. He went silent for a second before something forced him to talk. “So…” he trailed off for a bit. “Why did you save me?”
“…I dunno.” I chuckled, recalling a familiar phrase, “why does anyone do anything?”
“Well, what happened to ‘being done’ with me?”
I thought about that for a moment. “Look, I can try my hardest, but as of now, I don’t think I could ever actually be done with you. I’m sorry I said that; it wasn’t true.” I blushed, repeating another familiar sentiment. “I need you. Honestly. I can’t deny how seemingly addicted I am to your bullshit anymore.”
Trotsky laughed. “Could it be that you’ve fallen in love with me?”
“In love? No. You were asleep, so let me fill you in.” I vaguely imitated the clown, “I don’t love anyone. Not my mother, not my siblings, and not even Venus Eve. And trust me, I have plenty of reasons to love Venus over you.”
Silence bloomed before I choked out a single word. “But…”
“But?”
“If you stop being such an asshole, I guess I could learn to like you.”
I could imagine him smiling behind me, “I will keep that in mind.”
When I saw the end of the maze, I felt breathless; but I knew my heart was soaring with radiant joy. I was tempted to pick up my speed, yet I refrained. Walking any faster would result in a lot of pain. I forced myself to keep at a slow and steady pace, inching closer and closer to the exit. The door was just in sight; almost in my grasp.
“Myles?”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t see anything on those screens, right?”
….
“Nah.” I forced a snicker, “it was all probably just you being a dumbass anyway.”
Trotsky breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah.” He produced a nervous yet undeniably cheery chuckle, “it was.”
I looked at the door with a triumphant twinkle in my eye. “Welp, congratulations. You’ve kept your precious mystique intact.”
I opened the door with an awkward hand. Then, watching as the world around me span, I passed out.
My unconsciousness was a blur. All I remember was waking up on the floor in a stunned state. I looked at the rocking chair.
The clown was gone. He had vanished into thin air, leaving nothing behind except his weird book. Honestly, I wasn’t even aware this place had a library until Trotsky mentioned it. Now that I know, I wouldn’t trust any book. Who knows what others harbored as they patiently waited to be opened and discovered. I didn’t want to find out; I had too much on my plate.
Trotsky came to as well, immediately sending himself into a coughing frenzy. I rushed over to him, attempting to help and assist him in any way possible. He hacked, gasping for air and trying to stop himself. His face somehow became even paler, and his voice became raspy. Once the coughs came to an end, he hyperventilated, trying to get himself under control. Pity poisoned my senses.
I felt bad, worn out by the events that had transpired, and sympathetic for Trotsky’s suffering. But my cellmate was anything but pitiful. He soon proved himself to be keen once more. He peered at the empty chair with almost impressive animosity. His scowl was filled with venom, making it clear that he was utterly enraged.
That’s when he proposed an opportunity to me. Or perhaps propose is the wrong term. Every word spoken was exasperated and malevolently coated in that thick (but thinning) accent. What he said was a fact in his eyes. He looked at me with fierce determination and a strong disdain, catching his breath in an attempt to calm down after his coughing fit.
“We are going to kill that fucking clown.”