Tumgik
#so is anyone else feeling personally attacked by this song orr
kerra-and-company · 3 years
Text
spiral
The first three months after Zhaitan’s defeat. (Or, the story of how the person widely considered “the best at emotions” was once absolutely horrible at managing her own.)
Warnings: depression, self-harm (in a very Kerra-specific way), feeling worthless, cognitive distortions (Kerra gets an idea into her head that is just...inaccurate)
Word count: 4466
I’ve been trying to work on this fic for a while, and it’s been really hard because Kerra’s my OC whose mental health issues are closest to my own. But it’s done now, and I’m sure it’s not perfect, but I’m proud of it, and it means a lot to me. So, here you go; hopefully this speaks to someone else, too.
(and @mystery-salad because forever ago you mentioned that you’d be interested in seeing this fic concept if I ever wrote it!)
It happened in the span of a single moment.
Trahearne had finally, finally joined the party. Rel had gotten his lute from who knows where and was taking song requests. Destiny’s Edge was talking and laughing, and she even saw Caithe smile. Everywhere Kerra looked, her friends and the rest of the Pact were drinking, chatting, relaxing, or dancing.
And, for once, no one was watching her.
So she tilted her head back, letting the sun and confetti (who brought confetti?) cover her face, giggling at the unfamiliar touch of colorful paper scraps. She spun around, arms outstretched and eyes closed and, miraculously, managing not to hit anyone.
It was pure, utter joy combined with I’m done, I did what I was made for, I’m done and I can just be me—
Kill the dragon.
Kerra stumbled. That couldn’t be right. Zhaitan was dead, and her Hunt was—
Kill the dragon, her mind insisted.
The world didn’t stop. It would have been easier if it had. Instead, the celebration continued, with laughter and Rel’s music as omnipresent noise.
It took everything in her not to scream.
****
The Pact wanted to lift her up on a pedestal for what she’d done. And she didn’t deserve it, so she had to leave.
She wrote notes to each of her friends and left them near their things, going mostly unnoticed as she slipped out of the party. Thank you for everything you’ve done, she said. I am going to where I can help the most, and that’s not here right now. I’ll come back.
I love you.
****
Her first stop was Caledon.
Cern was pleased to see her and told her stories of his new recruits taking down a particularly large troll in the swamps. Tatli and Cueyatl welcomed her into the Hazupl camp, and a few sylvari were there, too, talking to the hylek young. Llew gave her updates on Astorea—the defenses were holding, though Nightmare Court attacks had increased of late.
The only place she stayed overnight, though, was the Weeping Isle. Eona hugged her, congratulated her, and asked after Rel. She gave bare-bones information, took care of some wave riders, and fell asleep in the same guest room she’d taken earlier that year.
In her dreams, she walked a bloody battlefield, utterly alone. She saw so many dead faces, along with the living who mourned their losses. With each one she spotted, a memory flashed. Minei and Cio screaming and fighting to get back into the fortress on Claw Island. Ceera calling her “Commander of death.” Elli’s expression as she tore into the Risen marksman. Tybalt imploring her to trust him. Trahearne asking the Pale Tree for forgiveness as they closed the gate to Fort Trinity. The hate in Tiachren’s eyes slowly turning to fear as he died.
And above it all, the incessant drumbeat of this is your fault, your fault, your fault. You were Commander and this wasn’t what you were meant for and so every death is on your head and yours alone because you made a mistake. You pursued the wrong Hunt, and you will look at what you’ve done.
The land and the bodies went up in smoke, and she welcomed the flames even as she burned, too.
Come morning, Eona found Kerra’s bed neatly made and the Commander herself long gone.
****
In Kessex, the bandits put a price on her head.
In Sparkfly, the krait learned to flee from her on sight.
In Brisban, the Inquest cursed her as their labs exploded.
Sometimes, those she helped asked for her name. She began introducing herself as Lin. It felt…maybe not right, but right-adjacent, and it gave her a sense of distance.
Sometimes, they asked her to stay—an asuran krewe who appreciated her particular brand of dragon expertise, a rough-edged gladium who saw a kindred spirit, and a small human boy who watched her train the Claypool militia with wide eyes, to name a few.
She never stayed more than a few days. It tore her apart each time.
She slept less and less.
****
Felix worried more about her with every passing day.
Kerra could feel it, and she wished he wouldn’t, but she didn’t have the words to calm him.
“You can leave, dearheart, if this is too much,” she said once, softly. “You can leave if…if I’m too much.”
Not too much, never, Felix insisted, bumping his head into her thigh and letting out a deep purr. But you’re hurt. I want to help.
“You can’t.” It came out too sharp, and they both winced. “It’s…I’m not scratched, or stabbed, or corrupted. I didn’t break a bone.” I wish I had. I wish this pain was visible. I wish I had scars for all of them.
Some nights, she considered giving herself those scars.
That doesn’t make you not hurt, Felix insisted.
Kerra had nothing to say except but I deserve it, and she knew Felix wouldn’t want to hear that. So, she just pulled him onto her lap and against her chest, burying her face in his fur, eyes dry.
****
Her thoughts wouldn’t stop chasing each other in circles. Her Wyld Hunt pulsed at the back of her mind constantly, like the beginning of a headache.
Kill the dragon.
WHICH dragon? she’d scream back. It never answered, no matter how many times she asked.
But she could function on two hours of sleep a night. She could fight. She could help.
That’s all that mattered.
****
She stopped at the Black Citadel for provisions. She’d intended to avoid Rytlock, but one of his subordinates spotted her at a vendor’s stall and (as politely as possible) dragged her to his office.
“Commander!” Rytlock said, happily standing up and pushing his paperwork to the side. “Thought you were back at Fort Trinity.”
“I was,” Kerra said, just a little too shortly. “I’m on my way to Hoelbrak.” Not entirely false; she was indeed heading in that general direction.
“On foot?” Confusion. “You didn’t waypoint or take an airship?”
“I wanted to take the scenic route.” A small smirk, and, again, not entirely a lie.
“Fine by me.” Rytlock grinned, his smile very full of teeth. “Don’t suppose you’d care to help me take out a Flame Legion post before you leave?”
“I’d be happy to,” Kerra said, smiling back and inclining her head before turning on her heel and walking out the door. Felix followed close behind.
“Commander!” Rytlock shouted after her. He muttered something about “I was saying we’d go together,” but Kerra was halfway down the stairs by then and barely heard him.
The outpost was empty within three hours. Kerra was gone in four.
****
She’d stopped shielding her mind somewhere along the line. She couldn’t remember exactly when.
Emotions swirled through her, positive and negative and in-between. Most of them left, but their imprints remained.
She kept fighting. She kept killing, when necessary, and the pain grew and grew and grew. Her burden. Hers. Deserved, she thought.
She racked up invisible scars by the thousands.
****
As much as she told herself the pain was necessary, it also was exhausting—which is how she got her first serious injury since leaving Orr, forcibly bringing her spiral to a halt.
She was at Victor’s Point with a man named Gareth and his three children. Said children had performed some sort of ritual to summon a bear. The ritual instead managed to summon several dozen bears, and soon the homestead was overrun.
While Felix helped Gareth take down a particularly large bear, Kerra heard a scream from the nearby shed and whipped around, running as fast as her legs would carry her across the snow.
A child she hadn’t met yet, a small one with short white-blond hair, was cowering under a workbench. They held a pen in their right hand like a dagger, jabbing it in the direction of yet another bear trying to stick its head under the table. It growled at them, showcasing its set of sharp teeth.
Not wanting to risk hitting the child, Kerra unsheathed her dagger and leaped on top of the bear. But she’d underestimated its ferocity and overestimated her remaining strength, and it threw her off, slamming her into the stones of the nearby fireplace.
Holding her head, she tried to get up, but its claws gauged deep marks across her chest, and she dropped her dagger at the sudden spasm of pain. She scrambled backwards, shielding the child with her own body as they screamed. Felix roared somewhere in the distance.
She struggled to stay conscious as the bear reared up on its hind legs, trying to figure out if she could muster up enough energy to kick it in the stomach. But she didn’t have to.
A blue shield appeared around her—guardian magic, she thought deliriously. Logan? The mace that whacked the bear in the head was decidedly not Logan’s, though, and Logan wasn’t that tall, and his skin wasn’t that dark. But whoever this was, the child was safe.
“Hey, stay awake!” a voice called out urgently as her eyes slid shut. She heard a distinct crack in it and felt the owner’s concern for her. Funny, she thought in an unappreciated moment of irony, for them to care so much about someone they’ve never met.
****
Kerra must have dreamed, then, but all she remembered was what woke her up—yet another whisper of kill the dragondeep in the back of her mind.
She sat up with a jolt, nearly whacking her head on the beams above her.
Her savior was talking in hushed tones to Gareth nearby, but whatever they were saying was immediately drowned out by Felix, who meowed loudly and started purring at the top of his lungs. He gently butted his head against her shoulder. Thank you for staying. Don’t leave.
“I’m—” she coughed, clearing her throat and trying to ignore what felt like the worst headache of her life. “I’m okay, ‘Lix, I’m okay, I’m still here.” She gently laid a hand on his flank, and he turned his head and licked it with his rough tongue, making her laugh weakly and then wince as the action sent a flare of pain through her body.
“You sure you’re okay?” her mysterious savior said, approaching her bedside. “You hit your head pretty hard.”
“I heal fast,” Kerra said, meeting their eyes. They were tall, but their face was young. “Thank you for your help.”
“No problem,” the tall child said. “I’m Braham, he/him. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Lin. She/her is fine. It’s nice to meet you, too.” A memory slotted into place, and she gasped, frantically looking around for her weapons. “Are the children all right? How long was I unconscious?”
“Easy!” Gareth said, holding his hands up in a calming gesture as he approached. “Yes, all the children are safe, and you were only out for about an hour or so.” He coughed meaningfully, and a snow-blond head peeked out from around his legs. “Mikkel is a bit shy, but he wanted me to thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mikkel,” Kerra said, her eyes softening as they met the child’s. “You were very brave, you know.”
The boy squeaked and hid again behind his father’s legs. Gareth just laughed. “I daresay he was! But that thanks comes from me as well, young one. We were lucky to have you with us today.”
“The thanks is appreciated, but unnecessary, Gareth,” Kerra replied, dipping her head a few inches. When she lifted it back up—slowly, struggling against the pounding in her head—she found Braham looking at her curiously. But he shook his head, seemingly dislodging whatever thought he’d had, and nodded.
“I’m glad you’re okay and that I could help, but I gotta get going,” he said, standing up.
“Where are you headed?” Kerra asked, leaning back slightly against the pillows.
“Hoelbrak,” Braham answered, frowning. “I need someone to help me defend my hometown, Craigstead—it’s been invaded by some group calling themselves the Molten Alliance. I figured asking Knut Whitebear was worth a shot.”
Kerra frowned, too, both at Braham’s words and at the implication of his tension and fear. “Who else did you ask?” And why didn’t you try Hoelbrak first?
“Tribune Brimstone. He didn’t believe me.”
“What didn’t he believe?”
Braham’s face closed, but she could feel his flare of anger; it wasn’t directed at her, though, not really. “With all due respect, sylvari, it’s not really your business—”
“I know Rytlock,” Kerra interrupted, ignoring Gareth’s shock and the way Mikkel’s eyes lit up. And though the last thing she wanted was to go back to Rytlock or any of her friends and hurt them again… “I can help; I’ve convinced him to get off his…behind…before. Let me help. What didn’t he believe? That your town was under attack?”
She could tell Braham wasn’t quite convinced that she was being honest, but he sighed and shrugged. “That, and the fact that my full name is Braham Eirsson. My mother—” He said the word with a disgust Kerra didn’t understand. “—is Eir Stegalkin.”
Kerra blinked. “Your mother is who?”
Braham crossed his arms. “You heard me.”
“No, I did, and I believe you—sorry. I just…” She trailed off, took a breath, and continued. “I know your mother, too, then. And I’m aware that I can’t move much at the moment, but if Whitebear doesn’t agree to help you, come back and find me. Either I’ll convince someone to help you, or I’ll do it myself.”
Surprise mixed with persistent disbelief and gratitude. “Okay, then. You’re an odd one, Lin.”
She laughed, dry and short, absorbing the flicker of pain that came with it. “So I’ve heard.” As he headed to the door, she added, “You better come back and at least let me know how things go, okay?”
It was Braham’s turn to laugh, though his was more sincere. He did a goofy half-bow-half-salute and said lightly, “You’ll be on my way, so sure thing, boss.”
****
Kerra wanted to leave. Gareth and his wife and his children were absolutely lovely, and she didn’t deserve any of it. But she was trapped in bed, healing. Careless.
She slept most of the time, waking up only to eat and pet Felix and thank Mikkel for bringing her water. Part of her wished she could just stay asleep, and part of her was absolutely desperate to move, to get out, to go anywhere but here where she was a burden and could do nothing. Always, constantly, back and forth.
I need to move.
You can’t.
I need to help.
You can’t do that, either.
I need to be worth something.
But you’re not.
I need you to shut up.
But I won’t.
I…I need my friends. And I need Trahearne and Caithe.
But you left them. They’re probably all angry with you.
You don’t know that.
And even if they’re not, you don’t deserve them.
Am I wrong?
****
On her fourth day at Victor’s Point, Kerra received a visitor.
Raised voices outside woke her. She rolled over to face the door, bringing her knees closer to her chest under the blankets.
“—asked you to state your business, sylvari.” Gareth’s voice. He was on edge and slightly angry.
“And I told you, I’m looking for Kerra. Is she here or not?”
Kerra’s eyes flew open in shock and recognition.
“There is no one by that name staying here,” Gareth replied. “I strongly suggest you try the next homestead.” A feeling of preparedness, as if his hand was on the hilt of his weapon.
Before she could think it through, Kerra called out, “Nisha?”
A brief scuffle and a shout, and the door banged open. Nisha’s clothes looked wrinkled, though still passably clean, and xe stood as tall as ever. And xe was scared and upset and relieved and so many other things that Kerra didn’t have the brainspace to work through.
Felix, however, didn’t have that problem. He leapt forward, and a very startled Nisha caught him in xyr arms. Xe stumbled backward into Gareth, who burst out laughing, animosity gone.
“Well, all right then! Lin, I see you know this person. Is it fine if I leave you two…” He glanced at a very loudly purring Felix, eyes twinkling. “Or you three to catch up?”
Nisha’s gaze caught hers and locked in, like the sight on one of xyr rifles.
Say yes.
Say no.
Say yes.
Say no. Say NO.
“Yes,” Kerra choked out, quiet but audible.
“Wonderful! I’ll be outside if you need me.” The door softly clicked shut behind him.
Silence for a few beats. Three, two, one.
Kerra took a deep breath and straightened, sitting up fully. “Hey,” she said tentatively.
Nisha gently set Felix down, a fierce edge in xyr eyes. Felix curled up next to the bed, eyes darting between the two.
“Hey?” Nisha repeated incredulously. “Hey?!”
Kerra flinched, and Nisha snapped xyr mouth shut with an audible click. When xe spoke next, xyr tone was flat. “Where have you been, exactly?”
“Helping people,” was all Kerra could say.
Nisha exhaled, frustration seeping off xem in waves. “My apologies. I should have phrased that better. Why did you leave Fort Trinity?”
“To help people,” Kerra repeated, helplessly.
“Why couldn’t you help people there?! I-I—” Nisha’s face twisted, though Kerra could see xem struggling to hide it. “You left us! And you didn’t say where you were going, not even to Trahearne or Caithe or my brother.” Xyr hand clenched into a fist, gripping and bunching up the fabric of xyr pants.
She had let them down. They were mad—at least Nisha was, and if xe was, probably everyone else was, too. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she started, “I’m s—”
“Do you have ANY idea how SCARED we were?!” Nisha shouted.
Kerra’s world screeched to a halt.
Wait. What?
“We could have lost you, and we would have had no way of knowing! You could have died, or disappeared, and none of us would have been able to do anything to stop it! We were terrified for you! And not because you’re not capable,” xe added hastily, brushing away tears on xyr own cheeks, and she’d made Nisha cry, she’d done that to xem, she’d hurt xem— “You are perhaps the best fighter I’ve ever met. That doesn’t mean you can’t die.”
Something cracked in Kerra’s heart.
“Why do you—what about all the people who died because of me?” she shouted back, her voice breaking. She threw herself out of bed and onto her feet, the blankets falling in a disorganized tangle behind her. “What about them?”
“What—we were fighting an Elder Dragon! People were going to die!” Both of Nisha’s fists were clenched now. “And I hate that, but it’s the truth! If you’re saying that you think we could have made it all the way to Zhaitan with no casualties—”
“No, no, I’m not, I—all their deaths are my fault!” Kerra’s tone made Felix’s ears flatten, and she ignored Nisha’s rush of utter shock. “I don’t understand why you’d want to find me!”
“Why in Tyria would they all be your fault?” Xyr brow furrowed, and xe took one step towards her. “I disagree with the basic principle, but even if the deaths were entirely on the Pact leadership, shouldn’t they also be Trahearne’s—”
“NO!”
“Why not?!”
“BECAUSE I WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE THE COMMANDER!”
The room went dead silent. Kerra abruptly realized she was breathing hard and sat down on the edge of her bed.
“I was given a Wyld Hunt to fight and kill a dragon, Nisha,” she said, staring down at her hands. “The Pale Mother and Caithe both told me that the dragon was Zhaitan, but it clearly wasn’t, because Zhaitan is dead, and my Wyld Hunt is very much still there. Which makes this the wrong path for me, and therefore every action I’ve taken that’s led to where we are, with so many dead, is my fault. I should have figured out I was targeting the wrong dragon, I should have done better, I should have…” She trailed off, overwhelmed.
Silence again. When Kerra looked up, she met Nisha’s eyes, staring directly into hers. Sadness. Anger. Frustration.
Xe cleared xyr throat twice before speaking. “You write your own future, Ker. You’re not beholden to that one.”
“But Mother told me—”
“Mothers can be WRONG!” The fabric of Nisha’s coat tore with a soft ripping sound. But just like with Braham, the anger wasn’t directed at Kerra.
“I was given this Hunt by the Dream!”
“Shoots and thorns!” Nisha yelled, xyr voice cracking. “Why are you so certain you chose wrong, that you made some sort of mistake? You can still complete your Hunt! You can go after all the dragons! And you know why you have that option?” Desperation. Determination. “Because of everything you’ve done, because you’re the Commander, whether or not your Mother and the Dream originally thought you should be! You took down Zhaitan! You proved that Elder Dragons can be defeated, and now you don’t have to fight them alone!”
Xe took a deep breath. “Yes, people died, and it’s horrible.” New tears pooled in xyr eyes. “I…I still miss Sieran. But their deaths are not all your fault, and you saved so many lives, too, and…and I brought these.”
Xe shrugged off xyr pack and fiddled around inside it, pulling out a stack of papers and dropping them on Kerra’s lap. She just blinked.
Nisha sighed, more out of frustration with xemself than with Kerra. “Can you just look at them, please?”
Kerra spread out the papers, making sure to catch a few stray sheets before they fell to the floor.
They were notes, every single one of them written in a different hand. In a quick scan, Kerra saw Caithe’s graceful but clear cursive, Elli’s “i's” dotted with little hearts, and Minei’s deliberately blocky print. She looked back up at Nisha.
“What…what are these?”
“It was Rel’s idea,” xe said, now looking anywhere but Kerra. She could feel xem trying to rein in xyr emotions, though it was a bit late for that. “You gave us all some, so he thought that, if I could find you, I should give you some from all of us.”
Words upon words upon words. Her eyes were drawn to them as if by a magnet.
From Demmi: Thanks for believing in me.
From Cio: You saw past the fire, and you’re one of the few.
From Trahearne: You are the reason I didn’t give up, little sister.
From Shashoo: Quaggan believes in you, Commander!
From Riel: You do good work, agent. Keep it up.
From Elli: Keep fighting, Kerry. You’re damn good at it.
From Minei: They’re not saying why we’re writing these, but you better come back so I can thank you in person.
From Caithe: You showed me new purpose, Valiant. Thank you.
From Rel: You’re my best friend, Ker, and I love you. Stay safe.
And there were more, from soldiers she’d talked to once or sparred with or comforted, and some from people she’d never met. They said thank you and you led us to victory and you saved me and you were a friend when I needed one and many, many variations.
Nisha coughed, and when xe spoke, xyr voice was thick. “I didn’t write one. I’m not a writer. But thank you, Kerra. You’re the third friend I’ve ever made, and I’m so glad I met you.”
“Can I hug you?” Kerra blurted, nearly cutting xem off. She didn’t expect xem to say yes, but she desperately hoped—and then the notes were being carefully placed on the desk, and Nisha was next to her on the bed with xyr arms around her, and Felix was purring loudly from his spot on the floor as he told her I love you, too.
Kerra hugged xem back tightly, hiding her face in xyr shoulder, and they stayed that way until both their shirts were soaked with tears.
****
An indeterminable amount of time later, Kerra pulled away, wiping her face with her sleeve. “I can’t do this on my own, you know,” she said, the corner of her mouth pulling upwards. I can’t go back alone. I won’t feel better if I’m alone. I need help, and I need my friends, and maybe that’s okay for me, too, just like it’s okay for everyone else. She met Nisha’s eyes. “Will you stay with me?”
“I just found you,” Nisha said, quiet but firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Kerra smiled in earnest, then. “Good. Because you can’t do this alone, either.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nisha said, eyebrows raising. Surprise. Indignance. Acceptance.
“Neither of us are okay,” Kerra said, thinking of Nisha shouting about mothers (and Nisha shouting at all, when xe always stayed so composed). “And we have other people—other friends, our siblings—but…” She felt her glow flare, warming her face. “I’ll help you, when you need it, and you’ll help me when I need it. That’s the deal.”
“I wasn’t aware we were making a deal.” Amusement. Warmth.
Kerra dipped her head slightly, never breaking eye contact. “We are.” Her smile grew. “You know,” she said cheekily, “you really shouldn’t question your Commander—”
“You are aware that I’m not technically part of the Pact, right?” Nisha interrupted.
It was barely even a joke, but it shattered whatever tension remained. Kerra burst into slightly broken (but still genuine) laughter, the calm after the storm. She felt Nisha’s happiness and saw xyr grin, and it pushed back the flood farther.
It was just enough. For the first time in weeks, she pulled up her shields, shutting the world’s emotions out. It was a relief and a letting go, and she almost started crying again, but Nisha’s presence held her together.
She was far from okay—the drumbeat of it’s all your fault and the Hunt’s repetition of kill the dragon were still very much there in her head. But people cared about her. She had proof of that, though she still didn’t understand it. She was important to them, so she had to keep herself safe.
Maybe someday she’d be able to do that just for herself.
For now, she’d take the help, and she’d start to heal. And when Braham came back, she’d leave, with Nisha.
But it was all right to stay here, just for now. She was safe, and she was loved.
And she felt like she was home.
18 notes · View notes
saintorr · 7 years
Text
“Gentrification Genocide” Four scenes
c. 2017 by Steven Orr
 I.  Having survived AIDS, a gay-bashing, 9-11, Sandy and an endless stream of trickster, horny-queens posing as no-show clients, I reflect; will this latest wave of too-close-for-comfort gentrification be my own, personal, genocidal Swan Song? Tonight, while riding my bike like a crazed, clowning pterodactyl, I found myself breathily imitating the sound of a very feminized bicycle bell. “Ding-ding” one moment, and the next, screaming like a crazed banshee at a female pedestrian dressed in black as she is mindlessly stepping directly into my on-coming path. My crazed battle-cry makes her stop bunglingly in her tracks; her oral addiction to her mobile device unforgivingly interrupted. Indignantly, she screams “Oh my God!” in a belting, bleating voice tinged with a Valley-girl accent. This happens just off 7th Street and First Avenue. I pedal on gleefully, half ashamed for my acting out, and half empowered and self-congratulatory for my anarchistic, bad-boy tendencies. I’m hoping and praying that maybe, said jay-walker is one of the new billionaire zombies inhabiting the crystal cardboard and colorless tag-team duo of buildings that went on the market last fall. They are located on Avenue A between 6th and 7th Streets; or perhaps she's a new resident of the renovated and reconverted Shul just four doors west of my man cave. Oh, you know, that confusing condo-synagogue; that half place-of-worship, half billionaire-broken-hearted-haunt of the ghost of the big Rabbi who is survived by his swarmy, conniving, snake-eyed son, also named Sandy.
 II. In the morning, do not fear, I tell myself, for those monstrous explosions are merely the renovation of the deceased artist De Maria’s former studio. Formerly a Con-Ed substation, the building is currently being magically and noisily transformed into a private museum for one Mr. Brant, the new billionaire owner. Ordinary neighborhood citizens will not be allowed access to the beatific garden growing between 421 East 6th Street, and cutting straight through to East 7th, like a slender, cold, fish knife slicing through a newborn babe’s beating heart, nor will they be allowed into the private storage space where priceless, modern (and most-likely insipid) works of art will be hidden away. Here will be housed Brant’s sacred treasures of the inner sanctum; here in this great, tall, glass-walled chapel of a structure, art will dwell. Rich man’s art, available only for private viewing to the coterie of fellow billionaires, stars and their kingly cronies. Cannibalize yourselves, you lowly 99%, suffer the noise! Let the new money frighten away the former spirit guides and the friendly semi-wild gypsy cats that once played, sang and danced along and in between these semi-lit row houses of tenements, filled with the ghosts of beer and dreams and young strains of fading songwriters’ guitars and falling-in-love-with-the-moonbeam-dreams and rainy-days-and-Sundays of East Village hungry-hearts and shadow leather lovers. Monsieur Brant wanted a location and tax-write off that was “creative”, so here we are! Oh you poor 99%, you starving nothings, yes, you may die of noise, entitlement and achingly tight assholeism when the chic parties start and the drones and the helicopters and the limousines start arriving with darling, parasitic models and the zombie-hungry, spoiled-cool, hipster billionaires and their cold, cold parents but oh! Just look how your property values are increasing! With every chiseled BOOM BOOM of chards detaching and jagged, dusty, broken bricks flinging, the work crew of flying monkeys is tossing all, all into the the BOOMING maw of the dumpster from hell (it must be half a block wide). Then comes the skeletal, fire-cracking, whacking-snapping chorus of never-ending jackhammers (often five at once), for this is a war of money over time, fought, won and played out by short, trollish billionaires with crooked smiles and hawk-like noses. For WE THE PEOPLE are obsolete and irrelevant; WE THE PEOPLE are little better than charming old engines, White slave labor, memories of America’s fragmented, shrunken middle class; now addicted to crack, Walmart, Nikes and digitized Disney dreams of “Searching for Dory”. WE THE PEOPLE, better forgotten, better disposed of, better buried by the Trumps, so the young, rich litters of billionaire spawn can play here anew, can fling themselves into their endless selfie-cesspools of Chai lattes, tropical banana and protein powder smoothies, funny French black bulldogs named Lucy and lovely, decadent, divinely narcissistic empty and burning consumeristic dreams of pretension and nothingness. In short, WE THE PEOPLE are poor, inconsequential, invisible and don’t matter anymore.
 III.  As a matter of fact, Medicaid was specifically created to hasten us to an early grave. Those of us that weren’t exterminated by the first or second waves of gentrification genocide will surely spill into the trenches or be forced to emigrate now with this new third and biggest wave. Someone once said “We don’t know how good we have it.” “We don’t’ know how good we have it” I repeat as I am having a nervous breakdown trying to make an appointment, trying to get a referral from my (formerly organized, now Trans-dystopian) community healthcare clinic where only Trans people matter now; for, besides the billionaires, they are the new co-masters-of-the-race, everyone else is irrelevant. I’m trying to make an appointment,  
for this back pain’s made every other step excruciating for three months now, all through the holidays (the wine helped, sometimes the sex). “No, Goddammit I don’t NEED ESTROGEN! FUCK YOUR ESTROGEN AND YOUR PHONE MENU AND YOUR INSTRUCTIONS TO CALL 9-1-1 IF THIS IS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY!” One of the patient associates who handles referrals, Martino, a vicious, little queen with bitchy glee is quoting too-fast and meaningless policies at me like cream pies. The next confusing day (nervous breakdown number two due to my inane, continuing efforts to make an appointment for treatment of this seemingly endless back pain) I am connected with a manager named Stephanie. What sex is she I wonder? Dare I ask and be reported for inappropriate behavior? Stephanie pulls no punches and begins to attack and berate me for my wholly unfriendly, hostile and homophobic language, for I made the mistake of referring to the “mean queen” of yesterday’s quoting policies-to-me-episode.  “This is Callen Lorde” she proclaims, like a punitive, spayed, female, pit-bull cop, “You should know better!” Her rawhided, neuter, Bougie-Bitch delivery strips me bare, exposing me for all the bisexual silliness and tendencies toward anarchistic prostitution and polymorphously, pleasure-seeking perversity that I am; that I inhabit and display, for this is the magical stuff that makes me me. Imagine her, lambasting my essence! I have an allergy to anyone that coldly ignores and debases men only for being men. Why do some females act like raging amazon warriors slicing through the air, waving their clitorises like sharpened bayonets; so ready with a threat or an admonishment over any microscopic drop of incorrect language or innuendo that happens to ejaculate, albeit casually, from any MAN’S mouth merely for the sake of jest? For we all know men are not innocent; especially older white ones who protest the the stinging swipe of the feminist’s cattle prod. Still, I refuse to go gently into that “older-white-male-former-slave-owner’s-guilt-place night.”
 IV.  Once upon a time, there was a neighbor non-friend of mine, a sexless tomboy with frigid, uptight boundaries who had a talent for making me feel as warm and welcomed as a serial killer rapist. “Don’t nag me” she asserted testily at the coop board meeting, and with a jolt of movement from her dry, tendinous and over-vascularized body, SLAM CRASH! The mirror behind her slides off the wall, and onto the floor. Everyone jumps “There, you see” I intone, smiling like Joan Crawford as Crystal in “The Women”, “That’s what you get for attacking me.”
1 note · View note