Illinoir

He once thought he had nothing left to lose, that there was nothing left to find, and there is nothing left to sort, and there is nothing left to organize and there is nothing left to fall apart. And yet, there still were. Even when he thought he had hid the bottom, he managed to sink a little more, to fall a little farther. That was the most tragic part of all. To think he had seen the worse, and then he would see something more. Then he would learn another thing, forget another thing, find another thing, lose another thing. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. It does. It always does.

When there’s nothing left to lose, there’s nothing left to do, but until then, he just keeps on struggling, just keeps on trying, keeps on clawing at the floor, keeps on clawing at the earth, feeling dirt replace the splinters in his fingernails, feeling rain replace the tears on his face. Feeling the dry air of his library replaced by the damp air of a devastated field, a field that has not been tended to in years, a field that has been ravaged by wind and by time and by the travesty that is Dui’s mind, by the travesty that is.

He curls up, he curls up into himself, curls up into a ball, on the floor, no, on the ground. Dirt replaces floorboard, dirt replaces everything, dirt replaces all. He feels it, dry, crumbling, moving with him as he moves, slowly sinking into the ground, he wonders if even the worms are gone, if they have survived, if there is anything at all left to find, and when he opens his eyes, it is all still there. Or rather, it is all still not there. His eyes open, lying on his side, he blinks at his surroundings, at his black and white world, he blinks in wonder and a wide-eyed amazement, thinking Perhaps I have escaped and perhaps I have finally broken free. He stretches out his index finger, and digs a little in the soil, finds it dry, finds it yielding, finds it barren, and finds nothing else at all.

Alone, again, Decimal nowhere to be found, Dot wants to stop walking but can’t. Wants to cry but can’t. Wants to remember more but can’t. Wants to sleep but can’t. Wants to want something that he can have. But can’t.

Alone, again, still walking, still, only memories of leaves rustling, a wind chime jingling in a breeze, a chill in the air, images from paintings, feelings from images, everything false, everything real, never anything realer than this memory that he is having. Everything fragmented, broken into pieces. Dot is broken into pieces. He wants to know how it all happened but can’t.

He is angry now, so angry he is raging inside. The frustration boils over, he looks about wildly, searching for something to destroy, something to bear the brunt of his hatred, his disgust. But it is too late; everything has already been destroyed. What anguish! What pain! His heart is nearly bursting, pumping his ire-filled blood through his veins, beating faster than it ever has, his rage fueled with every beat, and there is nothing to let it loose upon, and he has never felt so useless, so impotent, so defeated.

Hunched over, cursing, gasping for breath, he screams to noone and nothing at all, to everything, to God, he screams, unintelligible, incoherent. He screams to release it, it can never be released, never leave him, this rage. His breathing becomes shallower, calmer, measured. The voices audible, he finally recognizes them. Finally picks one out from the others. His mother. Annie. Cutter. Decimal. He has conversations with them, in his head, talks, yells, screams, rages at them.

And Decimal is the only one that answers.