February 23, 2013

A siren cuts the air and the police car, an old school jam sandwich, drives down Adelaide and turns the corner. A moment later there's screaming and chaos and cars, whole automobiles, come flying over the rooftops and crashing down. People panic, of course, and I find myself thinking how close that last one was. But I could do something about this if I were a superhero.

Yes, I am a superhero, apparently with the same powers of the original Superman, back when he could only outrun speeding bullets in a flash and jump like a flea across country. In addition, I have the ability to turn into a ghostlike form. In this form I can move from place to place but I cannot affect anything until I turn solid again.

Apparently, I can also make myself look like different sorts of people.

Instead of intervening in whatever madness can toss cars like toys, I find myself in a story where I'm investigating a mystery in a museum. Not wanting to be discovered, I use my shape-shifting powers to make myself appear to be a marble statue.

Then I'm depowered me again, hiking on a cliff above a valley containing, for some reason, the ruins of the sorts of buildings one sees in a city core. The conspirators meet here, in these overgrown, graffiti-marked buildings. They've turned them into buildings. I don't know what conspirators they are, except they're evil and nasty and they dress like businessmen. I have dark thoughts of revisionist 9/11 conspiracy theories, in which I place little stock, and the writings of David Icke, which I find about as credible as the average five-year-old's thoughts on Father Christmas. The hiking group of which I'm a part approaches the doors. One swings open. Inside, sure enough, we find a furnished office, and a Conspirator talking on a telephone.

Whereupon I find myself in the yard of my childhood home talking to a cousin and her spouse, who in this altered reality live next door.

I never do learn what sort of thing was tossing those cars, or if it was ever stopped.

Zee and I worked very close together when I first got there. He was a young dude, and I could never understand why he wore colored contacts, there being very few women to impress around us.

Before we left I walked by him that night, to say whats up and slap him on the shoulder. Always looking at his eyes, I remember thinking he didn't have any glasses. But, I had other shit to do, and he's a grown man so I moved on. After that night, I saw him in the hospital. He was mostly covered by hospital shit, but his face was uncovered. Over his eye was some kind of transparent plastic, and it was filled with blood and tissue, as if it were some kind of vessel meant to be filled with his bright red gore. I had the pleasure of sorting all the detritus and gear left behind by all the dead and wounded. I stared like a zombie at the bloody kit, still reeking with the stench of sweat and pain.

The night after, I found myself in somewhere unfamiliar. It was hazy, but the background was the same dirty brown buildings. They arched up and away from me, and I could feel them closing in around me. Zee was in front of me on a knee, and we were eye to eye. He was yelling something, but I couldn't hear him. I looked into his eyes, startled to discover they were there, undamaged, and without his colored contacts. I feel joy wash over me. Zee got his eyes back! I guess it wasn't as bad as we thought! 

I woke up staring at the ceiling, my mind's eye painting a new picture on the dark grey above me. Zee, blood streaming from his empty eye sockets. He reaches up with a finger to feel for his eyes, screaming "I CAN'T FUCKING SEE BRO." He reaches out for something to hold on to, as the chaos and noise swirls around him in the dark. All I see now is the image of Zee, with his finger in his empty eye socket, blood streaming like the stigmata down his face, mouth moving to words I can't hear.

If only he'd moved a little faster. If only I'd said something.