Fairytale

I can’t do this. My head lowered gently onto the keyboard’s wrist rest. Anyone that has read anything I’ve written knows I can’t do this. Fuck.

“Can’t? Or won’t?” The mocking voice sounded like mine, but did not come from my own mouth. Wary, I lift my head to find I wasn’t sitting in my room anymore. I was caught up in another mindbending vision.

“Fuck you. Fuck you, the seizure that made you, and the brain damage that keeps the seizures going.” My table and laptop were real. But my room had fled, leaving me in a glowing expanse of nothing.

“Is that any kind of way to speak to your muse?” No, the voice wasn’t like mine after all. It was an octave lower. My “muse” looked exactly like me, except “she” was all in shadow. Dark Keri. The notion made me giggle and as I did, the monotonous white danced with colorful spots. I was seizing, I had to be.

“You’re not my muse. I have none. Though some claim to be, and some try to be, I have none. You’re nothing but the after effects of misfiring neurons.”

She shrugged as she came around the table to stand next to me. “Perhaps. That dodges my question though. Can you complete the prompt’s challenge? Or will you?”

“No, I am not capable of completing this week’s challenge. Write a fairytale? Bitch, please. And don’t get me started on the tease of “every good writer needs to know one or two fairytales”. Because it’s clear to anyone that reads, I’m not a good writer.”

“That’s not what some others have said.” I knew what she was alluding to. Of course, I knew. She’s a mirror of my addled mind, after all.

“They only say that because they haven’t read better.”

If I were her, I’d read the sad look on my face and try to change the subject. Which she did.

“What is a fairytale, anyway?” She was smiling as she asked.

“For the record, I’m only answering because I’m riding out this fit.” Her smile cracked into chuckles. “A silly story, told to children, usually with a hidden moral lesson. Except the lesson isn’t so hidden.” I thought about it more and added, “Okay, not really a moral lesson, but something to show children how to behave.”.

“And you can’t write that.”

“Fuck, no.” I shook my head for emphasis.

“Why not?” I jumped when her voice changed from being on my right, to being on my left. In a blink she had changed table sides.

“Because fairytales are bright and glittery and happy and everyone lives happily ever after. I’m not like that. And I can only write of what I know. And I know blood, and dark, and pain, and remorse. I know abuse, and torment, and the knives of a thousand regrets.”

Dark Keri leaned in, smiling a devouring grin of far too many teeth. “Surely, in your ‘fits’ and ‘dreams’, you’ve encountered fairy folk that you could write about?”

I laughed at her appearance. Not because of any flight-or-fight reaction, but because she was slowly showing the Keri that I really am. “Queen Mab? The Unforming One?! She’s one of the few dream denizens I would pay never to encounter again. You’re a spin off of my broken mind, you know what happened in that dream! I think I survived that encounter because I was already mad. I entertained her for a while and was allowed to leave. Hell, just mentioning her name may cause me to dream about her again. I don’t expect to wake up with any sanity left.”

“But you’ve written of elves!”

I glared at her fiercely. “You know damn well “svartalf” is a kenning for the dead. Maggots that fed on Ymir’s flesh and took on bone and skin. Life-stealers. Day-shunners. Underworld denizens that would sweep away all humans above. Don’t mistake my svartalf as an example of his kin. He’s an outlier, that one.”

“Maybe you could write a little fairytale about something dark becoming something light.” The light was slowly dimming. I wasn’t sure if the fit was winding down, or if it had started a worse cascade.

“Sorry, Chica. I’ve turned this over all day. I can’t write a fairytale, not one that would have a happy ending anyway.”

The light had almost completely faded. Dark Keri was looking very skeletal now. Yet her appearance never bothered me. I took it as a stark reflection of the state of my mind.

“Not even, the story of your own life?” Her voice now had a dark raspiness to it.

I tilted my head in confusion. “Even in the darkest of moments, you still have hope? Why?”

As she spoke her last words, her voice faded and lowered into cracking bass. “Because, you still breathe.”

The light faded completely. The darkness became palpable and smothered my senses, pulling me into a state of not-thinking.

A bright light shone on my face, hurting my eyes even though they were closed. I twitched and instinctively brought a hand to my face. Opening my eyes, I found I was laying face down on the desk. The light from the monitor was reflecting off the smooth surface. My mouth had that sour bitter aftertaste of seizing and I had fingernail impressions in my palms again.

I sat up in the askew chair, smacking my mouth while getting my bearings. I saw I had my blog editor on the screen. I had started fitting while writing a new post. The text box was empty, but there were no words deleted. There was only a title. “Fairytale”

“I can only write of what I know.”, I whispered softly. As I took a deep breath, I was reminded of the ‘Dark Keri’ of the seizure’s vision. Very well then, I shall write of what I know. And I did.

Make of that, what you may.

(This post inspired by, and written for, Sunday Scribbling #297: “Fairytale“. It is also a true account. Being mad sucks at times.)