hurling poor Paddington at the door, causing his little rain hat to fly off. I sprawled out on the eyelet and stared at the ceiling, which I now noticed, to my further chagrin, was covered with glow-in-the-dark suns and moons and stars, just like the ones I’d had and loved, until they stopped glowing and refused to recharge, no matter how much time I spent shining a flashlight on them. Ambushed by my childhood. Surprised there wasn’t a TV playing nonstop
Scooby-Doo
. So I lay there, tracing the outlines of perfect stars with an imaginary finger, whirlpooled by confusion. And disappointment. And rage. And then horror, as I felt the familiar cold sluice of despair.
After a while—who knows how long, there were no real suns and moons and stars to guide me—I realized I was scrunching the eyelet so hard my fists ached, tears waterfalling into the thicket of my bob. I had always been a person who believed in signs, and the appalling lack of them was terrifying. It was becoming evident that no Big Hand was going to pluck me clear through the stick-on solar system—room service was even doubtful. Not that I was hungry, appetite had gone the way of my life. But I was frantic to hear the rap of another being on the other side of the door: Welcome Velvet, glad you could join us. Or maybe the lack of signs was the sign; this is it kid, this is what all the do-gooding (okay, well, maybe “good intentions” would be more accurate) is for. But no, the stuffed animals, all the childhood hauntings, must be ushering me back through the annals of my life, preparing to spit me out fresh the other side. Then, the thought that had been jostling all the others buffaloed to the front of the line: I hung myself, now Eternity is going to hang me out to dry. Through all of the heart-mash, nerve-searing sadness and terror of the Shadowman, I’d never believed in Hell—a depressed optimist? Was this the brutal serves-you-right-you-should-have-known-better Truth? I’d always loved to be alone, no one imposing on my aura, pricking my energy field. The quiet shoaling into the chattery crevices of my mind. Alone was a kind of Heaven, if that word can be used to describe anything on Earth. But this was a prison, and even worse than that, I was still the same, steel-boxed inside the Hell in my head. (Though the Shadowman hadn’t shown up yet, threatening to burn me alive—so maybe my wish had come true and I’d escaped.) But solitary forever? I expected people who liked me, people I liked. Falling into open arms as if into a womb of fleece.
Well, wasn’t this a Welcome Home party. Break out the charred hors d’oeuvres. Where was the giant spit to roast myself on?
And that’s when I thought of Purgatory. The med-doped, middling mood, or non-mood, the thick-aired, sludgy-boned half-state. Was I in a waiting room, being voted on, before being passed on to The Dentist with the Eternal Drill, or a champagne-clinking First Supper with well-padded chairs and chocolate soufflé?
Neurons ricocheted, limbs accordioned in. I lay on my side embryo-tight, and screamed. Screamed. Screamed. Screamed until I curdled, decibel-spent, on the floor. And then there I was, sweat, tears (blood? I can do that too—where’s my razor?), ears throbbing, bulldozed by stasis.
I got up, lurching, staggering through timeless Void, and faced the seraphim-festooned mirror. Red lips gone. Winged Hepburn liner gone. Face parchment-plain, dark almost black eyes headlighting out of the pale. I could see the bob might’ve been a good idea if it’d been cut with a steady hand, with a few layers shredded in, but now it looked like an electrified headdress. Oh well, no heads to turn. I looked as wan and waxy as I had in the weeks before I’d turned myself into a mobile, or, correction, before I’d covered the mess of my face with my string-up makeover. Mirror shone back the self I remembered, although it seemed the checkerboard of tendons had started to loosen, once
Scooby-Doo
. So I lay there, tracing the outlines of perfect stars with an imaginary finger, whirlpooled by confusion. And disappointment. And rage. And then horror, as I felt the familiar cold sluice of despair.
After a while—who knows how long, there were no real suns and moons and stars to guide me—I realized I was scrunching the eyelet so hard my fists ached, tears waterfalling into the thicket of my bob. I had always been a person who believed in signs, and the appalling lack of them was terrifying. It was becoming evident that no Big Hand was going to pluck me clear through the stick-on solar system—room service was even doubtful. Not that I was hungry, appetite had gone the way of my life. But I was frantic to hear the rap of another being on the other side of the door: Welcome Velvet, glad you could join us. Or maybe the lack of signs was the sign; this is it kid, this is what all the do-gooding (okay, well, maybe “good intentions” would be more accurate) is for. But no, the stuffed animals, all the childhood hauntings, must be ushering me back through the annals of my life, preparing to spit me out fresh the other side. Then, the thought that had been jostling all the others buffaloed to the front of the line: I hung myself, now Eternity is going to hang me out to dry. Through all of the heart-mash, nerve-searing sadness and terror of the Shadowman, I’d never believed in Hell—a depressed optimist? Was this the brutal serves-you-right-you-should-have-known-better Truth? I’d always loved to be alone, no one imposing on my aura, pricking my energy field. The quiet shoaling into the chattery crevices of my mind. Alone was a kind of Heaven, if that word can be used to describe anything on Earth. But this was a prison, and even worse than that, I was still the same, steel-boxed inside the Hell in my head. (Though the Shadowman hadn’t shown up yet, threatening to burn me alive—so maybe my wish had come true and I’d escaped.) But solitary forever? I expected people who liked me, people I liked. Falling into open arms as if into a womb of fleece.
Well, wasn’t this a Welcome Home party. Break out the charred hors d’oeuvres. Where was the giant spit to roast myself on?
And that’s when I thought of Purgatory. The med-doped, middling mood, or non-mood, the thick-aired, sludgy-boned half-state. Was I in a waiting room, being voted on, before being passed on to The Dentist with the Eternal Drill, or a champagne-clinking First Supper with well-padded chairs and chocolate soufflé?
Neurons ricocheted, limbs accordioned in. I lay on my side embryo-tight, and screamed. Screamed. Screamed. Screamed until I curdled, decibel-spent, on the floor. And then there I was, sweat, tears (blood? I can do that too—where’s my razor?), ears throbbing, bulldozed by stasis.
I got up, lurching, staggering through timeless Void, and faced the seraphim-festooned mirror. Red lips gone. Winged Hepburn liner gone. Face parchment-plain, dark almost black eyes headlighting out of the pale. I could see the bob might’ve been a good idea if it’d been cut with a steady hand, with a few layers shredded in, but now it looked like an electrified headdress. Oh well, no heads to turn. I looked as wan and waxy as I had in the weeks before I’d turned myself into a mobile, or, correction, before I’d covered the mess of my face with my string-up makeover. Mirror shone back the self I remembered, although it seemed the checkerboard of tendons had started to loosen, once
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