In Abstract
In Abstract -z- apologies for concurrence for no other post could be let out.
I’m having a hard time meeting anyone’s eyes. I feel strange and out of sorts. I’ve got reddish-purple bruises appearing and disappearing at my finger joints. Like I hold my mug in my left hand and for hours later my fingers look like they’ve got liver spots.
I did fine for years without medication. Really I did.
I mean sure, in that time period I probably had more “Here’s money if you let me marry her” proposals than the average person, but it was Nevada! A lot of Mormon guys take their sister-wives cruising. Like, “See, they’re happy and alive. You would be too.”
It didn’t take me long to realize that polygamist Mormons are not like the Amish. Sure, the ladies’ outfits were similar, but he was dressed like Colonel Sanders.
I was fine without meds for years. The problem is that when you start thinking you need them, it’s too late. You’re already off the rails, with imaginary car door slams and an ever encroaching sense that They are out to get you. Whether it’s the police or the tax man or some stranger busting in–the fear is real. And the cause is a lack of vital nutrient in the brain.
Sometimes I have bad days. And even if I’m up, it’s still a bad day because my mood is outside of my control. Angry, empathetic, enthusiastic–they shouldn’t be anything. Except sometimes they’re all too much.
You start talking about something you really love and enjoy. Everyone’s interested and onboard. Until suddenly they’re not or you’re not and it’s awkward and weird but you don’t know how to leave the room.
This guy, he keeps going on about garbage–“The problem’s already been solved, but I still think we should have used #4 switches. I know they’re not going to switch over to my idea–did you see what I did there? :wink:”–but they could at least…”–but you feel bad for him. He’s showing emotions and making gestures to emphasize his points, he’s distraught and you’re trapped in his sphere of nonsense because you can’t get up the wherewithal to hurt his feelings in even the tiniest of ways. Even though there’s a million other things to talk about.
And all those little annoyances that come with a ramped up sense of empathy translate to a bucket load of irritation. Which on top of a runaway sense of enthusiasm, leaves very little room for thoughtfulness. Instead it becomes snapped out responses and an assumption that other people are following the conversation happening in my head. Who knows, maybe some people are.
What it all comes down to is that I fell apart and I never put myself back together. Now I’m lost without a clue but I’m trying.
I’ve been writing more Darkstar stuff lately. “Just Another Titanic Tuesday” features the Darkstar from the Kanon universe.
His life started darker than canon-Vereint’s, or at least that’s the way it’s become. It seems to fit though. There had to be more than no-Warrick for him to conquer all of Megacity and be okay with millions of thralls.
Darkstar tried so hard to be a hero, but it was doomed to failure. It couldn’t work in a world where Sandra Georges was sentenced to life in a penitentiary for criminally insane metahumans.
“Black Friday” was a different event for Darkstar. And it’s made him both darker and more desperate for any happiness he can get.
I’m making “Just Another Titanic Tuesday” into a story game. It will also be a book, but I think the game is a nice bonus.
Just Another Titanic Tuesday
Chapter One: King of the world
Somewhere out there, past the universe where everything went good and right, there’s the universe where Blue Ice died before they ever had a chance to meet. And in that universe, Starburst became Darkstar and there was never anyone that he loved enough to be Vereint for.
It never felt as though he lost track of himself. It was more as if he’d never existed at all.
Darkstar wallowed in the adulation of his thralls. They would do anything for him. But it was empty, because they didn’t really love him. They loved whatever image his power impressed upon them, whatever unmatchable deity they dared to liken him to.
He’d existed in something like contentment for years. He’d been the king of the world and nothing could bring him down.
Until there was a rip in spacetime and his alternate universe self was looking at him with tragic eyes. For a moment, he’d fully understood why other people found him beautiful. Then that other-Vereint–that not-Darkstar–had opened his mouth: “When are you going to get off your ass, dickbag? People are fucking dying here and you’re playing king of the motherfucking world. Stop being a shithead! Help us. Now.”
And because it was some other universe version of himself making the demand, he’d stepped up and helped.
Because of him multiple worlds got saved. And he felt like shit, or maybe he felt like a shithead; either way, he found himself feeling dissatisfied with his life.
He didn’t blame that other Vereint. If he had a love to protect, he’d move heaven and hell too. It was just the emptiness he hated, the realization that he’d been living an empty life full of empty gestures.
It was at his lowest point that he decided enough was enough.
If that other-Vereint could come to his world, what stopped him from moving to another? It wasn’t like he had to fear attack–if anyone managed to take him out, he figured they deserved the honor–and there wasn’t anyone he felt like giving a goodbye to.
Vereint was driven by the growing sense of purpose to contact Dr. Zee. He knew the superscientist could be trusted–the man was Charm-addled to the point of cruel humor–and he was undeniably brilliant. There was a reason the League of Superheroes went to him with their biggest problems despite the hefty price he attached to his services.
On the day he contacted Dr. Zee and explained what he wanted, Vereint took an hour long walk in a park first. Far away from Megacity and its oh-so loving citizens, he welcomed the anonymity of a charcoal gray hoodie, a black baseball cap, and a pair of dark sunglasses.
He was just one more person amongst a crowd of people as he crossed streets and entered the open gate of the pretty park with its duck pond and rolling green hills. He strolled the paved paths and purchased a hotdog from a white aproned vendor. Nobody pointed and stared, he could pretend that he was anyone; and with the last bite of hotdog he finalized his decision.
Let’s blow this popsicle stand, he thought.
And something that felt a lot like hope passed through his chest.
/END
God, now I want a drink. So, thanks for that Microsoft. If I turn into an alcoholic, I’ll know who to blame:
