Mana of Mayhem: Magic School Blues
I can’t understand.
I can’t understand.
I just can’t understand.
I took my best shot, and still they stood with him. If they didn’t care about matricide, what would it even take to move them? To make them see? I mean, good old Professor Cake showed up in full Nazi regalia, for crying out loud, and no one even batted an eye. No one even considered what that meant.
Whatever. Can’t save the blind from themselves. The Dayglo Glampire claims she sees me clear; kinda funny, in an admittedly sick sorta way, but what can I say? I never claimed my sense of humor didn’t border on the twisted. If she keeps trying to pet the black stuff she’s gonna see me clear, though, clear as crystal. Curiosity killed the cat; satisfaction might’ve brought it back, but no one ever tells you that when it came back, it came back wrong. Glampire’s gonna get a chance to find that out the hard way if she keeps on the way she’s going, and there ain’t no Christmas at the end of that road, either.
Whatever. Not my problem.
I still can’t understand it, though.
Alright. I’ll admit it. Against my better judgement, I’ll admit that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong. Not putting a lot of weight on that one, but I’ll admit the possibility, at least. This pack of idiots isn’t short on whatever it is that makes people stick around in toxic relationships. Matricide, for crying out loud!
Yeesh, still gives me goosebumps thinking about it. ‘How is that fair?’, Rainbow Brite asks. Fair? Fair? Who ever said it was fair? I sure as hell never did, but guess what, Sugarpops? Life ain’t fair. Never has been, never will be; the fact that neither of us has been smited a long time ago is proof of that. No, I’ll admit that it ain’t fair to blame him for that, or for dear old dad going batshit and making with the torches. But it’s true as steel that if he hadn’t been born, things would have worked out a whole lot better for the Faulkner family. Not that either one of us is about to forgive dear old Mr. Matches.
They’re still yammering in my ear—the other lot, the ones from the deeps. The real deeps—the ones on the other side of the door, way, way down there in the dark. Still yammering, still wanting me to open it up, let darkness spill forth and devour all, yadda yadda yadda. Fuck ‘em. I’m tired. I’ve got a lifetime, and they’ve got all the time in eternity, so a few weeks or months or years isn’t gonna do ’em any harm.
I’m tired, and I need to think. It’s a lot of work just thinking, just being, up at this level—in dreams and thoughts, instead of down in the deeps—and I’ve been doing a hell of a lot more than just sitting around gazing at my navel. There’s a lot of pressure from above, you see, like the weight of the ocean or the sky or the night or whatever, tryin’ to push the lid back down on you, drive you back below. Like a bunch of fat guys leanin’ on the lid of the sarcophagus, tryin’ to keep the mummy in.
Kind of a crap metaphor, yeah, but it works. Cut me some slack here; like I said before, I’m tired. Can’t a guy catch a break? I’ve been working hard. Thou shalt not muzzle the ox while he treadeth the corn, and the laborer is worthy of his reward and all that; well, I’ve done my work, and I hit my last punch, and now I’m done for awhile… so here I sit, staying quiet and watching the beach from behind his eyes. It’s a beautiful place; picturesque, even. Which makes it damn near one hundred percent unsuited for either of us. Bleh.
Whatever. I’ve said my piece. The issue, if not laid to rest, has at least been cast into doubt… so I’ll play nice. Let Her Imperial Hotness (yeah, go fly a kite in a thunderstorm, Hotness, I’ll call you what I damn well want, and if you wanna smite me then you go right ahead and see what it does for your beloved beau’s state of mind) and Commandant Cake and the Dayglo Glampire and Rainbow Brite have their fun; let ‘em go on being blind. I’ve done my part, and—for now, at least—my part is done. I’ll close my eyes and I’ll slip back into the dark… for now.
Until time proves him wrong, and me right. Until that incomprehensible faith of theirs cracks and wears away. Until everyone’s favorite darling hollow boy finds himself standing all alone again, looking over the edge of a rooftop and contemplating what it’d be like to lean forward, to fall. Maybe it’ll never happen—like I said, I admit the possibility.
But I ain’t holding my breath.
Yeah, I’ll wait. I’ve got time. I’ve got a lifetime of it.