Piper Square - Chapter 9 - Saqqara

Transition - Art by Jake Hair

Laying on the bed in the dark, the room is lit by the dull light pouring in from the curtainless windows. Another sleepless night has overtaken him, an occurrence more frequent as the days go on. Thoughts run rampant, ideas he should write down, dashing in front of him like sparks of lightning burning his hands as they slip through his fingers.

The world is not what it seems, but he cannot find the words to explain.

Closing his right eye, all is as it should be. Reverse, and the world
falls into decay, every blink a photo out of time, peeling back illusory skin to reveal the the meat that lay beneath.

The last train begins to pull away, and the lights begin to dim; but the search for rest remains a struggle. Closing both eyes, he sees a dance electric, lights moving, dividing and converging. Energy collides and becomes matter, matter collides and becomes energy; world are born, already dead, like ancient ruins built upon modern grounds.

Abandoned by love, he finds warmth in other places. Closing his good eye, he summons the past, a beautiful woman and friend of the night. And she in turn pretends his face is not disfigured, caressing the wound with sexual delight, an actress of the highest caliber, worth every dollar, and every cent.

Through it all, the right eye did not know what the left hand was doing.

Cleaning himself, he returns to his bed, sitting along the edge, turning his head to look out the window.

Everything is out of place.

Gone are the tracks, in their place is grass; instead dim gas lamps electric lights hang about; the streets leading to Pepper Station have all been cut off.

“Madness” he thinks to himself; and in an attempt to keep it at bay, pulls on his pants and heads out the door, making his way quickly to Pepper Station’s famous Horseshoe Diner and seats himself in a private booth.

Quickly a coffee is placed before him. The faceless waitress smiles blankly as she waits for an order that will never come. A moment passes before he realizes her anticipation, and waves her off without a word.

He carefully sips from the mug, tilting his head back slightly to make sure that coffee doesn’t trickly from the scarred corner of his mouth. He considers this, realizing that even the simple act of drinking now has become a chore.

As he returns from his thoughts he looks out the window and spies a man laying on the ground near the stairs of the station, a puddle of blood slowly expanding from a crack in his forehead. His fingers, bent in impossible angles and surely broken, reach for a canvas fallen from a nearby easel.

People pass by, but no one seems to care.

Instinct takes over and immediately he pulls a dollar and from his pocket, placing it on the table as he rushes out the door to help.

Within seconds he arrives.

There is no blood.

There is no painting.

There is no body.

Embarrassed and confused, he returns to his apartment, slowly undressing and returning to his bed. Contemplating his visions he realizes one of two things must be true.

Either they are real and he has a gift; or they are not and madness is slowly overtaking him.

---

Eyes close and dreams follow.

Dreams of a city in ancient Egypt, of Pharaohs and sand, of Pyramids that cast shadows upon the resting place of the dead. He walks through the mouth of the city of the dead, an arch the signals the entry into the land of ghosts, Saqqara.

He wanders through the carved stone halls, watching the etched hieroglyphics dance under bluish flame. There are secrets here, buried and forgotten.

And he is among them, but not of them. The ghosts walk beside him, telling him tales of loss and woe, of regrets and needs unfulfilled.

He listens to them, bears witness to their tales, and keeps them alive within himself.

From a distance he hears a booming voice cry out:

“Air is what I breathe. Earth is where I stand. I have given my face to Amenta. It is white with heat. The world is bright as bronze. The dead rise up to see me, breathe the air and look into my face, a yellow disk on the eastern horizon.”

The sun arises and all of Saqqara goes to sleep.

---

Awakening - Art by Jacob Hair

Morning comes too quickly. His right eye sensitive to light, begins to ache terribly, and he rushes to the bathroom to numb it with cold water. Splashing his face several times, he looks up into the mirror and the mirror looks back.

There are bags under his eyes and his hands are marked and wrinkled. His face, covered in a white beard, is old and unpleasant. His mouth shaped into a permanent scowl, begins to laugh cruelly.

“We are a collection of moments infinitesimal,” he thinks to himself, “Our movements play out, over and over, we do not perceive, and thus we believe in the illusion of choice. The only real choice is choosing when to be.”

He begins to claw at his face, tearing the aged skin like sheets of paper; shredding and shedding his skin until he is when he wants to be.

Looking in the mirror he sees two perfect eyes staring back. A handsome smile forms as he slicks back his greased black hair.

Making his way into the living room, he collects his knives and heads out the door.

The crowds would be in place soon, almost time for the final performance of the Astounding Joseph Tiganu.