Fragment # 2 Mind of the Flesh

“Reality bending: the art of twisting one’s surroundings in order to fit them to the bender’s needs. Source of power: unknown. The first benders appeared shortly after The Failure (see entry page in Tome I, page 372, under “Failure, The”)”

(…)

“The first bender mentioned in the archives was Dolan Lynch (Tome XI, page 873) a local farmer. According to reports from citizen and official workers, the F.I.S.T forces were sent to the district of Lost Time after black clouds appeared over a particular street, and it began to rain. The rest of the city was not affected by this localized meteorological phenomenon. The F.I.S.T forces found Lynch on location, drunkenly dancing under the rain, screaming at the sky, thanking the gods for the rain he needed for his crops. The F.I.S.T forces tried to engage him in conversation, to no avail. A few seconds later, Lynch could be seen holding his chest, in obvious pain. Reports describe the farmer falling to his knees, the heavy raindrops turning to drizzle, the clouds evaporating. Before the military men could get any closer to him, Dolan Lynch’s ribcage exploded.”

-Extracts from the Nualla-Stem Encyclopedia of Post-Failure Knowledge, on the topic of Reality Bending.

The first time I bent reality in half, the cute guy I was locking tongues with outside of the bar turned to stone. Then unseen powers sucker-punched me in the sternum, and I spent the next three moons held down by restraints, hooked up to steam machinery that filled my lungs with the oxygen I could not inhale on my own. I was fourteen, I had my first period on the same day, and when I returned home after the hospital discharged me, my parents had fled the city.

You learn a lot living on the streets, whoring yourself out for food. Stick to neutral areas. Stay away from bars and horny drunks. Network with the other girls. The businessman hooked on toad licking is usually too mind-blown to be dangerous. The strung-out punk with homemade tattoos and parrot-colored hair will try to shank you for money or quick love. If a mutant customer displays obvious signs of clan allegiance, turn down business – last thing you need is getting dragged into a territorial war, where old grievances fuel bloodshed and black-hole sweep civilians into chaos. And when dawn finally winks at you from above, retreat to your room, lock the doors, take your pills and nurse your wounds. Never let anyone see you bleed.

Night has donned its cloak of stars. The honest folks snore in their beds while my co-workers and clientele venture out into the streets. The usual spot: the quiet corner west of Hourglass’ Teeth, basking in the spinning glow of the nearby fair’s ferris wheel. Respectful customers so far. Teenage boy asked for mental images of his middle-school crush in the shower. Confused wife with bleeding sores around her lips needed a nanosecond coup d’oeil of the future, unsure if she should leave her husband for her boss. Familiar faces asked to get high, requesting me to plant happy brain seeds that will flower by the time they get back home and send them off to sleep worry-free.

Whores of all races work next to each other. Mutants with multiple genitals, as if fate had forged them for the job, Shub’nar with their tentacles and Jentil, giantesses for the submissive men. If something exists out there, you can go right ahead and bet your hard earned gold coins someone will be attracted to it. I never deal in pleasures of the flesh, but pleasures of the mind.

Whirl around and Sister Regina has disappeared into a nearby street to get on her knees all prayer like and wrap her mouth around her client’s cock for a few minutes. He looked rich, I could sniff architecture on him. Tomorrow morning, his wife will wake him up with an elbow to the ribs and ask him just where his wedding ring and gold watch went.

After getting another customer high, I sneak into a back-alley, crouch under a looming gaslight, make sure I’m alone and slide out of my top. I stare down and my breasts have turned an ugly purple. When I prod them, the pain is enough to make me wince and spit. My forearms have been secreting droplets of blood and I wipe those away with a handkerchief. The morning feels eons away and I have miles to go before I sleep.

Back to my corner, manufacture a plastic smile and cement it to my face. Men and women ramble past, hurling glares of disgust or appreciative nods and whistles. Groups of F.I.S.T officers patrol and laugh in our direction, a threatening reminder that next month’s payment is rushing closer. Sister Regina is still gone and I wonder if she is okay. Before I get a chance to check on her, little Anna tiptoes up to me, a shadow tailing her. Thick blood dribbles from both of her nostrils. Her eyes have turned a perfect white.

“I need help,” she says with a voice covered with ripples. “Gotta jet home but,“ She looks back toward the shadow. ”T-Take care of the old man for me? He seems sweet.”

“Go home,” I say. “Get some rest, okay sweetie? You’ve done enough for tonight.”

She nods and hacks back a throat-full of bile. Bulging blue veins zig-zag and weave under a skin so thin it may as well be translucent. Anna is barely fourteen and she’s been working the streets for two years. I was just getting started at her age. Her gift for reality bending came too early, and she is still wrestling with her limits. There’s been too many nights where she slingshot herself into the unknown, tried to grasp too much of the future or got lost in a stranger’s skull-stashed vices and I had to carry her home, cleaning the poor orphan in her tub, rubbing away chunks of filth and sick while shushing her near-death rattles and pulling out clumps of white hair from her head.

I touch her cheek and say, “Go now. I’ll take care of him.”

She smiles and limps away into the avenue. I turn to the man standing in the shadow and says, “What do you need tonight? Quick high, future reading, friends scanning? I can do it all.”

The man stutters into the light and he looks methuselah old. He leans on a dark wood walking cane with a duck’s head as handle. He floats inside a clean cheap suit that blends with the darkness. Wrinkles wide as chasms, bloodshot eyeballs and all over him, the reek of sorrow. “Forgiveness,” he whispers, “I’ve come for forgiveness.”

I stare at him, a tide of nausea building up in my stomach. “I’m not sure I can offer that.”

His eyes are flooded with tears, he tries not to sob but fails. “I want to forget, please. Just a light amnesia.”

I inhale and my mind landslides into his, and I see it all, demons locking horns inside his soul, storms exploding, distant cries, a childhood in fear, corroded dreams, fuses blown over heartbreaks, lonely nights, things too foul to paint with words, and when I come back to reality, I know I’m drooling blood. The old man stares, trembling, his mouth wide open in shock.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, wiping it away. “Of course,” I tell him, “Of course I will help you. Follow me.”

I take refuge in the same alley where I checked my wounds. I turn around and wait for him to catch up. Once he is close enough to hug, I tell him to shut his eyes and empty his mind.

“What do you want to forget,” I ask, and rest a palm over his forehead. I can feel my gums itching. More images invite themselves into my cortex.

“The past few days,” he whispers, “Please, please. It’s been hard. I need some relief.”

“Only the past few days? Really?”

He hesitates for a butterfly wings’ beat, then nods.

“Okay,” I say, “I get it. Shh. It’s going to be okay.”

My left hand grabs his hair, and with my right hand, I remove my stiletto from its leg-sheath and slide it smoothly through the jacket and into his heart. He gasps, and I extract the blade slow. He can’t breathe and I whisper into his ear, “The people who love you will be better off without you.”

He tries to speak, but I stab him twice, his eyes roll back and I let his disgusting body crumple to the ground. I lean against the wall at my back and allow the images to come again: multiple monochromes of a middle aged woman, a face with more bruises than pores, ruined teeth, knife scars, nights locked in a basement, hiding in the kitchen and crying before dinner time, then the slideshow speeds up and her wounds fade and a smile emerges on her face. She walks through tall grass, holding a teenage girl’s hand. They will sleep sound from now on.

I return to my corner, give Sister Regina the sign for dead client, and she nods. Flesh whores and mind whores alike exchange signals, and we all walk off in different directions. The F.I.S.T forces will clean it up, assuming a shady client tried to mess with us. Tomorrow night, we will all be back here.

In my apartment, I undress, tossing my stained clothes aside, light candles, and head for the bathroom. Every step hurts, and I am not sure I will be able to get out of bed tomorrow. I let hot water run in the tub and stare at myself in the cracked mirror until the steam that rises all around embraces me. I climb into the bath, sit down and close my eyes. The water rises, rinsing away my blood and his, and soon enough, our sins will be washed down the drain.