Back

alive in new light

He cares for his friends in their unfortunate size, loves them with his entire soul & every scrap of universe that composes him. And yet — it is tiring, harrowing. The outcome looks worse with each failed experiment and every day that passes. The Spirit knows this, the Spirit makes it bearable, and after the crushing struggle of the daytime, it gifts him with a peaceful dreamscape. Because, for some reason, it cares about him. It wants him to be happy. It lo—

This has been occurring for a while; today marks a week, today is a milestone. Inside of Larry Trainor’s mind, he counts the days, and holds each moment of interaction with the Spirit close to his chest, his heart, where the Spirit nests. He is home to it, and now it is home to him. This is the eternal truth, the most simple thing that has ever been born into existence.

This makes sense.

It’s something different tonight, a large bedroom with floor-length windows and a king size bed. It looks comfortable. It looks like vulnerability. Outside, in the distance, is a calm, frothing ocean, the sun setting in its distance.

He reaches out and grasps the sheets faithful; they are silk, soft, and — and his skin is his present skin, whole and complete in its scarring. He isn’t in his normal outfit; instead he’s wearing only his underclothes, his body almost bare. He studies the hue of his flesh, nausea boiling in his stomach. Why does he still look like this? This world is supposed to be an escape. This world is supposed to be a haven—

There’s a gentle, hesitant tap on his shoulder. This is new, this is unprecedented. Should he turn? Is this going to spiral into a nightmare? Is it John? Is it torture? What will he see if he looks back?

“Don’t be scared,” says a voice, deep and frightening. His body shivers. His composure falters. “You can look at me. It’s okay. Nothing is going to hurt you here.”

When he turns, he sees a human body with flesh that is shifting slowly through cycles of blue shades, light and dark and light. He cannot discern a gender, but the Spirit has never seemed to align to a binary -- they, he thinks. ‘It’ no longer works. Their irises are white, their pupils gray. They are human in an inhuman manner, and it forces a flood of emotion through the mansions of Larry’s mind. This is the Spirit. They are talking to him.

Over the years, Larry had imagined this frequently — the things he would say, if he could have a reciprocated conversation with the Negative Spirit. If they could express themselves. It was a hatred that grew and blossomed into care.

Now—

Now he can only manage two words: “It’s you.”

They smile, because they know the way his mind functions, they understand him with a precision no one else will ever be able to manage. “Yes,” the Spirit says. “Indeed.”

“Why now?” he asks. “You could’ve talked to me all this time, right? Why now?”

“Before now, would you have listened?”

Larry shrugs, admits his defeat. “Probably not.”

“Then you understand why I had to wait.” They pause. It looks, for a moment, like they are about to approach him, to move closer, but they remain still in their position---frightened. “And I would have waited centuries for this opportunity. I knew that there was a possibility it would never be feasible, but it is now.”

“Okay,” Larry says, and then, “but what are we doing here? And why do I still look like… this?”

"Because," the Spirit says, mirroring his sincerity, their bright human eyes burning through his chest, "you are more beautiful this way."

“Beautiful?” Larry laughs. “No one could ever find this beautiful.”

“I do.”

Larry sits down on the bed. “I find that hard to believe after everything…”

“After everything you said to me?”

He nods.

“I will be honest with you. It did hurt. But what hurt more was being forced to watch you torture yourself every moment of every day.”

He buries his head in his hands, refuses to look at them. It aches. They thought he was beautiful, and he despised them. “I’m so, so sorry.”

& there are hands fluttering over his, slowly guiding them down into his lap. It’s — their skin is warm, filling. When he looks again, they are sitting next to him on the bed, their knees brushing against his. “I forgive you,” they say. “And you deserve that forgiveness. I’ve never thought you were a bad person.”

“So why did you crash my bus and put me on the ceiling rafter?”

The Spirit laughs at this. “I can be impulsive on occasion, and you refused to listen. Can you blame me?”

“No.” Their hands are still touching, he is still whole. “Not really.” He looks down at their points of connection, and prepares himself for a question that he does not want answered. “You never answered me. Why here? What are we doing here? ”

“I didn’t answer you because you know exactly why I brought you here. I know you.”

He exhales. “I can’t,” he says. “Not when I look like this.”

The Spirit brings his wrist up to their face and presses their mouth against the veins coiling through his hands. They are so warm. “I promise,” they say. “I meant it when I said you were beautiful. You’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you.”

Larry allows himself to sink into this, allows himself to want, to grasp their face and press his forehead into theirs. Their eyes close, the color-shifting of their body going faster, pulsing — flustered.

“I,” they begin, and he feels their breath hot against his mouth, “Larry, I—”