Here's the latest installment of my current dark scifi project. This is chapter 16. If you're just tuning in, consider starting with chapters 1 and 2. Be advised that this work considers difficult subjects, including suicide. If you're in crisis, please seek help. Help is available here.
An autumn chill quickened Anabelle's pace. Going to a GSG meeting, her head down in the wind, she almost missed the young man holding up a large marker drawing of eyes and elaborate geometrical shapes. It was the weirdest thing Anabelle had ever seen. She'd seen weirder art, of course, but it was never displayed so strangely. Just a piece of paper held up at every passing stranger so they could see it. There was no gallery or frame or wall. There was only a guy with his piece of paper on a cold day in DC.
"Hey," said Anabelle. "You draw that?"
"You like it?" asked the artist. "Forty bucks."
"Got any more of them?" asked Anabelle.
Their eyes met then. "I'm Peter," said Peter. "I'll show you all of my art if you want, but not here. Somewhere warm."
"Anabelle," said Anabelle. "I'm going to a GSG meeting. You could probably show me there."
At the meeting, Anabelle spoke at the first opportunity. "Back in m hometown, I made a video about a pastor who took advantage of me," she said. "Now he's posted a confession video about it on Tell, like he expects everyone to just forgive him. I seriously don't know what to do."
"That sounds difficult," said Corey, the group's facilitator. "Is there anything else you want to say about it."
"Okay," said Anabelle. "The thing is, I'm doing really well. Going to work, staying off the bottle. What right does Pastor Jeff have to come along and mess all of that up, confessing to something everyone already knew that he'd done? It's like, he did something to me and now it's all about him."
"That's a lot," said Corey. "Thanks for checking in. Who else has something to say?"
"I just keep waiting for everything to go back to normal," said a man in a red hat. "But it never will, will it? First we had the plandemic, then the leftist witch hunts, then 321. It's just never going to stop, is it?"
A woman who was knitting a scarf paused to chuckle. "Leftist witch hunts?" she asked. "We weren't the ones that attempted insurrection."
Ignoring the comment, the man went on. "Everyone knows antifa was behind 321, funded by George Soros," he said. "But even saying that out loud is a crime now, they'll say you've got the Syndrome. I just want to drive my route and live in peace. Not fear."
"That's good," said Corey. "You've identified that you're living in fear and you want something better."
"We all living in fear," said the knitter. "Why you think we're here?"
"I'm not living in fear," said Peter. "I mean, I'm afraid of scary shit, and there's lots of that out there. But the world is deep. Way deeper than what most people pay attention to. And I'll tell you what, on those deeper levels, everything is fine. All good. Perfect, even."
"Sounds like you do too many drugs," said Red Hat.
"Yeah, well, they give 'em out like candy at the antifa meetings," laughed Peter.
This got everyone laughing, even Red Hat. "Is there anything more you'd like to share?" Corey asked Peter.
"Maybe, but it might not make much sense," said Peter. "You see, I'm kinda going through something. Estranged from my family, living off the charity of this nice couple. Things are actually good, for the first time in a long time. And really for the first time ever, I don't feel like I have to pretend to be someone else for the benefit of my family. It's like I always had to be this other person or I'd be medicated or locked up for being too weird, but now that's in the past. So now I'm having to figure out what it might mean for me to just be me."
"That's great," said Corey.
"Right, but here's the problem," continued Peter. "I sometimes ... perceive things that other people don't. Like my psychic sensitivity is set to maximum. I used to use drugs to turn the volume down, but that came with other problems. So I want to learn to live with this sensitivity, but I don't know how. I'm sure there are people out there who could help me with this, but I don't even know how to begin finding them."
Before leaving the meeting, Anabelle and Peter found a table where Peter could set down his big cardboard folder and share his artwork. "These are really good," she said. "Psychedelic, but really cool."
"Thanks," said Peter.
"Hey listen," said Anabelle. "When we first met, I felt like I really wanted to help you. And after hearing you talk, I think I know how to do it. There's a woman named Cedar who works with a group called RAW. Reclaiming Ancient Wisdom. She talks a lot about integration. Integrating stuff that comes from unusual experiences into the whole person. If you're interested, I could introduce you."
"Really?" said Peter. "Thank you."
"Mind if I take a look?" asked Red Hat, who had come over to the table.
"Sure," said Peter.
Flipping slowly through the psychedelic drawings, Peter saw something unexpected happen. Red Hat's face became contorted and he began to cry. "Sorry," he said. "I don't know what's going on with me. You sell these? How much for all of them?"
"Forty each," said Peter. "What do you see?"
"I'll give you five hundred for all of them," said Red Hat. "This is going to sound crazy, but I feel like I've seen them before. Like I'm meant to have them, for some reason. If you make more, I might want them too. I'll give you my number so you can let me know if more become available."
Afraid to speak, Peter nodded, placing the artwork back into its folder.
"That's amazing," said Anabelle. "But I was maybe going to buy one."
"Fine by me," said Red Hat. "Pick your piece."
Anabelle knew exactly which drawing she wanted. It was of a metallic key overlaying a city skyline, with the whole piece appearing a little like a radiant circuit board. "This one!" she said. "The key to everything."
(Feature image from Pixabay.)
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