Constance Estela walked along the desolate junction of Ninth and Near Street, passing by ethereal outlines of those who once lived, both human and animal. She almost stopped to bend toward a kitten, but the poor creature didn't seem to register her presence. As the sun began its descent she allowed the endless stream of the past to move her to a destination, wherever that may be.
A murder of crows swooped noisily overhead. None of the earthbound ghosts stopped with her to observe. A shame, for only they would've been able to perceive what she could.
The birds' movements weren't blind chaos; with a little more focus, she faintly made out the thermals they were riding. Glassy, green-tinged, spiralling out in fractals. It was beautiful, a painting of rotundas in the deepening sky.
In her own way, she trailed on their slipstream. And when they all came to rest on a powerline, she found herself standing in front of a diner. Doesn't look like much, she thought, but it would probably trump anything served at the Invisible Scorpion.
The bell tinkled as she entered, but there was no one to receive her. In the corner booth was an old man reading a newspaper. She heard the sound of a deep fryer in the back, and made her way to the front to look at the menu.
Pancakes or waffles? No pictures. Better get some meat in too, fill up the tank. Who knows when I'll next get to eat. Whatever she decided on, she would add to it an earl grey as well.
Waiting, tapping her nails on the counter and waiting still, she turned her attention to the old man in the booth. When the rugged unsmiling face turned she reciprocated its single nod, with the bonus of a wide smile and lilt of her head. She might end up having to steal whatever was left off his plate if nobody wanted to take her order.
"I hear ya, I hear ya. Pipe down," Constance heard from the bowels of the kitchen, amidst the clutter of plates and utensils. It was followed by the sound of lumbering feet on what she assumed to be the same checkerboard tiles out here, but somehow filthier.
The aluminium saloon doors swung open and out stomped a stout matron. She stood across from her, arms folded. Her body language may have been utterly closed, but her mind was as open as the old man's newspaper.
Constance smile again and observed the immediate shift in the woman's countenance. A carefree grin now blessed her face, the grimacing folds rising upwards.
"Sorry for makin' you wait, hun," she drawled sweetly, entirely remorseful.
"Oh, it's quite alright. Solo shift?" Constance said.
"Every darn night," the woman said. They continued eyeing each other, the older woman's gaze lingering on the makeup, outfit, the numerous bangles and chains. Constance knew for a fact her mind was working furiously to categorise her.
"You some kind of hippy magicwoman?" She asked finally.
"Heavens, no!" Constance said, laughing. "But it sure is fun to dress like it."
"I could read your tea leaves, tell you your fortune," she added, winking."
"Sure sounds like a fun way to pass the time, hun. But first, let's get you settled. What can I whip up for you?"
And so it was that Constance dined on a breakfast platter of scrambled eggs, French fries, baked beans and strips of bacon. The woman, whose name was Martha, kept her company for a while. And when the novelty of her company wore off and became unnecessary, with another smile off Martha went to the corner to quietly file her nails and stare at the basket of day-old fruit on the countertop.
Munching, Constance allowed her straying thoughts to anchor on her nephew. He was a puzzle she couldn't ignore. That was an interesting catch-up in the afternoon. She would've stayed longer, but she'd seen all she needed to. The inversion was becoming clearer.
Ryan, she thought, never was a straightforward, singular entity. Nobody was; the personality is a necessary fiction made up of as many characters as you can fit in a novel. Who you are at perfect peace is not who you are when you're ready to bitchslap somebody. The world's wars operate within every human being, different sub-personalities every moment contending for the throne, each conspiring to make your body carry out their own agenda.
But most folks had a leader-personality within the ranks. If you got angry, you didn't stay that way forever, you eventually returned to your default setting. But Ryan? . . . he'd stay angry forever if nobody made an attempt to remind him what he was like before the triggering incident. Or until the next sub-personality won out.
There are no demons in the world. Yet possession threatens every moment.
She'd spent so much time with him when he was a toddler, up to when he went off to school. She knew he was wired different. Once they'd laid out a sheet on the porch for the express purposes of stargazing. He pointed at the stars and said "that's where we came from." No explanation needed, she knew he was pointing at Sirius. She knew exactly what he meant.
She made it a point to check in from time to time, but nothing seemed to be happening. He had seemed to be content with fucking around, getting drunk, doing nothing. She had been on the verge of giving up. Latent potential does not often equate to a sure thing. But this afternoon . . . he was so different. Not just the physical changes, but the sheen of light emanating from him. Potent, drawing me in like a magnet.
She wondered then how he had initiated the process. He was involved in any number of things that might have caused it. Any creative endeavour, any massive emotional damage suffered in youth, could be the catalyst. More often than not several things organised themselves to facilitate the expansion of consciousness required for this evolution into the anadromous life.
That's exactly what it was, an upriver surge. Only, without a guide, the help of someone who'd been there first it would be more like a Sisyphean waste of time. He could be stuck repeating the same mistakes over and over if someone didn't look out for him. He'd be in the same situation as before, but without the alcohol and other vices.
When she finished eating, she reached for a napkin and Martha appeared before her as if summoned.
"How much is it, Martha?" She asked.
"Oh, dear, never you mind. But do come back and read me those leaves sometime." Martha replied cheerily.
And that was that.
They say it's black magic when powers are used to manipulate in service of the self. Scoring free meals would certainly fall under that banner. It didn't take Constance Estela very long to get over any guilt about the way she volleyed her abilities about. Who gave them a free pass to try and control others with their made-up definitions?
Certainly there were costs, but the necessity of survival outweighed them in a world where every living thing must gain strength from another. Like at the police station earlier in the day. If she'd been a good girl like every one wanted she'd be sitting in a cell right now. All the same, she had to be careful, and made sure to assess the target of her projections carefully. Especially in this town. You never knew who, or what, was playing for the other team.
He needn't have transformed physically. God only knew what kind of complexes lay behind those manifestations. He was probably so sure I hadn't noticed the changes in his facial structure, the sudden rounded prominence of his chest.
Her own path hadn't necessitated such transformations. She'd always known she had more balls than most of the things passing themselves off in the streets as male. The switch had been entirely mental, had taken place inwardly. More of an unveiling of her inner strength, followed by a unifying of those forces. The alchemists had referred to it as the Rebis, while the Hindus worshipped it in the form of Ardhanarishvara. Every culture, in some form, acknowledges the fusion of opposites–the blending of all sub-personalities into a single, higher mind. Only in our degenerate times did we try to dispel this process, make a laughing stock of the transexuals, anybody who didn't fit the established mold. But it was simply the next step in the chain, the path to claiming our rightful power. Thankfully nature doesn't give two shits for the opinions of bipedal sheep.
As she made her way down the blocks that would lead her to the Invisible Scorpion, the lamps turned on and with clarity she anticipated the obstacles forthcoming. Things would be picking up speed now. She would have to monitor him even more closely. There was the old Jungian allegory about the female swallowing the male to keep in mind. She wouldn't let him tip over too much to one side.
And she had to get to him before the Man in the Black Suit did. Otherwise he'd vanish and never been seen again. That couldn't happen to the one remaining member of her bloodline she could marginally stand, the one remnant with a trace of real soul in them. Not again.
The world hasn't need of demons when there are plenty of monsters.