1
Madness is an insidious disease.
We do not see the danger until it is too late. It creeps into the cracks and crevices of the mind and makes itself at home, like carpenter ants in the framing of a home. We do not know the floor has rotted away until one ill-timed step destroys the façade of normalcy.
But carpenter ants do not destroy a home. They change it. As matter cannot be destroyed, they consume the structures we have built and rearrange it for their own use.
While a home beset by such insects might seem uninhabitable for those who look at the situation from the outside, to the ants it was the intended outcome. We might inspect the foundation and find it derelict and dilapidated. We might scoff and say that anyone who lives within such a place is idiotic, and that they should have not neglected it in such a way. And, in extreme cases, they should move.
Consider this metaphor in relation to one’s mind. That place in which we spend the entirety of our mortal lives. What happens when your home is beset by insects then?
One cannot move out of one’s own mind, try as we might. We are trapped within these structures of ours, for better or worse and come what may. We must make do with what we are given and what we have left. Whereas you or I in our daily lives might seek a new homestead in such an infestation, in this labyrinth of the psyche, we cannot.
There are different ways that a consciousness, once gnawed and riddled with holes, might come to adapt to such a state of being. Consider three men with this dilemma, if you will.
The first man may seek to repair the damage—replace the eaten portions and shore up the foundations. This man is pragmatic, but shortsighted. He treats the symptoms, but not the cause.
The second may seek to exterminate the infestation—to seek the illness at the root and rip it out. This man is wise, but must need act quickly before the house collapses around him.
The third man merely laughs—he accepts his new state of being and does nothing to repair his home. He declares himself King of the Ants, lifts up hammer and sledge, and tears the remaining walls apart with his own two hands.
You might think that man the fool. You might think him a harmless, laughing lunatic.
It is a mistake that leads to ruin.
For that man is the most dangerous of them all.
-M. L. Harrow
Cora woke up from a dreamless sleep. She had expected to be troubled by nightmares or at least her usual tossing and turning. Or, which had been the pattern the past few days more often than not, to be pestered or terrorized by Simon. But it seemed she had been so exhausted that her mind couldn’t even summon up nightmares from her day. Which was pretty damn impressive, as she had plenty of fuel for her mind to burn.
Being haunted by a man-eating murder-circus, almost being turned into an inhuman and monstrous meal-via-porcelain-doll by an undead psychopath, and now being trapped inside said man-eating murder-circus with said undead psychopath.
An undead psychopath to whom she was mildly attracted, but that was another stupid problem entirely.
It took her a solid couple of seconds to remember where she was. The linens smelled fresh and clean, but not like home. Despite a slight chill in the air from the early spring weather, the blankets were thick and warm. She could hear the click of a heater going on and off occasionally.
The room was streaming with morning sunlight. It hadn’t even occurred to her to pull the blinds around the large bed at the back of the boxcar. But the light didn’t bother her. She was lying there…basking. And it took her a long time to realize why.
She didn’t hurt.
She was…comfortable.
There was no ache in her back or her hips. There was no tenderness in her joints. There wasn’t that background hum of pain that had plagued her for the past decade of her life.
She stretched and waited for the pain to start. It was too good to be true. She waited for the familiar pang to stab into her hips, her shoulders, her elbows, anything.
Nothing.
She rolled her wrists. She arched her back. She waited for the sound of popcorn and crunching and the mild ache that went along with it. Nothing happened. She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up onto her hands, waiting for the agony to start. There was none.
She fell onto her stomach and let out a small, disbelieving laugh. She flopped onto her back, stretched out her arms and legs wide, and let out a long, contented groan.
She didn’t hurt. For the first time in years…she didn’t hurt. She felt like she had slept. Really, honestly slept. She wasn’t exhausted, beaten down, and feeling like she had woken up after being dragged behind a runaway truck. She felt good. Honest-to-god good.
It wasn’t possible.
None of this is possible.
She looked up at the wood paneling of the ceiling. It was stained a rich cherry, and it was clear the whole space was very old, but well maintained. No, this place is alive. The Faire is keeping it this way with the bits and pieces it eats from people. Remember? She sat up and ran her hands through her hair. It felt stringy and gross from having been out in the rain last night for hours.
She looked down at her hands. She remembered nearly tearing off her fingernails clawing at the invisible wall. She should at least have bruises from what had happened. She bruised so easily ever since she was a kid. But nothing was there. Touching her nose, she remembered bloodying it when she ran into the invisible wall. But it wasn’t even sore.
Simon healed.
I healed.
I…Am I really one of them now?
No.
No, she refused to accept that she was trapped. She refused to accept that she was trapped in this damn place. A monster and a circus freak. This was all some wild illusion. It was a trick. She’d get dressed and get the hell out of here. Simple as that.
She slipped out of the bed and the little demi-room in which it was partitioned in the back of the boxcar. Going into the bathroom, she pulled the t-shirt up and over her head to look for the purple blotches she was certain would be on her shoulder.
After spending hours trying to get through the invisible barrier that was holding her prisoner, she should have something. Some mark of what she had done. She should hurt somewhere. She always hurt somewhere.
Nothing. She didn’t even have bags under her eyes. She looked…better than she had in a long time. She furrowed her brow at her own reflection, confused. Letting out a sigh, she didn’t know what to do about it. Be mad that she wasn’t in pain? That she didn’t have puffy marks under her eyes? That she looked…healthy?
Glancing over at the tub and shower combo with the old-fashioned brass wall-mounted showerhead, she was too tempted. If she were going to try to escape this place, she might as well do it not feeling gross. She pulled her still-soggy clothing out of the tub and threw them over the towel rack and flipped on the shower. It got hot after a minute, and she stripped out of her borrowed nightclothes and stepped in.
It was amazing how cathartic a shower could be. Hot water seemed to make everything better. She found some shampoo and went about scrubbing her hair. She had a lot of it—it went down well past her shoulders—so it took a while. It didn’t help that she had knotted sections while being out in the rain having a breakdown.
Combing conditioner through her hair with her fingers gave her time to think.
She played over the events of the past few days in her head, right from the very beginning, and tried to piece it all together. No matter how many times she thought it through, it all came down to one thing.