She asked the doctor, "...how do you write history?"
With a quick twist of his neck he sympathetically whispered, "You have to invent it."
"As in giving people what they want to hear?” she said while dismembering a flower of its dead leaves.
"I mean it more like the industrialization of your spine".
The doctor's corroded hands worked their way toward the sullen child and he methodically ran his finger down the collection of metals that formed her vertebrate. His movements caused a low brassy howl. He paused with a deep breath before he brought himself to the switch-so swiftly he turned her off.
She turned in horror. As the power escaped her, with the last gush of her essence that was left she yelped, "...take care of yourself doctor."
"I’ll try my best..." and as her body disintegrated on the floor, a bright cloud started forming around the pieces of metal as they melted, as the last yelp was heard and the room was blinded with red light.”...The second time around."
The air became stiff by the residue of destruction. The bright clouds that once invaded the room to mark her demise where fading, mingling with their surroundings. Soon reality will transcend into a world where she never existed. The space where her mass occupied a set geographic location will be occupied by something else and her mark-her dot on existence has vanished as quickly as the scent of the melted metal. But her stink lingered around a bit-vaguely. Enough to affect those that once knew her until the smell leaves all together.
Dust bundles of her body quickly picked up speed as the wind turned against the steady dead air that filled the room. Her minuscule specs of body took flight and frolicked unwillingly around the room. The doctor swore if he squinted he could make out her body attempting to draw him in-making him give in to her. The whole scene was picturesque and he thought it was almost beautiful. He wished he could stop and extend this moment forever, living an eternity surrounded by her tiny majesty. She made her last promenade until the sky called her out into the world. Vapor.
The doctor's ears rang with the echo of her last words... "Second time around" he gathered the pieces of himself and jolted up, waddling towards the windowsill. He restlessly repeated to himself..."second time around...second time around...second time around" the words created a rhythm that seduced him into a dream state. "Second time around...second time around...second time around" He almost felt like dancing to the words. He so longed for a second time, a second shot- just one do-over. This thought excited him. His face grew warm and flushed, and with a smirk growing thin he followed "The second time around, hilarity ensues. Just like heaven knows we will soon be dust, dirt in the ground, skulls cracked open, and rivers of flesh. What a dirty joke... to be put upon this earth with the power to create and still unable to save ourselves." The doctor laughed uncontrollably.
Composed, the doctor makes a sharp turn towards the door. He now has earned the right to evade the situation that occurred mere moments ago. He opens the door and flees to his cave, his dark and damper reclusive cellar where he holds the power only gods dare to dabble with. Her memory escapes the doctor as quickly as the light from the open door retrieves from the mystery and unknown world the doctor has created.
His movements are mechanical, he made his way down those steps millions of times, his path is eternally engraved in his mind-and made so by the doctor’s own will. 106. It takes the doctor 106 steps from that room to the cellar. He decided to memorize the steps it took to navigate throughout the house just in case if a sudden blindness were to ever inflict him. 336 from the front door to the second bathroom. 568 from the second bathroom to the master bedroom. Each step measured, calculated and memorized.
"She had a tendency to do the same", the doctor pondered. That's the only reason why he memorized so much useless information, for fear of not knowing. The fear of being lost inside his own cave would overcome him and transfix his desire for creation into a solid state of misbehavior. And he sure as hell didn't want that. He refused to become one of his creations, refused to systematize himself as he did with the girl. But he could not escape it. The doctor went around the room touching and naming every instrument and fixture, every failed experiment and coffee-stained notes. He battled with his necessity to bring it all to the floor and watch it break. He crumbled pages and tore notes, only to find that the taste of destruction was creeping through him like a poison. He couldn't understand it, it didn't make sense, but then again, nothing really makes sense, even for a doctor.
His cave, as he would call it, was curiously arranged. As you emerged from the stairs a single bulb lamp greeted you in the same manner a hung man sways mockingly at his own end. Now, it’s needless to say that he has yet to turn the damn thing on. No, the doctor always felt at his creative peak when he worked by candlelight. Which is another curious factor-the whole cave was smothered in cinder and wax of all colors and scents. The cave smelled of a fused odor of wax, mold, and dissipated metal. This was a welcoming feature for the doctor. One whiff of his cave and he felt welcomed. The feeling was a sense of intimate involvement with a physical object that is completely alien and outside of oneself.
Papers of all shapes and sizes peppered the room. There was no telling what one would find encrypted on them. Some notes where just to-do list and doodles; yet some were almost illegible to common minds. The walls were smothered with papers just dangling above concealing any form of normalcy. If one were to dig through the years of failure that are layered over one another with an empty lustful hope of some form of accomplishment you might find a point in which the life of this cellar once occupied a purposeful meaning. The room is so heavy with thought it wants to swallow itself in.
Rusted tools that have lost their purpose as well dangled aimlessly along with the walls of ideas. A few times tools would get lost within the paper trails and the doctor would go out and buy a new set of wrenches and hammers, only to rediscover the old ones as he attempted to replace them in the same spot he thought he had lost the previous set.
…And yet as miserable as this whole picture is, it’s almost worth it just to peak inside the closet.
As if pulled outside of his own body the doctor caught a glimpse at himself, he was out of breath and undone. It seemed he had lost control of himself. The distinguished man had flattened out into an uncontrollable ogre. Was it too late, did he indeed become some deformed failed creation devastated by his own hands?
He could only see a memory, a shadow... a ghost. He could only come to realize his own defeat by looking at trails of blood and flesh and bones and dirt of his decaying body. He was no longer himself, or what he had built for himself. No more did the doctor exist than the robotic girl. He picked up a broom as to think he could clean his entrails off so easily. He washed his hands enough so he could feel his skin wearing off and the stones being polished. Staring at himself in a mirror, the doctor didn’t brush his hair, didn’t even blink. There was only a pair of eyes staring back at him, the eyes of a face that he could never see. He picked up books and he picked up notes but no matter how much he read them, at the end of the day they meant nothing. They were nothing. They were maps to madness, maps for blissful disintegration. He turned all the candles off and laid on the floor, looking up at the papers falling down by the light coming from the window. He was happy, he was scared, he screamed, he was lost. It was all so beautiful. At exactly 6:00 AM, the doctor thought to himself, “If only my son could see me now.”