That's all there is anymore. That's all I can have. I'm an all powerful demigod, locked in the chamber of little boy. Do you know where the power goes? It flows out our fingers and out soggy clothes into broken men. They seek forgiveness, so here I go. Our mother was there, and the fridge flew out of the way. Mommy's pretty neck, gone in a flash, bursting blood onto my our poor hands, and dripping onto the floor. We're all broken now.
The monsters, the jailers, they hold me now and they won't let me go. They need me whole. They make me fight grammie, but she knows we've already won. This doesn't make any sense. What am I talking about? None of that shit actually happened. I need to get a hold of myself, before I start spouting some more goddamn nonsense. Deep breaths. How many fingers do I have… ten? Ten seems like a good number. One, two, ten. Okay, back.
My name is Andrew, and there's something really wrong with me. I don't know what it is, or how it even started happening… all I can say is that when I was 17, I started to be able to destroy things, just… make them disappear when I touched them. There's no way to control it, because as soon as I try something else gets atomized and somebody else dies.
God… if this… not a jail, but a prison, if they hadn't gotten to me, I don't know how many more people would've died. How many are dead in here, right now? They say I've killed thirty people, but that's probably an exaggeration. Something to get into my head. I know I killed… I killed mom, but that was an accident. I didn't know what I was doing.
But actually, that's not how it happened at all.
My name is Damien, and I'm pretty amazing. Actually, amazing is an understatement. I can do incredible, mind-blowing shit that none of you pussies reading this could even dream of. Look, dude, when you can fuckin' blow shit out of the sky with a touch, you turn some heads. Sure, before I came to this joint, I had a lot of fun with mayhem, but it's cool in here. Where else are we gonna ignite some old hustler and kick back with a Yoo-Hoo?
It's cold in here, but we're still sharp. The instrument sharpens the blade on every whetstone it uncovers, breaking new ground by breaking the bonds in front of him. Every shape it grasps, sees, tastes and touches in one million new ways. Godspeed.
No, you're remembering it wrong. You need to answer us. What is your name?
… I don't have one. I don't know.
Where did you come from?
California. I just… let me get some headspace, okay? This is too much, this is too gone…
Just try to stay with us, okay? Who are you?
I said I don't know! Fuck, can you give me just one goddamn minute?
Please, calm down. You're safe here.
No, but… it's out there. it's… coming out, coming up, and ripping people to pieces.
You're safe now… it's over.
No. It never ends. No matter how many times I fucking want to go back to square one, to crawl into a little hole inside myself and let this thing take over, it never happens. Something always pulls back from the edge. Memories fail me, and like so many other days, the sun is rising in the west, and the clock counts down from zero.
They keep making me change. Every time death is coming close, I'm changed to suit the world better. My mind breaks and molds to fit their new sculpt, the pièce de résistance of their new exhibition. Memories and histories rewritten, until nothing remains of where they started but a name. And I don't know what my name is.