The Blueprints
I don't know where I first heard about it, shadows on the internet, whispers on the street. When you're in a life threatening situation, your senses heighten. I wasn't immediately in danger, but the wear and tear had gotten to me, the questioning of life, meaning, god, who I am, all that shit. It was threatening my life. It snuck up on me, like an assassin in the night. Creeping up slowly, and where I am at now? I guess that's just the knife across my neck, the destruction of my life, or at least my old life.
When you don't know who you are, when your life is one great hypocrisy, you'll seize any opportunity you can to solve the mystery, end the confusion, because that's what it is, confusion, not hypocrisy. So my senses heightened and I listened, heard whispers of a solution, and even worse yet, I believed it to be the solution. A way to break your mind, fragment it into pieces. Look at the skyscraper that is your mind, not as a whole, but as individual pieces, and then view, even partake in, the reconstruction.
I heard it called many things, The Window, The Mirror, The Blueprints. People had labeled it according to their use of it, A Window to your soul, a Mirror to examine yourself, the very Blueprints to your mind. A strange concoction of chemicals and street drugs that takes you to another world, a world in your mind, a world of your mind, that's what it is. There you remain, until you find what it is you're looking for. This was the prospect I heard of, the savior I was waiting for.
So my search began, dead end after dead end. I would meet people for lunch, small talk, the conversations went smoothly, but as soon as I mentioned what it was I was looking for, they became distant, worried. One guy, I had known him for awhile, a friend of mine who sold me E during my rave days. His blue eyes got wide when I mentioned it, the whites widening into empty, hollow fields, filled with horror. He got up and told me, "Some questions, are better left unanswered. Some things you just need to let go, they aren't worth the price". And he left. He never returned my calls, but where I am at now, I don't think he could reach me if he tried.
Finally the whispers lead to answers, and the shadows lead to doorways, which lead to a man sitting behind a table, in a dimly lit room, with putrid green walls, caked in dirt, featureless, like his face. He asked if I was sure I wanted this. He used names I had never heard before to label the substance. He didn't have it on him, only the recipe. No one carries it on them; it must be used immediately after it's made.
I won't list the recipe here. Things this dangerous, they are hard to get for a reason, no one should stumble upon this recipe. If you want it you will find it, and if you don't desire it, then you are safe from it. One thing I will tell you is that the recipe must be followed word for word, exactly, perfectly. The cost of error, well, I try to forget the stories, and the nightmares they have caused. I have no intention of scaring you, only letting you know what's at stake, for some things are far worse than death. If your technique or recipe has the tiniest of errors in it, you won't go where it is you seek, and unfortunately, you won't die. Total chaos, and every horror you can imagine, as well as those you can't, that is what waits for you, should you make the slightest error. Blood, fire, pain and darkness, but something far worse waits too. Reality becomes indistinguishable. It breaks down around you until the darkness which stands before you, its claws dripping with your blood as you lie bleeding to death, is no less real than you waking up to find it all a dream. Only to realize your dreams are just the dreams of dreams, and where it ends, where reality finally begins, you will never know.
I had collected all the materials, followed all the steps, and so I sat with my home micro-chemistry hobby kit laid out in front of me. I sat with a long cylindrical glass of transparent blue liquid in front of me, my reflection staring back at me from far within the depths of the glass, far deeper than the bottom of the glass, far deeper than the floor, or the earth. Contemplating what I was about to do to myself, the suicide I was about to commit. I don't know how long it was. But finally, some deep resolution within me took my hand and added the last drop of ingredient to the cocktail, and it began to let off a smoke. It smelled sour, with a hint of anger, and a sharp bite. Yet, there was a sweetness to it, a perfect relaxation. I picked up the knife that was resting on the table, raised it to my gums and let the razor rent my flesh; the cut would allow it to enter my bloodstream immediately. With stout determination my hand lifted the glass to my lips, and the liquid offered an icy kiss, sensual, but lacking satisfaction or pleasure.
I stared into the long glass as I downed the poison, my eyes fixated on the bottom of the glass. No later than the last drop of that torrential flood had slid down my throat, the glass changed, and the inside of the glass at which I stared, was no longer a glass, but rather, the empty darkness of the barrel of a gun. I was on my knees now, I don't know how. The hand that was gently curled around the grip of the pistol, tiny horizontal indentations being pressed into its skin, it was my hand.
When I say it was my hand, I don't mean that I was on my knees, with my arm bent upwards, pointing the gun into my own mouth, no; suicide would make too much sense. Both my hands were calmly at my side. The hand that was holding the gun, was not my own hand, but it was a hand, that was attached to an arm, that was attached to a perfect resemblance of myself at the age of ten, like it had just walked out of a time capsule, innocence still shining on its face like it had never left, its eyes staring into me with a shimmering ignorance.
Oh beautiful, beautiful ignorance. How I have missed you, like a dog misses its master.
Then came the smile, slowly spreading on his face like spilled blood on the floor, and then my lips, my own lips, without my command, spoke one word to my ten-year-old self. They uttered, "Please". And whether it was to please the request from my lips, or spite it, my finger squeezed that trigger for what seemed like eternity, then came eternity.
An explosion, a flash.
The journey begins now...
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