I heard someone say once that "only a sane man would consider the possibility that he is insane". It felt ridiculous, an almost childish understanding of brains. You might as well argue that only the intelligent will consider the possibility they are mistaken, as though cognitive blind spots don't plague us all. Despite this, it accurately captures the relationship to my own eroded mental state.
Returning to your own head is difficult. It's hard to explain what madness feels like if you've never experienced it. The driving affliction is the overwhelming sense of wrongness. But the wrongness can never be quantified. Indeed, the return to sanity is marked by an understanding of why everything felt wrong. Everything felt wrong because you were unable to understand why everything felt wrong. It was the inability to analyze the reasons for the failure of your mind that caused the failure of your mind.
But now I understand myself again. I'm lying in the gutter, wrapped in rags and filth. And it's a relief that I know what's wrong. I know what's wrong. And I can bear that as a shield, pick up the pieces of my shattered mind. My flesh is stable, my body human once more. I have a name and I know it. "I'm Violet", I whisper to myself. Almost a mantra. A ward against the encroaching threat of returning back to that place. I shivered at the thought of it, at the vague memory of the sensations. It felt real. Too real. Perhaps it was?
No, I couldn't think like that. To accept the reality of wind beneath my wings and raw flesh in my mouth was to accept the wrongness again. I had to fight against it, struggling with everything I had. I had to cloak my identity in self awareness. It was wrong. That was what was going to keep me on my feet. That would keep me moving, keep my brain mine.
I could taste the concrete on my lips. It pressed into me, real in a way that nothing had been for years. And for a moment, I was almost ready to believe that it had been years, drifting in and out of awareness. That the gentle kiss of cold air on my cheeks was a marker of seasons passed, that I could open my eyes and perhaps see snow before me. But no. The world is the same as I left it, merely spun a little faster. To the millions who walk through the city, nothing has changed. Cars honk their horns as they jostle to progress down crowded streets. Coat wrapped workers deal hot dogs from trucks and stands to the hoards of hungry and important business people. Through it all, the homeless fight against their inherent invisibility, battling against constantly moving sight-lines.
My legs felt like I'd run a marathon or two. I pulled myself to my feet anyway, trembling like a leaf. I was hungry and tired and cold. The ache dug into my bones more deeply than any before. It burst from my lips as small gasps as I struggled to stand, struggled to walk onwards from my respite.
Watching my struggle was a cat, black furred and rough. Its ears were torn and eyes covered by scars. Matted fur covered heaving sides. Lazily, it followed at my heals, silently stalking. It was almost as a new second shadow, matching my slow and awkward pace as I limped towards the promise of the oncoming grassy field. The park, a place of peace and quiet. It would be free from the curses that cling tightly to the shallow concrete.
"What're-", I tried to speak but the roughness of my tongue and dryness of my mouth stopped me. I swallowed, despite the pain, fighting against the horrible feeling of my mouth. I could taste blood and meat and I wasn't sure if it was mine. "What're you looking at?", I managed finally, staring at the cat.
Calmly, it stared back. "Nothing, miss", it said, quietly.
"Are you going to help me?"
"I already have, miss."
"Feh." I spat. "Stupid cat."
It didn't flinch. "I'm not a cat, miss."
I put one shaking foot in front of another. The call of the swaying trees dragged me onwards despite the pain rippling from each step. "Then what are you?"
"I'm a fragment of the whole, miss."
"That's a useless answer," I responded.
"Aye," agreed the passing spider. "That's a useless answer, little ghost eater."
"Begone," said the cat.
"Now, now," chuckled the spider as it drifted through the air on gossamer silk. "What will you do, little ghost eater? What will you do with your little lost ghost?"
"I'm not a ghost," I whispered.
"I'm not a ghost eater," hissed the cat. It leapt, fangs out, trying to catch the spider in its jaws.
The spider cackled and swum through the air, graceful as anything. It dodged each jump, spinning as it trailed great webs. "Now, now. Little ghost, surely you won't permit your fragment here to devour such a little thing as me?"
I kept my eyes focused forwards, not letting them be drawn to the motion. "Not my fragment."
"Ah, my poor little lost ghost. You know not what you are, is that so?"
"I know what I am."
"And what is that then, my dear?"
"I'm me."
The cat laughed once, sharp and cruel. "You're no more whole than me, miss."
The spider's voice was soft and gentle. "Is that so, my dear?" It paused for a moment to consider. "Yes. I see. I see that it is so."
"Yeah," I said. I could feel consciousness starting to fade. Fear spiked into me suddenly. Had I already lost my grip on myself? Is that what caused talking cats and dancing spiders?
"My poor little lost ghost, may I offer you a word of advice?", asked the spider.
The crowd of normal humans parted before me, ignoring the argument. Ignoring me. I felt my eyes slip outwards, towards the traffic. "Sure," I said. What did I have to lose?
"Silence and begone, small thing," hissed the cat.
The spider danced out of the way of outstretched claws. "Little ghost, do you know what the difference is between the ghost and the ghost eater?"
"No."
The spider, which was really a person, which was really a tree, which was really a storm, turned to face me. For a moment, the two of us stood alone together atop a distant mountain. "Why, it is merely who holds the knife."
"I see."
The spider settled onto my nose. "Find your knife, my little lost ghost. We're all rooting for you."
And then it flew on wings carved from looped silk, heading into the distance for parts unknown. The cat wormed its way between my legs.
"Who was that?", I asked the cat.
"A distant memory," it replied.
"Do you really eat ghosts?"
It nipped at my heels gently. "Only ghosts who collapse in the middle of the street, miss."
"Alright," I said, and resumed walking.
The grass was divine. I dragged myself over it for a few meters, enjoying the fresh oxygen on my lungs. The stench of the city faded away, the roughness of the air pollution dropping quickly with distance. The trees rustled like old friends. They were familiar. Almost as though I'd been here before, as though I'd slept here on nights long and scary. It was strange, but also comforting. I made it a little way onto the grass before my legs gave out. But my arms still worked, and I dragged myself further, feeling the mud staining my skin and grass blades pricking at my clothes. The cat strode imperiously besides me, an almost honour guard. It was regal, in a way. Dignified like how I wasn't.
But I made it. I pressed my back to the bark of the tree and sighed. The weight fell off my bones and my eyes shut. I could feel sleep lulling towards, the calm promise of normal dreams instead of the wild flailing of a the monster that dwelled at the bottom of my brain.
The cat curled up next to me, and glanced at me with small eyes. "You can't sleep now, miss."
"Why not, cat?"
"We need your help, miss."
"Who are you?"
"I am a fragment of the whole, miss."
"No," I shook my head with great effort. "You want my help, you give me more than that. Who are you, cat?"
"I am not the whole. But I am a piece of the whole. I contain elements of it within myself. I will reunite with it and then I will cease to exist, as must all fragments. You will help me achieve this."
"The whole of what?"
"Them. The nameless being. The one who dances through stars. The one who walks through boundaries. The devourer of wizards. The bearer, bringer, and curer of madness."
I was so tired. "Riddles, little fragment."
"Aye, miss."
"A clue, please."
The cat didn't blink. It never blinked. How had it taken me so long to notice? "The balance was not kept, miss. Scheming wizards shattered us. Now, us fragments crawl through this despised city. We seek to reunite with the whole, miss. But the whole has been taken."
I sighed.
"To know the whole is to be the whole, miss. I cannot understand what we were until we are whole again."
"Fine."
"You must help, miss."
I swallowed and gestured at my body, making clear its many wounds and weaknesses. "What makes you think I can help you?"
"You can, miss. You are more than you think."
"Let me rest, little fragment."
"Up, miss!" It nipped at my arm.
I groaned with exertion, trying and failing to shift away from it.
"Up, miss! Up!"
"Cat", I said, authoritatively.
It stopped and sat at attention.
"There are other fragments roaming around the city? Like you?"
It considered for a moment. "Yes. We shadows are many. We flit from place to place and thing to thing. We seek those that could help us. We seek the whole."
"Would a fragment ever assume a name?"
"Only the most fractured of fragments would sully their reality with such, miss. But perhaps, a sufficiently damaged one could."
I think I could see where this was going. "Would such a fragment ever name itself Ram?"
"Ram", the cat whispered, turning the word over. "Ram." It looked away, flanks heaving suddenly with laboured breathing. "A name for a dreamer. A name for running away. A name for peace." It turned back to stare directly into my eyes, my haggard reflection gazing back at me as though trapped in infinite darkness. "A name for one who has forgotten their role. A name for one who mistakenly believes themselves whole. That is a name we would take were the circumstances right, miss."
"I see," I said.
We both stared into the distance for a while. "Where is the whole, cat?"
"Call me Fragment, miss."
"Where is the whole, Fragment?"
"194 Manderly Street, miss."
I took a deep breath. My head felt clear in most ways. I was myself, and of that I was sure. But there was a lingering wrongness. Something deep, persisting below my awareness. I wanted to see Ram again. I needed to see Ram again. Was this love? I could go back to my apartment. We could get the wall fixed. Maybe Mallow would be my friend again and we could listen to music late at night and argue about inconsequent nonsense.
But the wrongness stirred in me. It wasn't an enemy. It was a friend, daring to be unleashed. I wondered what it would be like to push it on someone else. It goaded me, pushing me almost to try. Maybe I was greater than I thought. Maybe I was special. Maybe I was fucked in the head and out of my mind and still in the gutter. But forwards felt better than backwards. And it was real nice to feel needed.
"Alright," I said. "Alright. Let's go get your guy."