Revolutions
[EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE UK, A DIVISION OF THE STRANGER]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[Immediately we hear the howling ruckus and music of a circus. It’s almost like we’re in the Unknowing again.]
MARTIN
Wow.
ARCHIVIST
I told you.
MARTIN
I mean, yeah, but when you said big –
ARCHIVIST
I meant big.
MARTIN
Yeah, but – I mean, how big is it, actually?
[A little heh as he says it.]
ARCHIVIST
I-It doesn’t really work like that.
MARTIN
Yeah, figures.
ARCHIVIST
If you tried to measure the diameter, I – uh – it’d probably only be a half mile or so.
But the curve doesn’t work quite right, and if you stayed in the same spot and just – hopped on a horse and let it carry you ‘round, it – might be… days before you passed the same spot, or, uh…
[There are distant screams – of joy? Of fear? It’s hard to tell – in the background as he speaks.]
MARTIN
(overlapping) Or you might never see the same spot again?
ARCHIVIST
(exhale) Exactly.
MARTIN
Yeah. (sigh) I think I’m starting to get it.
ARCHIVIST
Good.
MARTIN
But – you said we needed to go through these places. Is that even gonna work here?
ARCHIVIST
(squeaky breath) Uh – We need to go through them… metaphorically. Psychologically, we need to experience them.
[Something screams in the background.]
MARTIN
Hm. (slowly) You think we could – get – that experience just – walking along the edge? Because, uh – I really don’t like the look of those riders.
ARCHIVIST
Would you believe me if I said they were the victims?
MARTIN
At this point, I’m not even surprised.
ARCHIVIST
Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing if we can help it.
MARTIN
Fine by me. (laugh) Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway.
ARCHIVIST
No? You – gone on any recently?
MARTIN
What? No. No, I don’t think so. Not since I was a kid.
ARCHIVIST
(heh) I actually, uh… There’s one at London Zoo – uh, was one at London Zoo. Big old thing. Went quite fast, actually. Su-Surprisingly thrilling.
[As he says this, we hear Martin trying to contain his mirth. As soon as the Archivist finishes speaking, he lets out a large burst of laughter.]
ARCHIVIST
What?
MARTIN
Seriously?!
ARCHIVIST
It was years back, before the Institute. I… I was in a weird place.
Had a good time, though!
[Martin laughs again, in surprised delight.]
MARTIN
Well.
ARCHIVIST
I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want to ride this one; we’ve got quite enough thrills already.
MARTIN
(teasing) You – Are you sure? I could speak to an attendant –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) I would advise – (softer) against doing that.
MARTIN
So you said the riders were the victims… where’s the monster?
ARCHIVIST
I’m hoping if we’re quick we can avoid her notice.
MARTIN
Her? (pause) J-John, please don’t tell me there’s an evil clown doll down there, because –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) No. N-No, Nikola died with the Unknowing; it’s, uh… (shaky inhale) an old friend.
MARTIN
(realizing) …Oh.
ARCHIVIST
Yeah. I’d really rather not deal with her if we can avoid it.
MARTIN
Yeah, good call. Um – in that case, do you want to – do your thing now, then, before we start moving? Uh, are we close enough?
ARCHIVIST
Yes. Yes, I-I think so. Good idea.
MARTIN
Thanks.
ARCHIVIST
You, uh. You might want to take a bit of a walk. This – feels like a strange one.
MARTIN
What does – “strange” mean, with something like this?
ARCHIVIST
Don’t think you want to know.
MARTIN
Good point! Um, okay, well, uh – good luck; I’ll be, uh – over there.
[We hear him walk off.]
ARCHIVIST
Right.
[Immediately, his static kicks in.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
Your face is not your face is not your face around the curling carousel it twists in place to take from you and all the tattered stolen souls who sense of me is swollen and distended into nothing.
Round and round and round it goes and when it deigns to stop who you might be you cannot know, so touch and feel the skin atop your skull to test the limits and extremities of where this canvas comes to rest, in robbed identities and peeling names that you could swear were never yours.
[In the background, someone screams.]
The music swells through you. The music vomits from you. The music calls a name that through the tears of half-grasped memories seems almost and eternally familiar.
So dance. Dance to the beat of the thump of the chase of the still and plastic horse hooves which cannot break from where they are secured by bolts and glue and eggshell-thin reality that paints a visage of sense almost enough to tell you that the nausea that swells and pushes at the limits of your mind is incorrect.
There’s nothing wrong.
The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wished to have a name it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close.
You want a face? Take it. There are so many here, and those who cannot hold them, well, whoever chose to give them such a gift must take the blame, knowing they could never keep it in a world of so much thieving strangeness.
And soon enough they will forget they ever even had one, rest assured; it’s best to step the dance and keep your face secured as much as you are able. Just. Keep. Running.
[More screams.]
Your feet – or are they just the shoes with emptiness within? – will pound upon the creaking wood of carousel-top, or perhaps the only ground there’s ever been, so struggle not to look behind, though – can you trust your eyes to tell you quite what it might be that dogs your steps and see the poor procession of those gory, faceless wretches who have lost possession now of all their treasured wants, identities to those who are now them?
Like you.
You tire of the chase of course, the fire and all-relentless pace of competition reaching for a name, identity, and face that has long since worn through all reserves of hard, enduring vigor in you. Yet still you only stay a self while willing on your aching legs that feel like breaking just to keep you forward of the frenzied fray of hazy clawed who are yous.
So run. Just run, and listen to the music of your panicked flight from those who long to take what you have stole from those no longer worth a name.
Ever-onwards-forward on the curling path of merry-go-round that’s twisted, wound, and spinning in its harrowing sound of organ-piping-circus-tunes that merrily hound the steps of your escape.
Could you turn a thought and burn your lead on your pursuers, an angle change a charge now perpendicular to your intended line of best retreat, and stake it all on one last hope, your bruised feet pounding to the edge?
The boundary. Don’t stop the ride, but you still want to get off.
But no, for all the dreams of bounding, leaping off into the great unknown, you see the ring of broken mewling wretches who have shown the sting that comes with such rejection of the truth, so seldom spoken yet inside you all- that there is no way off the merry-go-round.
And so perhaps the twirling round that pushes all who passenger the carousel might help you stay ahead, and so you seize the rough and peeling pole of ancient wooden horse, ignore the sloughing, screaming wood that comes away in clumps, and grip the saddle hard, in hands that should be clean but now have never seen a day they were not caked in glue and slaked with blood of all the robberies existence deems the only way to live.
Ride away. Just ride away.
Up it goes. Down it comes.
[That same shrill girl’s scream.]
Hold fast to the joy of the rise, despise all thoughts you might descend. And in the end, protest against that fall back down to painted wooden spinning earth, with all the tear-streaked grasping of the mass of gasping, still-unnamed oppressed.
Cry to the horse, Go higher! Faster, offer painted apples that you think perhaps it might desire, but the frozen face is still the same, the simple cast of equine terror, framed and caught in wood and plastic bulging eyes of fear.
Its pace remaining as it ever was; it does not care for coming pains as you are torn.
Doesn’t it know who you are?
No.
And soon, neither will you. (shaky breath) Although to call it “all is lost” is more dramatic, yes, than has been earned. For those upon this carousel who have not been you already, perhaps they know without a memory how good it is to have a face and name.
It’s not the same as what you had when first you climbed the brightly painted stairs, but not the worst who you have been. And as the horse drops through the air into the crowd of eager, waiting thieves you are unbowed and, yes, afraid, but still the music plays, and turns the world upon its gaudy axis.
You will be someone again, someday.
The hands and fingers reach and breach the gentle veiled complacency and respite that had just been yours upon your mount’s ascent, and now the wood is bent and bowed as faceless things who long to be a who pull splinters from the rot of screaming saddle and of rider.
You, who feels the mask of sharp and hard identity begin its gentle fracture into jagged shards of names that you once were.
I’m still Hannah! you try to scream, but are you? No. Perhaps there’s some Veronica as fragments there, or Julian, or Anya, but – no. You feel the last of names and who you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank, determined to be people.
The rotten, ragged rush of fetid fingernails that dig and push and reach around the edges of your face until they scrape against the bone in such a rough, scratched tone, that rocks and echoes through the space that was your mind, and when they peel it from you, like the skin of an orange, the skin of an apple, the skin of a pig, the skin of a child, the skin of a you, then comes the briefest flash that surely now it’s done, so much perhaps the pain will be somewhat lessened.
There’s no way it could hurt as much as you remember.
But it does, and so, of course, you scream and scream and curses foul, obscene will tumble garbled over where there once sat other people’s lips or yours now gone and teeth that once shone yellowed ivory are crimson in the flowing sanguine flood.
And as you lie in agonies and fading dreams of personhood, of knowing who you were and what that might have meant, you hear the bitter whisper of recriminating seekers who have found the treasure of their eager dreams, but see, it seems there’s not enough. For all.
And so they fall to frantic tearing conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. You lie there in the fugue of vivid pain and feel that gentle rain from violence overhead; some fall dead, or close as this place lets you lie, for – truly thus to die would be too eager an escape, and listen to the ebb and swell of slow, melodic wail that well you know conducts the flowing rhythm laced into this endless, faceless dance.
At last, a victor breaks away in clinging heartfelt terror of his former comrades, sprinting bold and holding to his skull the severed face that was once yours. Willing it to stick as those who notice try to pick themselves back up and give pursuit to close the gap.
Perhaps you should arise and follow on the things that once you would despise but now have joined. You are, of course, a faceless thing as well, and so should quickly match the pace of those who chase the self-same prey.
But now it is too late; they’ve gone. Their chase will not abate until their former friend is ripped apart in turn. And you have learned to wait.
For there are many faces out upon the carousel, and many names that you might be. So bide your time a while and wait the coming of another one whose fate and face might sit upon your grinning carmine skull.
So turn with the turn of the merry-go-round and dance to its jolly old song. Who will you be, with a name or three, and a stranger’s face worn wrong?
ARCHIVIST
End recording.
[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]
[EXT. THE DIVISION OF THE STRANGER]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[We still hear the circus music, loud and clear, along with a scream or two every now and then. The Archivist and Martin are still walking through the Stranger’s domain.]
MARTIN
You’re joking!
ARCHIVIST
(amused) I’m not.
[Brief pause.]
MARTIN
So was it any good?
ARCHIVIST
Uh – what do you mean?
MARTIN
Was it a good poem?
ARCHIVIST
I don’t know! No? You’re the poetry expert, Martin, not me.
MARTIN
Well – did it stir any feeling in you?
ARCHIVIST
Yes, nausea! Because of the horrible things in it.
MARTIN
That’s not quite what I meant.
ARCHIVIST
(laughing) Then I don’t know what you mean, Martin; I’m not a poetry person, I don’t – get it. I never have.
MARTIN
(long-suffering) That’s – That’s fine; I understand.
ARCHIVIST
Look, I’m better than I was. I used to think all poetry was bad.
MARTIN
Sorry, what?
ARCHIVIST
I mean, I just thought of – (small puff of a sigh) I sort of thought it was pointless. Just – (inhale) write some prose, and stop – wasting everyone’s time.
MARTIN
(thoughtful) Hm. What changed?
ARCHIVIST
I don’t know, I just – mellowed on it, I suppose.
MARTIN
That’s – kind of weird.
ARCHIVIST
In my defense, there is a lot of bad poetry out there.
MARTIN
I guess?
[Brief moment of silence as they walk.]
MARTIN
I kinda want to hear that tape now, see how artistic the Stranger actually is.
ARCHIVIST
Or just look up. (sigh) See it for yourself.
MARTIN
Uh – (heh) No, no thanks. Trying to avoid thinking about it, actually.
[A very large, shrill girl’s scream.]
ARCHIVIST
(sigh) Of course. Sorry.
MARTIN
How much further?
ARCHIVIST
I think we’re past the worst of –
[A strange almost-musical humming sound.]
ARCHIVIST
(quiet) Ah.
MARTIN
What?
ARCHIVIST
She’s here.
[We hear a static begin to come in, rising quickly. It gets shimmery quick, holding a high quavering tone that belongs to something familiar. Under it:]
MARTIN
(quiet) Oh no.
NOT!SASHA
(heh) My dearest colleagues.
MARTIN
Just – get back!
[A thump, like he’s trying to hit it with something.]
NOT!SASHA
I can’t believe you’d decide to pass through my neighborhood and not say hello to dear, old Sasha.
ARCHIVIST
Just ignore it, Martin.
NOT!SASHA
Oh, you wound me, Archivist. And we used to be so close.
ARCHIVIST
I have nothing to say to you.
NOT!SASHA
Nothing to say! Well, you crush me, bury me in the foundations of your little temple for a year, and now you have nothing to say?
ARCHIVIST
Leitner did that. And Peter released you. All I’ve done to you is to not die.
NOT!SASHA
Oh, and I would say that is quite rude enough.
ARCHIVIST
Leave us alone. I won’t warn you again.
NOT!SASHA
And what if I let you choose this time? Which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy. Oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist?
MARTIN
John, do we – do we need to run?
NOT!SASHA
Oh, yes, Martin. You very much do. I’ll even give you a head start!
[A pause. And then we realize the Archivist is laughing.]
MARTIN
…John?
[The Archivist begins to walk towards the Not!Sasha]
ARCHIVIST
You’re bold, I’ll give you that.
NOT!SASHA
(hissing) Last chance.
ARCHIVIST
Desperate for one last morsel of terror from us?
[The Not!Sasha snarls.]
ARCHIVIST
(amused) A final sip, and then we’re gone? Somehow we manage to keep just ahead of you and get away.
[It breathes out heavily, more angry huff than exhale.]
ARCHIVIST
God forbid you actually catch us.
[Its anger grows.]
ARCHIVIST
Doesn’t bear thinking about.
MARTIN
John, what are you talking about?
ARCHIVIST
She can’t touch us.
[The Not!Sasha continues to make noises of anger, growling and snarling and huffing like a bull.]
ARCHIVIST
We’re so far beyond her now. She’s just like everything else here: ruled by the Eye. (slight laugh) And she hates it.
[The Not!Sasha lets out something like a roar and begins talking: fast, angry, no hint of the syrupy sweetness from before.]
NOT!SASHA
Well of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master.
[That strange musical hum comes in again over her words.]
NOT!SASHA
Do you know how it feels? To be – anonymous? And yet known! To have all the sweetest dread I can create tainted by the relentless gaze of that damned Eye. I’ve suffered enough.
ARCHIVIST
Pathetic.
[A clinking, shuffling sort of sound; he shoulders his bag.]
ARCHIVIST
Martin, let’s go.
NOT!SASHA
Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life.
[A drawn, dangerous pause.]
[The Archivist takes a step back to face it.]
ARCHIVIST
(low, deadly) What did you say?
[The Not!Sasha does not respond. A soft static bursts in, just in the background; instead, the Not!Sasha draws a sharp breath.]
NOT!SASHA
I-I’m sorry.
[In the background, the circus music shifts key, higher.]
MARTIN
John?
ARCHIVIST
You were wrong, you know.
[The static rises. The Not!Sasha cries out in pain, small, whimpering sounds. The Archivist’s voice and gaze are relentless.]
ARCHIVIST
There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims, their constant, senseless agony.
[The static builds and builds and builds over his words, the Not!Sasha forced to drink it in, crying out as the terror floods it.]
ARCHIVIST
Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn.
[The static reaches its upper register, the most scrambled of its tones. This isn’t the Archivist’s typical static; it doesn’t take an angelic quality. It’s squeaky, variable, similar to how Peter Lukas’s static sounded. It is stronger, harsher.]
[The Not!Sasha is sobbing.]
ARCHIVIST
Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing.
[The static pushes at the edges; it bounces, thumps, throbs in the ear. A new, lower-register segment has arrived; it sounds rather like a drill bit. This is the sort of static that, if louder and more intense, could blow out speakers, put pressure on the eardrum.]
NOT!SASHA
No! No, please, no!
[The static mounts and swells and bursts. It sounds like a glitch, like something wrongly heard.]
[The Not!Sasha screams a final wavering and distorted No! and then fades.]
[The static lingers briefly, but fades quickly after.]
MARTIN
(impressed) Who-a-oa.
ARCHIVIST
(quiet, drained) I, uh –
MARTIN
What was that?!
ARCHIVIST
I, I destroyed it. K-Killed her.
MARTIN
(a cross between pride and glee – hurrah!) Are you kidding me? You – you obliterated her! You – you smote her!
ARCHIVIST
(mumbling) We should go.
MARTIN
What about the merry-go-round? With her gone, is it – is it still the –
ARCHIVIST
(snapping) I don’t know!
MARTIN
Yes, you do!
ARCHIVIST
I, I don’t – want to know; pl– We need to go. Please.
[We hear one of them grab at bags.]
MARTIN
(surprise) Oh, oh, okay, a-alright, alright, lead on!