Let’s Begin
(Content warning: The story of a clown who somehow lays eggs)
There was once a young man called Peter, who dreamed of becoming a clown. One day he went out into the country, and for the next two weeks, he lived the life of a clown. He had a number of adventures, and at the end, he was weighing his options, and he was seriously considering the possibility that he should become a scientist. It occurred to him that he could look into the eyes of a human being as they slept, and then use the patterns of their irises to design masks.
He believed his experiments would be useful to a military organization, because it was believed that people who slept with one mask designed would be less likely to be disturbed in bed by the next mask they slept with. He was even considering the idea of constantly changing masks so that no two people he slept next to would see the same mask.
He would have been fine with that, except that he was also considering studying how people saw the eyes of other people. He was not a big fan of the idea, and he rejected the idea that his studies would be useful to a military organization.
One night he was walking along the road, and a car came speeding past him, and it smashed into his side, knocking him off the side of the road. He fell face first to the cold asphalt, and when he came to, he found himself face to face with a woman with dark short hair, wearing white latex gloves.
She said, “You look so familiar,” and pointed down the road.
Peter said, “Who are you?” He was scared.
She said, “I’m the last person you’d think would look familiar, but I think it’s the last person you’d think would see me, either.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know, I can’t remember.”
“What’s your name?”
“Peter, I don’t know your name, but I’m glad I met you, because you’re the first person I think of when I think of you.”
Peter said, “I’m sorry. How did you end up here?”
“I was one of the people who were watching over the test site.”
Peter said, “What’s a test site? Where do you do experiments?”
The woman said, “Your wife was talking about it. She said the last tests are planned for the next few days, but that there’s a chance none of them will work. Peter, the next experiment involves a human being. My name is Regina. There’s a good chance that you’ll see me soon.”
Peter asked, “Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to know.”
Regina replied, “I know I can’t say this to your face, but the scientists up at the research facility are confident that the experiment will work. There’s no chance it won’t work. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. They’re confident that you won’t remember what happened after you woke up, so I’m trying to construct a story in your mind, to put the pieces of your experience back together. It won’t all make sense, and I’m sorry about that. But I’m sure it helps.” Peter nodded solemnly at her.
She continued, “Peter, there’s something specific about you, and it’s a very specific memory, a memory that you’re going to have trouble implementing in your own mind, or if you do, it won’t be as clear and sharp and will kind of blur together. I kind of want to put it into words right now. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Peter said nothing.
“Tell me. Please. Oh, heavens, please tell me!”
Peter tried desperately to think, to understand, but there was nothing there, nothing that even hinted at what she meant. He protested with everything he had, so weak was his response. She was not appeased and she was becoming more and more angry. It was all too much for him, and he collapsed to the ground as she approached him.
“There is no way for you to deal with this!”
He looked up, and there was destruction in Regina’s eyes, hatred in her voice. Peter was suddenly aware of the cold of the night air, the weight of the latex protective suit, the way it hid his shapely form. The sensation of being under the latex was jarring in its unfamiliarity. He looked up to see her pointing a loaded gun at his head. There was a long pause, and then she said through a quavering mouth, “I’m sorry.”
He felt the adrenaline begin to subside, the adrenaline that made him feel alive. He was not afraid. He was too busy praying to whatever god there might be that this ordeal could end soon, that this feeling of inexorable dread could be broken by the calm voices of clearly competent people.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Regina’s head snapped up, and she vaguely heard the words, “I don’t think it’s your fault. I don’t think you did this.” There were tears in her voice; this was the worst nightmare she could have possibly had, and it made it all the worse.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t see it coming.”
Regina shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. She looked desperate, confused, terrified. “No. No. No. It’s not my fault. Somehow I had to be there, and I couldn’t stop it, and it’s not my fault.”
The gun clicked, and Peter felt something snap, and he later remembered as sheer panic, the whole world areas, everything changing, speeding up. The suit retained its shape, but shrunk, and the warmth clicked off, at first in waves of extreme cold and then in painful, deadly waves as the heart and brain sped up, pushed by an alien current.
“Peter!” He was yelling now, but not to Regina, but instead to the corridor, yelling her name, as her shape shrank, skittered, and shrank before his eyes until there was nothing left but a few clandestine cracks that were quickly repaired as the narrow hallway grew all at once, wracked by the creeping silence.
In the distance, a commotion he could not make out broke out. It was just his mind, splayed out in the moment to contain nothing but its many pieces, an inkblot pulled taut against the barest inconsistencies. The dull thumping of a bike, and the crinkle of its tires, distant machines, like some ghost of the machine age, approaching. Peter heard his own name, and for the briefest of instants, the full force of everything that had broken was brought to bear. His skin burned anew, and he could not blink. He thought that his thoughts had broken, and nothing mattered but time.
* * *
“Peter?”
The voice was terribly quiet. But it came again.
“Peter? Are you there? Peter? Are you there? Peter?”
“I can hear you. In my mind. I can still hear your voice. In my mind.”
“There is nothing like a feeling that you have, in your heart, Peter.”
“Was there never anything like a feeling you feel when you’re thinking something? Like you’re forming an idea? When you’re thinking about a thing? When you think something? What is it like to think about something? To think? Can I think?”
“I think about everything, Peter.”
“I know it’s hard to stay in your head. But I think about everything. All the time. Like a dull throbbing. But you don’t think about anything, Peter. Not much. And I know you can’t stay in your head –”
“– and sometimes