On The Outside

The timeline of Project: New Midian uses Aelyx’s birth as a focal point. For example, old Midian was destroyed in 10 BA, ten years before Aelyx, or 1984.

Aelyx wears a thick leather collar with a silver heart-shaped tag that says “slut”. He’s proud of the scars that it covers, which are puncture marks made by being fed on by multiple vampires over the course of his life. He has the same scars on his wrists and thighs.

He’s not technically Sebastian’s son. He and Lexi are clones that were altered slightly. Sebastian did provide the base materials though.

When Aelyx met Sebastian the two didn’t recognize each other, but they were immensely attracted to each other. This says something about Aelyx’s vanity.

He has the Goetic symbol for Amon tattooed on his left hip, like a my little pony cutie mark. Amon is the person Aelyx is closest to loving, and he makes an honest effort to remain faithful and monogamous (although he usually fails).

The WoD term for Aelyx’s type is Abomination, a werewolf who is also a vampire. Aelyx can transform at will, but only at night. His were form is based on a Sumatran dhole, but being an Abomination is larger and more violent than a typical were creature. He has basically no control in this shape. Not that he has much control to begin with.

Zack writes about his eating disorder.

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            I like the dark. You’re probably thinking that, given what I am, liking the dark is just a given. It’s true that the night is all I’ve known for a long time. But the night isn’t dark for me. I’m Nightbreed. My eyes have been remade for total darkness. I like the dark because, for much of my life, it has been a loving cover for all of my sins.

            Case inpoint: I am fourteen years old. It is three in the morning, and I’m in thekitchen crying and eating. I don’t know what set me off; I only know that the absoluteonly way to stop the pain gnawing at my insides is to smother it in food. Undercover of darkness I down a whole liter of soda pop, a loaf of bread, two bagsof popcorn, a bag of crisps, everything I can microwave, and at least a gallonof tap water. I know that all of this will be coming up soon, eithervoluntarily or because my body can’t handle it, and I’m hoping the water willmake it hurt less. All the while tears pour down my cheeks.

            Suddenlysomeone turns the lights on. They flicker twice before illuminating the smallroom. Aaron stands in the doorway, his bathrobe wrapped around him.  “What are you doing?” He asks in confusion. Hesmoothes his sleep-tousled grey hair, adjusts his glasses and glares at me.  I had thought I couldn’t be more ashamed, butwhen his eyes fix on me I realize I was wrong. There is nothing worse thanAaron’s piercing eyes zeroing in on the spittle and crumbs on my cheek.

“It’s bad enough that themedication is going to make you gain weight. Do you want to make it worse? Goto bed.” That’s it. No concern for me, or for the wasted food. No ‘are you okay?’Just ‘don’t get fat’, as if this is a totally normal inconvenience.  He leaves me alone, the florescent lightsbringing the details of my binge into sharp contrast.

            Silently Ibegin cleaning up my mess. When the wrappers have been thrown away, theleftovers stored, and the countertops cleaned, I make my way upstairs to thebathroom. Without turning the light on, I kneel in front of the toilet and liftthe lid. Making myself vomit is difficult and messy, but afterward when I laycurled in a fetal position in the cold tile a feeling of euphoria comes overme. I have a sense of complete calm. I imagine I’ve died, and there is nothingafter life except the cold comfort of a windowless dark room. I feel that thereis no one in the world except me and the infinite cold, unyielding support ofthe porcelain tiles.

            Asexpected, this becomes a routine thing for me. Once a week-sometimes more oftenthan that-I become a whirlwind of destruction, consuming everything andanything I can get my hands on. I do it as silently as I can, the only sound myoccasional sob or cough. The only light I allow myself during these bingesessions is the thin sliver of yellow light from the open refridgerator.

I've noticed webs likes to fuck up my formatting when i copy and past things into here. No clue what that's about. 

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           I read somewhere that religion was all that separated humans from the lesser animals.Pure rubbish, of course, but if it were true then the Nightbreed would perhaps qualify for a degree of humanity (little that we would desire it). We have our myths and legends, although few are maintained any more. We have our god, Baphomet.Or at least, we think we do.

            Our most important myth? Oh, that’s easy. Cabal and Midian. I know, I know. Midian isn’t a myth. It’s a real place-or at least it was. Once we had a final strong hold,hidden in the deserted North. Imagine a labyrinth of underground tunnels stretching for miles, and miles, the tunnels painted and filled with music. Imagine huge,sweeping caverns that foster warmth and safety in their dark and dank depths. All around you is the sound of laughter and the knowledge that you are not an outsider. This is a family, and this is where you belong. Imagine a place whereyou do not have to hide behind glamours or masks. A place where god is real,and accessible for the few brave enough to seek him. That was our home.

            Then someone found out about it. I don’t want to go into the details. Midian was destroyed,and our god was sundered into pieces. Some of us still keep vigil, holding tightly to the remainders of our lord and waiting for the day Cabal will return to restore our god and build a new Midian. That was more than twenty years ago.

            And still we live in the shadows of Naturals. Still we hide from them, trying in vain to slake our hunger without drawing their attention. Nowhere is safe for us now.They hunt us, just as they always have. Oh, now they make up new reasons. No one ever says “he was a vampire” when they explain why they burned your safe haven down. But they come up with reasons, absolutely. They say “he was gay” or“she was an illegal”, but we know when they got one of ours. Sometimes they don’t even need reasons. We unsettle them. I know Patches does, the poor dear. Not that she can help it. It’s just in the nature of Naturals to be brutal to anything that is different. 

            So we hide.

            But not for much longer.

            Whether Cabal exists or not, it is clear he has failed in his duties. It falls now to us to create a new Midian. And if we can do that, why stop there? We’re going to create a whole new world. Let the Naturals have a taste of what it is like to be hunted and live in fear. We deserve better than slinking in the shadows.I just need your help. What do you say?

 I'd love to make a video for 'Message in a Bottle' by the Police. I'd want it to emphasize isolation in every day life, and how you don't have to be on a deserted island to be alone. Which, of course, is the whole point of the song. This is an outline for a possible video that I hope gets that point across.You can watch the official video for this song here.

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Opening: All is gray scale. A student dressed in a ragged black hoodie sits in a classroom. Camera pans across classroom, everyone is wearing unisex uniforms. Student in question wears uniform pants, has hood pulled over head to obscure face. Teacher is at the board, which is a black chalkboard. Lecture is on solipsism. Student suddenly stands, shoves desk away,walks down hall and into the bathroom. Locks self in stall and draws a sliding x-acto knife. Student pulls up sleeve to reveal a heavily scarred and cut forearm, camera pans in on scars as “rescue me before I fall into despair” is sung. 

Just a castaway, an island lost at sea, oh

Another lonely day, with no one here but me, oh

More loneliness than any man could bear

Rescue me before I fall into despair, oh

. The student raises blade dramatically, slashing randomly across the arm as “I hope that someone gets my” is repeated. Slows when “message in a bottle” is sung and camera watches blood roll down student’s scrawny arms,splashing in a pool on the floor. Only the blood is in color, all is stark white except for the hoodie.

I'll send an S.O.S. to the world

I'll send an S.O.S. to the world

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Student returns to classroom, leaving trail of blood.  Sitting down in class, the student tries to make contact with the people around him. Others are uniform in hair, clothing,and expression. As it becomes clear the others will not respond, the student grows enraged. 

A year has passed since I wrote my note

But I should have known this right from the start

Only hope can keep me together

Love can mend your life but

Love can break your heart

Student pulls another person out of a desk, other person lays limply on the floor, and no one else responds. Student grows violent,throwing the desk across the room, jumping up on the teacher’s desk, trying desperately to disrupt the lecture. Throughout, the student can be seen screaming (silently but with obvious anger). Camera pans in on the student’s face before zooming back out to show the entirely of the class acting passively. Shift to focus on the blackboard, where the professor is indicating“total isolation” with a pointer. 

I'll send an S.O.S. to the world

I'll send an S.O.S. to the world

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Student walks out of classroom (slams door open), runs out of the school building and stands now in a crowded town square, surrounded by high rise buildings. Stands with arms outstretched, blood pouring freely from sleeves. Random people bump into the student’s outstretched arms.

Walked out this morning, don't believe what I saw

Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore

Seems I'm not alone in being alone

Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home

As people are brushing against student’s arms, events in their life flash. These correspond with the chorus. Specifically: a man in business attire in a bar at closing time, drinking until he is numb. A woman standing in front of her mirror in her underwear, crying. A father holds his child at a funeral in the rain, watching mother’s casket lowered into ground. A couple in their small kitchen, fighting violently. A child locked in a closet,bruised. 

I'll send an S.O.S. to the world

I'll send an S.O.S. to the world

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Student smiles at takes off the hoodie, gaining coloration.Underneath is androgynous, with bright blue hair and facial piercings. Scars are all over students arms, slightly visible underneath the blood-stained white tank top. As ‘sending out an S.O.S.” is repeated, the student slashes it’s arms violently, splattering passers-by in blood. As the blood lands on them they gain color and begin to strip away their markers of civilization (taking off ties, dropping briefcases, removing high heels, etc.)

Sending out at an S.O.S.

Sending out at an S.O.S.

Sending out at an S.O.S.

Sending out at an S.O.S.

Sending out at an S.O.S.

Sending out at an S.O.S...

Camera pans back until the city is distorted and fades to black.

I don't think there's anything like a cut available on here...so, it'll be a long entry. I've been trying to write more, and my prompt for this one was: "the guy with the sign that says 'the end is near'". Here you go.

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            It startedout like any other midlife crisis. I know, I know, midlife crises are anothercultural myth. Yeah, alright, so maybe none of this would’ve happened if Ihadn’t bought into the myth. But I’m glad I did. The world needs men like me,now more than ever. Anyway, like I was saying, it started out normal. One day Icame home from work and Myrna had moved out. Just up and left-packed everythingin the back of a truck and drove out to Ohio to her mother’s. Took the kidswith her. That’s probably what hurt the most. I loved those little brats.

            We neverreally talked about what did the marriage in. Now I wish maybe we had. I’m notsure we would have saved it. I know I was working a lot-long hours, extrashifts, never coming home-and that hurt her. But I had to do what I could tomake ends meet. Shit, its hard when you don’t have an education. Nowadays evensome greasy spoon dinner’s gonna want you to have a high school diploma. Itain’t right. So, yeah, I was always working. Most day’s I’d be up at four orfive to do a garbage haul, then downtown pushing my hot dog cart till maybenine. Most nights I could find work as a bouncer. The classy joints wouldn’thave me-not without a suit, they’d say, but the less snobby places thought Iwas good enough. I’d do that until one or so, then it was home for a few z’s.

            Maybe itwas my temper that drove her off. I got pretty mean when I didn’t sleep good. Icould only really sleep on the weekends, and the kids were always runningaround tearing the apartment up and screaming. So of course I got angry. Any man would. All Myrna had to do was keep the kids quiet, and she couldn’t evendo that. Either way, she left.

            I was allalone in that empty apartment before things got weird. Little things at first.I’d put my dinner in the microwave to thaw out, and while I was standing theirwaiting for it to finish four or five hours would pass. Can you imagine? Andthe damn thing would be cold again. So at first I figured I was falling asleep.There sure as hell wasn’t anything in that apartment to keep me awake. I hadn’treplaced anything Myrna’d taken. Not even the tv.

            Only then Istarted to notice that sometimes I didn’t wake up in exactly the same spot. I’ddoze off standing in front of the microwave and wake up maybe two feet to theleft of where I’d been before. So I knew I was doin’ something, I just couldn’tfigure out what.

I guess it was only a matter oftime before I started falling asleep at work. One day I was standing onForty-Second Street, watching the taxi’s roll past and thinking about the heat,and wondering how long Myrna and the kids had been gone, and the next I wasstanding in front of God.

Don’t ask me how I knew it was God.I just knew. He didn’t look no different from anyone else. At least I don’tthink he did. I couldn’t look at his face. Where his face was there was justfire, like a big ball of flame was hovering over his shoulders. It wasbright…just looking at it made my eyes burn fiercely. I remember he had long,white hands. Not white like I’m white, white like soft serve vanilla ice cream.He reached into the stand vat on the stand, long white fingers pulling out adog.

Hello,Tom. When he spoke, it wasn’t like the booming voice in the sky you hearabout in Sunday school. I could hear his voice in my head just as clear as day,like there was a loudspeaker wired to the inside of my skull. He sounded justlike Angie, my little girl, did when she was five years old. I thought I should tell you first. Thingsare going to get strange. I’ll need you to keep everyone apprised of thesituation. You can do that, can’t you, Tom?    

I try to look at his face andcan’t. Instead I try to focus on his chest, on the black silk tie and crispwhite shirt. “Sure, man.” I say, because you can’t very well tell God no.

He smiles. Don’t ask me how I knowthat, I just know it. He smiles and reaches out a vanilla white hand to touchbetween my eyes. Suddenly I can feel it burning. It’s like when you get a wartfrozen off, except it isn’t coming from where he touched me. The cold starts inthe back of my head and moves toward his touch, freezing my brain as it goes. I’m giving you a gift, Tom. It woulddisplease me if you were to squander it. I’ll be in contact.

That’s all. He removes his hand-thepain is blinding and there is something running down my face. My eyes move awayfrom the blinding light of his head and when I look back he’s gone. There’sjust the sound of traffic, people shouting, and the ever present thrum of thesubway rushing under my feet. I bring my head up to my eyes. The stuff I feltrunning down my face is blood. My eye must be bleeding. I don’t think about itas I wipe the blood away with a scratchy white napkin.

It’s weird, but I didn’t thinkabout what happened until I was home that night, standing in front of themicrowave waiting for my dinner. I couldn’t really believe God had singled meout. Why should he, right? By anyone else’s standards I was just a no accountslob. But God didn’t think so. He’d probably chosen me above all the otherpeople in the world. Now I had a direct link with him, just like Billy Graham.Any minute now God would be beaming his voice into my brain, giving myinstructions and telling me about my gift…

My eyes start to feel heavy. Thesound of the ancient microwave, like a small jet getting ready to take off, islulling me to sleep. I struggle to keep my eyes open. Any minute now God willbe here…God will have instructions for me…

I must have fallen asleep, becausethe next thing I know I’m standing in the park, near the playground I’d takeAngie to when she was little. The paint is peeling off the plastic rockinghorses, and the metal of the slide and jungle gym is so rusted I could punchthrough it. The sky is red, and for a second I think that the sun is setting,and I must have been asleep all of yesterday…and then I realize it isn’t thesunset. The city is burning. As far as I can see in every direction, theskyscrapers and office buildings are engulfed in crimson flames. In the city,there’s always this dull noise, of traffic and the subway and life. I don’thear that sound any more. Instead there’s a different, higher noise. As Ilisten I realize it is the sound of an entirely population screaming in agony.A million different voices rising up from the wreckage of the city around me, amillion voices begging and pleading and crying out.

The smell in the air is differenttoo. Normally the city smells bad, like sweat and decay. But right now, the airsmells like smoke and bacon that’s been frying too long. I can only imaginethat this is the smell of everyone in the city being cooked alive.

I sit down on a swing, it groansunder my weight. How did this happen? I rest my head in my hands, and try tothink of what this could be. Terrorists again? But then why didn’t they hit thepark? After a few minutes I realize I’m not alone. There isn’t any sound. Nofootsteps or heavy breathing or anything like that. I just know there’s someonehere. I look up and see God, this time wearing the shape of a smallish whitedog. I try to remember what they’re called…the kind with the long snouts andthe short fur and the sharp, sharp teeth...its no good, I draw a total blank.

Thisis your gift, my child. He speaks directly into my brain again. Thesensation sends a cold chill down my spine, but I endure. God must read thelook of horror on my face-what a silly thing to say, of course he knows whatI’m feeling, because he tells me Do notfear. This is only a vision of what will come. Suddenly I understand.

Once, God cleansed the world in agreat flood. But everyone knows he promised he would never flood the earthagain. We learned this in Sunday school. It was one of the first pieces ofhistory I was ever taught. But he never said anything about fire. “You’re goingto spare some people, right?” I plead, thinking of Angie crying as flamesconsume her, her blond hair curling and drifting away, ash on the wind.

God smiles, pulling the dog’s blacklips over it’s teeth. I can see into the dog’s mouth, and it’s filled with rowsand rows of razor blades. You know whatyou need to do. He says, and suddenly I do. I need to save everyone. I needto get them out of the city. I need to tell them they must prove to God thatthey deserve to be saved.

As quickly as the vision came, it’sgone. I’m standing in my kitchen, sunlight filtering through the grimy window.Slowly, methodically, I walk out of the apartment to the construction site downthe street. There is some lumber there that I can use. I need to make a sign.Big enough to be read clearly, but light enough to carry. All it needs to sayis ‘Repent’, and maybe ‘The end is near’ on the other side. I won’t be going towork today. I have to spread God’s word.