VI - Curtain Calls

I woke up to the sound of my alarm and I was soaked in sweat. With a groan, I looked at the clock—8 AM. Rain tapped slowly against the windows of my apartment, mirroring the confusion within my mind. Silencing the alarm, I lay still for a moment, contemplating the memories of yesterday.

Was it all a dream? Because that would be a shame.

The vividness of yesterday's experience left me questioning reality itself, perhaps questioning even my sanity. Yet, there laid an uncertainty, a sense that what I had experienced was too logical to be mere imagination.

But why, then, could I not recall the events following the absorption of the auroras? It is like I blacked out after getting wasted with alcohol.

Fear crept into my thoughts, a whisper of doubt and I hate doubt—Maybe the red vial that was given to me wasn't a magical elixir for powers but madness itself bound in a flask?

Whatever, I decided to carry on with my daily morning routine.

I like to take care of myself. I followed a regimen of balanced nutrition and rigorous exercise.

Up we go big boy, I rose from bed and approached a bowl filled with ice, plunging my face into it. The ice depuffed my face and woke me up, dispelling the effects of sleep and foretelling the start of another day.

After wallowing in my icy ritual for a good two minutes, I move on to my daily stretches.

There's something oddly satisfying about the cracks and pops that emanate from my joints and back as I twist my body. They say it releases dopamine, offering a momentary sense of relief—a small pleasure in an otherwise mundane routine.

Next on the list comes the cold shower, a practice as polarizing as it is refreshing. Despite the skeptics, I believe in its benefits: a lowered BPM, an uplifted mood, an increase in testosterone, and a strong immune system.

While some argue the lack of scientific evidence, I don't care because it works for me. For me, the cold shower serves a higher purpose—it's a disruption, a discomfort that gets me out of my comfort zone.

After the shower, I indulge in a moment of self-care, applying a soothing face mask before venturing out to the balcony with a hand-rolled cigarette.

For those who are addicted to nicotine like I am, I highly suggest using licorice rolling papers; they hide the harsh taste of tobacco. As a final touch, a sprinkle of dry mint within the cigarette offers both fresh breath and a rejuvenating sensation for the lungs.

Before I went to the balcony for my usual smoke ritual, there was an abstract notion of Eros that flitted through my mind. It's a concept similar to a René Magritte painting—vivid, surreal, and layered with theatrical allusions. Yet, beneath its vibrant colors lies a darker color tone, an acknowledgment that true art often requires a certain cruelty, perhaps even the sacrifice of those beneath us.

I finally made my way to the balcony for a smoke, as was my routine. But as I stepped out, the scene that greeted me was beyond belief, a surreal painting.

The streets below were in chaos—people looting, fighting, and wreaking havoc upon the city. It was a show of disorder, a canvas of anarchy painted with strokes of true humanity.

In that moment, as I observed the metaphorical gates of hell open, I felt a surge of excitement. The stage was set, the actors were in place, and the grand performance was about to commence.

With a flick of my cigarette, I cast it into the air, only to watch in astonishment as it traveled with unnatural speed, finding its mark on the head of an unfortunate soul below, piercing his skull like a shard of glass.

WELL, WELL, WELL, this was no mere dream after all.

I felt it, the mysterious power of The Magician coursing through my veins. This confirmed it, the Carrington games were indeed upon us.

I retreated indoors and began to shadowbox, to limit test my ability, and god was I right.

My movements were fluid yet devastating. Each punch carried the weight of a tank, each step felt like a lightning bolt. It was as if I had become an embodiment of raw strength and agility, similar to a supercharged version of Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson.

As I danced using my newfound deadly footwork, I noticed that these powers have similar effects to performance-enhancing substances like Trenbolone or testosterone replacement therapy.

These compounds, which are used by bodybuilders to boost their muscle mass and strength overall, seemed weak in comparison to the potency of this mysterious red liquid.

With every strike, every twist of my body, I felt truly unstoppable.

But amidst this adrenaline and endorphin rush, I knew I needed some clarity.

To unravel the depths of my newfound abilities, I needed a clear mind. And what better path to mental clarity than through meditation?

Cross-legged on the floor, I settled into a comfortable position, palms pressed together in deep contemplation. As The Magician, holder of the card bearing the number 1, my unique ability had to be something beyond the mundane.

While the notion of elemental manipulation held a certain allure, it felt cliché, lacking the depth my complex psyche craved.

Nah, my mind hungered for something more profound, something that would alter the very fabric of reality itself, implanting fear in the hearts of all who dared to oppose me.

Hours passed as I dived deep into my thoughts, trying to manifest my desires until they materialized before me.

With slow motion, I opened my left hand, and from it emerged a group of nocturnal creatures: bats, spiders, and worms, flying their way into existence from the depths of my imagination.

On my palm, a symbol revealed itself, carved into my flesh like a tattoo—a serpent consuming its own tail, the ancient Ouroboros. A symbol of the eternal cycle of creation, destruction, and rebirth, it signified the unity of the material and spiritual realms, where imagination would become reality.

In this moment of enlightenment, clarity washed over me like a rain of redemption. As I contemplated my true identity, and as I opened my right palm, I found a metallic face mask.

Whenever I would wear this mask, I would shed the facade of Eros Corciato, revealing the raw essence of my being—an embodiment of insanity incarnate.

I wore the mask, feeling its weight settle upon my face like a familiar embrace. In that instant, I truly felt like myself, and every fiber of my being was electrified. It was as if I had shed an old skin, like a butterfly, emerging in a new skin, reborn into a realm of boundless possibilities.

Like a caterpillar breaking free from its chrysalis, I embraced this metamorphosis, enjoying the ecstasy of transformation.

With this newfound clarity and purpose, I prepared myself for the unholy quest that lay ahead.

The time for hesitation had passed; now, I can finally turn my dormant thoughts into reality, and those dreamy plans of mine for humanity will become vivid...