Empty Spaces - Blog Posts

This place feels…strange

Abandoned parking lot I found a few nights back, eerie vibes for sure

Empty.

Eau Claire Market

This market mall where I live is closing at the end of the month and will be demolished in July. I took these photos about a month ago, there are 10 more photos I have from April 13 and 44 that I took yesterday.

I might go once more before it closes.

I want to discover freedom rename the emptiness inside of my mind I start to understand that nobody ever said emptiness had to be filled to enjoy, to feel, to be it`s only an assumption a comforting picture the feeling of feeling fulfilled. we are used to fix and fill and fit get uncomfortable around unknown, around space because we desire comfort which isn’t freedom in the first place so at the end of the day how can we feel free when we try to fill ourselves only to avoid the void inside of us Isn't it the empty blue sky which let the sun enlight the day? Isn't it the open dark sky which let the moon guard the night? why don't we use the free space and instead of calling it emptiness let’s call it freedom instead of calling it loneliness let’s call it independence instead of searching let's call it finding

She never wanted anything before.

She lived her life for other people, always doing what they wanted her to. They told her to do things, maybe to get a job done, or go somewhere, or to say something - and she would.

She was good at taking care of herself.

She met all of her medical needs. She ate to remain living, never taking any enjoyment in the act. She was alive, but even she could see that there was a difference between being alive and actually having a life.

She kept it up for a while.

Some people - those with common sense and yet no understanding - would disparage her for this:

‘How terrible must it be to live without living? How could she do this to herself? Did she not see what it was doing to her?’

But other people exist, and some of those people have care, and empathy, and understanding, and a capacity for love.

Her miss is one of those people. She took one look at her, and knew exactly what she had to do.

She did not demand that she fix herself, that she take the fractured parts of the person she could have been and form a facsimile of enjoyment and emotion. She did not ask her to magic away her flaws and change her personality and act as if nothing was ever wrong with her.

Instead, she took all of her broken mechanisms and functions and twisted them towards her own self-serving altruism.

She made her wear the clothes she loved but was too scared and indecisive to wear.

She made her go to the places she wanted to experience but wouldn’t dare go otherwise.

She made her accept her own desires and made her realise other people could love her, things she knew before but would never act on for fear of pushing people away.

At the end, she lay on her miss’ bed, looking all pretty in her new dress, tired from night after night of new things, and with a smile on her face.

And her miss made her do one more thing. One last step. She made her step out of this body of meat and bone which she had always hated but had never been able to leave, and step into a better one.

One made of ceramic and metal. One with lovely joints and perfect mechanisms. One which doesn’t need so much taking care of.

One which she can, finally, admit that she wants and loves.

She never was able to sleep very easily.

No matter how hard she tried, her mind always dredged up some embarrassing memory, or started imagining hypothetical scenarios, or decided to overthink every last detail of the day she’d had.

Now she stands - well not quite.

She’s suspended in the air by an assortment of chains, wires, tethers, ropes, and more. Her arms are held above her and pulled apart. Her legs do not hang limply beneath her. They too are embraced and held.

In particular, the tightness around her ribs, the back of her neck, and her waist paradoxically seems to relax her.

If she were able to move in any significant manner, she would notice how none of the things keeping her in the air dig into her, or restrict circulation, or otherwise hurt her or cause discomfort.

She is held.

Nothing more, nothing less.

That is, until something else is brought down by a set of ropes.

Is positioned in front of her.

Is moved slowly backwards to cover her face, hold her lips closed, ensure that all she can see is a deep shadow.

Her restraints seem to tighten. Only ever so slightly, but it’s enough.

As she hangs there silently, she drifts off to sleep faster than she ever has before.

For once, she dreams.

And when she does, she dreams of beautiful things.

She stands still, hearing a repetitive ticking noise emanating from inside of her chest.

She can feel the gears inside of her as they rotate and mesh and interlink, sending the energy stored in the spring wound up within her.

She moves her arm upwards to stare at the back of her hand. As she does, wires move to curl her fingers, mechanisms rotate to allow her arm to bend at the elbow, and metal slides over metal on her joints.

She’s been so delicately made, so precisely crafted.

Always in equilibrium, as little wasted energy as possible.

Her miss made her to be perfect.

It always makes the next bit more fun.

A sharp blow knocks her off balance, sending her side into the edge of a table.

It cracks, but holds.

Her legs are swept out from under her. She falls.

Hits the hard floor.

Cracks, but holds.

The boot that follows finally breaks her, causing the ceramic of her chest and abdomen to fracture and burst out across the room.

Her miss reaches inside of her, not caring for the shards that pierce her skin and draw out her blood.

Her miss seizes a gear and holds it for a second. If she had a heart, it would skip a beat.

Her miss takes another gear. Holds it.

Tears it out.

She can’t feel or move her legs any more. Within her, cogs spin impotently, teeth catching on empty space.

Her miss gently places her hand around her spring.

Twists it.

Not up, but down.

Her eyes flutter closed. Her limbs don’t go limp, instead they lock in their current positions. Her gears and mechanisms slow, very soon to go still.

As she is wound down, she finds it harder and harder to think, to reason, to act.

To act before her consciousness fades out of existence requires immense willpower and focus, along with single-minded determination.

As her mind fades to black, her mouth moves.

It hangs open in a lopsided smile.

She sits on the chair, legs crossed, waiting in anticipation.

Her friend takes an object, shows it to her to reassure her.

Explains what it is, how it works, what it does. Something to do with electromagnets, currents in the brain, and depth of stimulation.

Explains how it can have an impact on activity in specific parts of the brain.

She doesn’t understand half of it, but she gets the gist, and it sounds fun.

A couple of switches are flicked. Maybe a button is pressed, or a large dial is turned.

Her friend moves the object back, holding it to the side of her head.

Nothing happens.

She opens her mouth to enquire, and gibberish falls out. She can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence.

Her friend smiles.

She blushes.

She does not collapse, or raise her hands to cover her face. She wouldn’t be a good test subject if she did that.

Her friend moves the object to the back of her head, and flashes of light appear in her vision.

Her friend moves the object to the top of her head, and she jolts a little bit, her senses feel off.

Her friend moves the object to the front of her head.

Her mind goes blank.

If she could plan, or reason, or imagine, she would hear the pleasure in the voice of her friend as she explains the role of the frontal lobe in complex thought.

As it is, she sits limply, eyes open and empty.

The object is removed, turned off.

Thoughts rush back into her mind.

Her friend takes her hand.

Moves it up to her lips.

Thanks her for being such a perfect thing to study.

Kisses the back of her hand.

Once more, her mind goes blank.

She smiles, stands, and together they sweep out of the room.

Her nails were the first thing that was taken away.

The woman in front of her stands, holding her head between her hands, whispering soothing words. Promising it won’t hurt very much at all.

Her knife reaches out again

Her skin falls away from her, revealing layers of fat which follow in turn. Her muscles part, and are quickly and precisely removed. Organs are cut out, excised one by one so as to avoid making a mess or disturbing the ongoing work. Veins and arteries are removed with impossible cleanliness.

She doesn’t want to stain anything, after all.

Bones and eyes remain, so are taken as well.

She can’t avoid making a bit of a mess with this bit.

Splinters of bone fall to the floor. Her skull cracks, splits, shatters. She is removed, then her brain is tossed aside.

Then, from a place where she sees and feels yet cannot act, she watches as her miss truly begins her work.

Steel is melted, poured into molds, beaten out on an anvil, and formed into a beautiful new skeleton for her. Her miss works with ceramics to make her cold new skin. She works with bronze and brass and precious metals to build her lovely joints.

She spends weeks crafting new eyes for her doll.

When she wakes up, after months of watching the affection of her miss pour into her new body, she moves quickly, sure of her purpose.

She embraces her miss.

KIsses her with porcelain lips.

And offers a response months in the making:

‘Thank you.’