Club

"So now what do I do?" I asked Good. "The training with Monk is over, but I'm still here."

Good sat back in his chair with his eyes closed. The wounds that he had when I entered the world had since healed. He drew in a breath, and sighed.

"You go do what you wish to do." He moaned.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Go learn." He smiled. "This is a whole new world for you. But you haven't had the time to explore it since you've gotten here. You are more at peace with yourself than you were when you arrived. Go see the world that you have created."

The world, or at least the house, had come into color. Good's side was painted with deep oranges and maroons, and accented with rich mahogany woods. His bookshelf was full of dense catalogs, some of which were about literature, or theory, or philosophy. And then there was his shelf; filled with trophies and medals and pictures. I turned to Bad's side of the house, and the walls were painted beige. Lighter colored woods filled its crown moldings and floor boards. The bookshelf, directly opposite from Good's was filled with novels. But there was no shelving unit on Bad's side. Instead, there was a single shelf, with a single blue candle. 

"Actually," Good spoke up, "I lied; don't explore."

"Sorry?" I replied.

"Don't explore;" he repeated, "I was supposed to give you a message."

"Okay?"

"I saw Host a little bit earlier, how about you go visit him?"

"Last time I saw him I went on a really bad trip."

"Last time you saw him, Anger was in charge."

I sighed, and Good looked up to meet me. He smiled, and rested his head back down.

"You know where to find him."

*   *   *   *   *

Host's house never changed. The trees in the front were wrapped in toilet paper, neon flyers thrown throughout the cul-de-sac, empty bottles dotted the lawn, and shards of broken glass covered the walkway. I opened the door, and saw Host at the far end of the house. I walked into the kitchen to meet him, and he was taking large, plastic bottles out of brown paper bags.

"Hey," he smiled, "what's new and exciting?"

"Not a whole lot." I replied, leaning on the counter. "Yourself?"

"Goin' out to the club tonight with a couple of buddies."

I looked between him, and the twenty bottles he had placed on the counter.

"You're not partying here?"

"Why would I?"

I motioned to the bottles.

"Oh no that's tomorrow!"

I laughed, and sat at one of the stools in front of the counter. Host entered the kitchen, and started to store the booze.

"So why go out if you could just stay here?"

"It's easier."

"Why?"

"You know," he started, "it's more fun. You know everyone there, you know the music, you know it'll be good, and you know what booze they offer. But to make that happen, you have to get the people over, make the playlists, and buy the booze. It's just easier to go out."

"Well I really wouldn't know."

"You don't go out that much?"

"What makes you say that?!" I shouted with a smile, throwing my hands up in the air.

"Well you should go out sometime." He said, returning to the fridge. "It's a good release."

"Clubbing really isn't my thing."

"How do you know that if you've never been?"

"Because I hate huge crowds of people I don't know, small spaces, loud music, and bright lights. So aren't all those things the defining characteristics of a club?"

"Yeah?" He hesitated. "Look, I get it. I used to be like that."

"I find that very hard to believe."

"No really, I used to." He assured, placing his hand on his chest. "But once all those things come together, they have a sort of sedative effect."

"Well let me throw this one at you."

"Shoot."

"Isn't the main point of going out to a club just to find someone to leave the club with?"

He stopped putting bottles in the fridge, closed the door, and placed his hands on the counter-top.

"Yes and no." He began. "There is this social ideology with the club atmosphere. And it's that it has a preordained destiny with being forever intertwined with the popular hook-up culture that dominates our society."

"I'm sorry?"

"What?" He asked.

"I didn't know your English skills were more insightful outside of teaching someone how to shotgun a beer."

"Funny." He continued. "Didn't you know I study philosophy in college?"

"You go to college?"

"Can I continue?" He laughed. "But yeah, everyone thinks that about going to a club."

"Are they wrong?"

"Of course not." He responded. "But that's, like, part of the deal. See, hooking up with someone isn't the point of going out for a night out, but it can be part of it. Once you walk into a door of a club, it separates your mind from your body; your mind no longer matters. All the things that were troubling you before you walked in get left behind at the door. The body is transformed into a vehicle of non-permanence and non-commitment."

"Explain?"

"You're not gonna go into a club, expecting your favorite music to be blasting, all the while drinking your favorite artisan stout. No, you're gonna go in there, expecting nothing but new experiences. New music, new dances, new dance partners, new drinks, and new lives to explore. See, everyone in the club is there for the same reason you are; to leave their troubles at the door, and have a brand-new experience, with a bunch of people who are trying to do the same thing."

"So why not just go home and relax?" I asked. "You can leave your life behind at the door?"

"Are you sure about that?" He asked. "What about if you're having marital problems? You live with that. What if you're a student? That job follows you no matter where you are in the world. What if you have a job? Those emails will haunt you. You can't just stay at home; you can't leave those troubles at the door. And even if you have none of those things wrong with your life, you still have to go do boring, 'everyday' things, like grocery shopping, cleaning, laundry. When you go to a club, you go on a journey. You have a new drink. You hear some new music. You meet a new friend. You reconnect with an old one. You go out and dance something new. And while it doesn't happen all the time, you could leave with a new person, and retreat into a sanctity of privacy with them."

There was a stark silence as he placed the remaining few bottles in the fridge. He looked down at his watch, and began to put his vest back on.

"I never would have thought that you would have been so insightful." I groaned, standing up and following him to the door.

"I know right?" He chortled. "No one does."

"So are you off to the club?" I asked, reaching the door.

"Absolutely." He chimed. "You should go sometime soon; see what I mean."

"I'll look into that." I grinned. He opened the door, and the light consumed me. 

Conduit

The monastery was silent; I couldn't even hear the wind blowing past the windows. The hallway that led to Anger's quarters was dark, and a faint glow came from Monk's room. I entered, but he was not there. The fire was out, and only a small candle illuminated the room. There was a new door in the back. 

"Hello?" I called out one last time. My voice echoed through the building. I was alone. I came up to the door and grabbed the bronze handle; it was cold. The door creaked open, and led into the room. The room where it had all began. The lone table with three chairs dominated the area. Faint, gray rings stained the table. One of the folding chairs had been thrown a few yards away, so that the remaining two face each other.

The door shut behind me. I whipped around, and a figure loomed in the distance. It came closer. I backed up, and took a seat in the furthest chair. A full-black outfit came into focus. A leather jacket, black denim jeans, and matching high-top sneakers. He wore a dark hoodie under the jacket, and the hood shadowed the face. He took his hands out of his pockets, and yellow bones grabbed onto the back of the opposite chair.

"It's been a while since I've seen you around." I addressed him. He didn't reply. 

"You're the last one." I continued. Still, no response.

"So what is it about you that I'm supposed to know?" I leaned forward and folded my hands on the table. He shook his head. He let go of the chair, and began to walk off into the blur. I was confused. I looked up, and a sun beamed down on us. Before he left, I waved the sun away. It receded into the horizon, and stars and the moon took it's place.

He stopped, and turned back around. He took his hood off as we walked back to the table. I was expecting him to be nothing more than a skeleton. But bits of flesh still clung to his bones. An eye still darted back and froth while remaining in its socket. He placed his hands on the table; he was missing a few fingers. But some were still in tact, flesh and all.

"I wasn't expecting this." I told him.

"We all have different shadows once the night falls." He growled, sitting in the chair. There were a few moments of silence while we looked at each other. I was transfixed on his single emerald eye.

"I was hoping I could talk to Monk tonight." I stated. "These are his lessons after all."

"Why do you tell me this?" He cocked his head.

"Am I not allowed to speak?"

"Preferably not."

"Okay I think I found the reason why I don't talk to you that often."

"You would think that."

"I'm sorry?"

"I bet you like to think you never hear from me." He moaned, leaning forward. "You like to think that myself and Hollow are nothing more than the tattered remnants from a past life."

"And Hollow is just that."

"Well I'm not!" He screamed, standing up and leaning over the table. "You deal with me every day of your life, and you know it!"

"Prove it." I smirked. I thought I won.

"Everyday you look in the mirror. Every time that you see something completely different than what actually exists. I am the veil."

"That's actually body dysmorphia and its more of a mental thing."

He cocked his head over once more and began pacing behind the table. I leaned back and placed my hands behind my head. I thought I was fine. Monk had taught me well. He stopped, and slowly turned back to me. He pulled a Polaroid out of his jacket pocket and tossed it on the table. It was me. I stood in front of a lavish house, holding a book in my right hand, and she grabbed onto the other.

"What is this?" I asked.

"This is the portrait of your life." He started. "This is what you imagine and hope it to be."

"Okay?"

"We all have these images. We all know where we want our lives to be. When we gain ground in the everyday, the image changes, we want more. But when we lose ground, the picture becomes less populated."

"Very insightful." I shrugged with a smile. "I don't know what you expect me to do with this."

He sighed. He took the picture back and ripped it up into pieces.

"I learned a long time ago to never put to much faith into your own aspirations on life." I told him. "We all want to be somewhere. But no matter what we do, we'll never be exactly where we want to be."

"I don't think you gather my meaning." He grumbled. "I'm the veil"

"You said that already."

"I am what separates you from the life you want to live, but I push you away from the world."

"Sorry?"

"I separate your mind from your body. I separate your physical footing from your emotional footing. I work inside you to uproot everything that you know. I will not let you go or do anything in life."

"Okay?" I asked.

"Are you not afraid?" He asked, placing his cold hand on my shoulder.

"No." I replied. "Not really."

"Please, do tell."

"Not to long ago I had an experience that put my life back into perspective." I explained. "I know where I want to be in life, but I have to live from day to day; that's the only way to do it."

"But even then, you have trouble doing that, do you not?"

"I guess."

"Have you ever wondered why?"

"Sometimes?"

"I am the agent of conduit of chaos in your life." He snarled. "Every time the components of your inner self begin to separate, I am the vehicle in which they are pulled apart."

I grinned at him. Then I started laughing under my breath.

"You think this is funny?!" He shouted.

"Kinda, yeah." I chuckled.

He was confused. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even move from the cloud upon which he stood.

"The vast majority of us hate it when either ourselves, or someone else refers to us as "art." We hate it. We hate being associated with this thing that is pristine, and perfect. But a mosaic is considered art, isn't it? A mosaic is the artful amalgamation of many broken and segmented pieces; none of them are whole, yet they are still considered art. So why is it that we, as people, who are comprised of those same broken and segmented pieces, wish to be whole?"

He lowered his arms, sighed, and walked off into the distance. The door opened once more, and Monk emerged. He was sniffling, and bowed his head when he walked up to me.

"You have no idea how proud I am of you."

"For what?" I shrugged.

He sighed, and motioned into the sky. The stars were brighter. And the moon sent a beam of light over the door.

"You have passed the tests." He spoke.

Façade

It had been night for the first time since the party. There were streaks of light painted across the sky. The ice near my feet reflected it. The city below the mountain laid in a silent rest.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Monk said from the main door. He carried a lantern in his right hand, and a wooden cane in the other.

"Why isn't it always this beautiful?" I asked.

"It always is." He breathed, looking up into the sky. "You just have to look for it."

We both peered up into the night, and watched the orange lights dance between the clouds. The luminescence cradled the stars in its gentle arcs.

"Where are we going tonight?" I asked him.

"Just over there." He nodded over to the edge of the mountain. Two mats sat on the ground. We walked over and laid down. The show in the sky would be our backdrop.

"So who?" I asked.

"You know them very well."

"All that's left are you and Anger."

"Don't forget Misery."

"So you and Anger." I sighed. "Isn't the relationship between you two sort of self-explanatory?"

"Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty sure, yeah."

"I must ask a question." I stated.

"Aren't I supposed to be the one who asks questions?"

"Are you ever frustrated with your emotions?"

"I'm really hoping that that was a rhetorical question."

"Are you?"

I paused for a moment. Where was he going with this?

"Of course."

"What about me?" He asked.

"Am I ever frustrated with you?"

"Yes."

"Why would I be?"

He sighed and sat up. I continued to try to look through the night.

"I will not sit here and claim that I should be listened to more than Anger; I have an ignorant side, just like everyone else."

"I really don't get where you're going with this."

He sighed again, and looked out at the city. He was frustrated.

"I don't want to sit here and preach that I am a deity that needs to be listened to, above all else. I am ignorant, just like all of the other emotions."

"Why wouldn't I want to listen to you? You're a sense of calm; I really need that in my life."

"That's not why you shouldn't listen to me."

"Then what's the reason?"

"I just told you. It is my blinding ignorance."

"How are you?"

"I am too artful." He started. For the first time since I've met him, I saw his posture relax. "I let metaphors to define life, and make it easier to comprehend, impede my legitimate understanding of the world around me."

"I don't follow." I raised an eyebrow.

"We lie to ourselves. We do it all the time. It is harder to tell the lightest of truths than it is to tell the heaviest of lies. We refuse to lie to ourselves that everything is not okay; it hurts us too much to do so. Our lives are based on lies, because a bed of lies is easier to lay on top of than a single hard truth."

"What are you lying about?" I pleaded.

"I lie about the hard truths of life. When you deal with something, in the real word, we all have to deal with the repercussions."

"I know that."

"But I lie." He continued. "I sit up here atop my golden throne, and claim that I am fine. I claim that nothing is wrong with me. I make myself out to be this stoical monster, that only holds onto one emotion. Nothing can shake me; nothing will."

"There's nothing wrong with that." I stated. He stopped and turned back to look at me. "It's like what you said about Could. If you live life ignoring every bad thing that ever happens, you'll never grow. We, as people, think that if we turn a blind eye to evil and corruption, we will live a happier life. But they're wrong."

He didn't speak. He slowly turned back around too look out on the village.

"You're right. We have to lie to ourselves. We have to lie and say that everything is okay. But the way you and I do it is different. So many people completely ignore the fact that evil sits behind the walls of lies that they have constructed. You and I know what's on the other side of those walls."

"I think that that's how people such as yourself are able to make it through life." He finally declared. "We all have truths to tell, but they are smothered by the lives that we have created for ourselves; it's hard for us to tell them. So people such as you come along. You find a way to express the truths in the sea of lies. You find art. Art is the vehicle in which you deliver that righteousness."

"Okay now that's cheesy." I grinned. He laughed, and laid back down.

"So what about Anger?" I asked. "What more to him is there?"

"A lot." A voice said from behind, making us both jump. Anger was behind me. Mirroring my dark wash jeans and my ivory shirt. But I noticed the red iris' that dominated his face. I had never noticed them before.

"Please no." Monk whispered.

"Do I not get to represent myself?" He grumbled. "I am a lot more than just some pissy little teenager."

"Meaning?" I asked.

"I'm your fire." He grinned, looking up in the sky.

I thought back to the old days, back when it was just Good and Bad. I remembered how obsessed Bad was with fire. I thought I found the origin of that obsession.

"Could you elaborate on that?" Monk asked. Anger smirked, and then looked back down at me.

"There isn't a fire in your breath," he started, squatting down to be at eye-level with me, "but I can see it in your eyes. It's the same fire that allows you to hunt those who hunt the day."

He sighed, and stood back up, turning back to the Monastery.

"And that's all that any of us want: one more day."

Without another word, he went back inside. Monk and I remained silent until the door closed behind Anger. 

"He's right," I asked, "isn't he? He is my determination?"

"He is." Monk groaned. "He has more motivation and determination than I believe any one of us."

I laid back down. The stars were growing brighter through the aurora. 

"This was all very insightful." Monk declared, standing up and readjusting his robes.

"Am I ready for Misery?"

"After today," he continued, "yes, I believe so."

There was a flash of white light, and the stars reached down. They started wrapping themselves around me until they almost consumed me. I looked up one last time, and the orange and red lights had turned blue.

Vice

I never thought that the process would be so tiring. As I made my was up the stone stairs, I looked down onto the village, suspended in the void. It was growing color with each lesson. Maybe me learning more about them made the world more colorful?

"I think you'll like today's lesson." Monk told me, standing in front of the main door.

"You actually leave the monastery?" I asked him with a grin.

"On occasion." He bowed, motioning for the door. I nodded as I walked past. I pushed the door open, but it did not lead into the inside. It led into a forest.

"I think I've been here before." I said aloud. 

"You have." Monk replied, closing the door behind him. I looked at the other side of the nearby river. There was a small clearing, surrounded by burnt stumps. Footsteps were dotted into the exposed topsoil.

"That's where Bad went crazy for the first time," I turned to face him, "wasn't it?"

"It was." Monk nodded, sitting in the grass near the river. "Does that lead you into why we are here?"

"Are we talking about Anger?" I asked.

"Actually," he said, "no it is not."

"Really?" I said, surprised. 

He nodded, and pointed once again to the other side of the creek. I saw something I hadn't saw before. There were bronze bottles scattered in the remaining patches of grass.

"Oh," I hesitated, "so we're talking about Host?"

"Correct."

"He kind of seems like an idiot." I started. I turned to Monk. He looked out into the forest. "But let me guess, there's some confound reason I should listen to him because he plays a role that is larger than I expect?"

He finally turned to me. He would be smiling if he could.

"Before we look at what Host truly does, we must first look at his opposite; Soul."

"I haven't seen her in a while."

"And why do you think that is?"

"I honestly have no idea."

"What does she do?"

"I don't know?"

"You do." He sighed. "She has told you before."

"No she hasn't?"

"Immediately after the split; where you dissected Good and Bad into what they truly are. She was there."

"Oh yeah," I exclaimed, "she deals with common sense doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"So what you mean to say is that I haven't been using a whole lot of common sense as of late? That's why I haven't seen her?"

He shrugged.

"Okay I'm not that bad."

"It's not that you haven't been utilizing common sense, it’s just that other emotions are more powerful than she is."

"Like who?"

"All of them."

"No they aren't."

"Yes," he emphasized, "they are. Any one emotion has the power to overpower Soul; even me. But as of late, other emotions like Love, and Could have been making the decisions for you."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Not all decisions are made with reference to common sense."

"So you're saying that I should listen to her more?"

"Honestly," he started, holding up his hand, "I think you are doing fairly well with her."

"Why is she just a ball of light?" I asked. "And what's with her voice changing?"

"She is just how you connect common sense; the wisest people you know are women."

"I mean yeah," I began, "so why isn't she just my mom? Or grandmother?"

"Because there is more than one figure that provides you with wisdom. Some of them are men as well. It is how you perceive them in a single amalgamation; her appearance is nothing more than an avatar that you created."

"Could that be said about us?" I asked.

"How so?"

"That we're avatars too. We'll never be the avatar that we intend to be."

"So then what are we?"

"When we hold up the undeveloped film to the light, we don't see ourselves in the film. We aren't the film; we are the light that shines through."

"That was very insightful." Monk declared.

There was a silence in the forest. The water danced off the rocks in the creek, and birds called to each other in the distance.

"So then," I cut in, "what role does Host play?"

"He is your release." Monk told me. "He is your release into unconsciousness; that's what he prefers."

"He drinks from the bottles that drain him dry."

"No." He stopped me.

"That's what he told me when I met him."

"He drinks from the bottles that drain you dry."

"So," I hesitated, "do I stop drinking?"

"Only if you see it fit." He replied. "To keep him under control, do not let pleasure, and a release to the unconscious become your vice."

"But a lot of things do that for me; not just drinking." I exclaimed. "Just sitting on my bed and not moving gives me a release to the unconscious."

"A vice is a flaw." He began, slightly agitated. "A critical flaw; a shortcoming. Relaxing is fine, and healthy for you. But doing things that will become a hindrance are not."

"So why listen to him then?"

"He plays a much larger role in your own courage."

"Oh well in that case, he isn't shouting loud enough."'

Monk sat up and sighed, looking at me.

"I'm sorry." I mumbled.

"Many people call alcohol 'liquid courage.' They're right to a degree."

"So when Host takes control, I make better decisions?"

"No, you find the courage to go through with those decisions; he certainly does not come up with them."

"I'm not quite sure I follow."

"If you ever feel completely at ease making a decision that will forever change the course of your life, you are not thinking through enough. Those decisions, whether or not they will ultimately lead into a new life, or have the potential to do so, so should be very uncomfortable making that decision." 

"So," I asked, still confused, "Host gives me that assurance?"

"No." He breathed. "The others will deliberate on whether or not to do something righteous. But they will never be the ones to push you forward. But Host will always be willing to do so. But be wary."

"Because he'll try to push no matter what?"

"Exactly."

I stopped, and tried to follow his gaze out into the forest. The sky grew lighter. It was time to go.

"We are almost done." Monk whispered.

"Two more deliberations?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And what then?"

"I do not know."

"If the goal of all of this is to come to grips with myself, I'll know myself by then. What happens after?"

"There will be more." He laughed.

"What?"

"Only those who are the shallowest, ever fully know themselves."