My great-great-great-great-great granddaughter's at it again with the Bad Dragon Lil' Vibe.
“Do you see what she's doing, Sissy?” thinks Rue.
“I'm your cousin, not your sister, and I don't see anything,” I think back for literally the millionth time. “Stop psychically spying on her. Give the girl some privacy.”
When you're an immortal brain in a jar, precision is vital.
So let's get pedantic. That's not really my great-great-great-great-great granddaughter down there enjoying modern engineering on the living room couch. She's my great granddaughter seventy-nine times over. Doesn't really roll off the tongue, though — not that I have a tongue anymore.
“She's like a modern Cleopatra,” thinks Rue. “Look at her go.”
“Rue …,” I think back, then trail off because my distant granddaughter really is going at it.
Everyone knows that old Cleopatra bees-in-a-jar story. I started the rumor to defame her and it worked like a charm. For all I know, it was true. That bee trick really works.
That's not what I miss about having a body, though.
I miss singing. And figs. And cheese drizzled in honey.
Not having a tongue is probably a blessing these days. I can't taste my terracotta cell or the copper cylinder pegging me in place. Nor can I taste the vinegar keeping me conscious with faint electrical zaps.
Being immortal isn't as glamorous as you think. And I swear the vinegar's gone off. And it gets worse every day.
#
“Push,” I think-whisper to myself, careful not to wake Rue.
Thinking aloud helps with focus.
“You're almost there,” I think and strain my sodden lobes to channel psychic energy. “Just a little more."
I picture the antique jar at the edge of the shelf. The edge, so close. The tipping point. The last step to eternal rest.
“Push!” I think and will the jar there.
TUNKkkkhhh.
“Sissy?” Rue thinks, jolting awake as the janky shelf rattles. “Is that you?”
There's no way she could handle this. I still my thoughts. It's hard, even after centuries of meditation and a half year of eavesdropping on mindfulness gurus on TikTok.
Be. Just Be.
“Sissy,” Rue thinks. “You up? Sissy? Sissy?”
“Cousin,” I think. One million and one. “Shh. I'm trying to meditate.”
“I was just having this steamy dream,” Rue thinks. “Remember the pyramids?”
“Yes,” I think before I can stop myself.
“Well, there we were, watching the workers and slaves under the sun, sweating and grunting,” Rue thinks. “Only it wasn't the sun, it was a ship, and the Anunnaki got out of it, and they took out their … .”
Feel free to tune out. It's just more Ancient Alien fan-fic from a deranged old biddy with a Sphinx fixation.
“Um-hmm,” I think from time to time, hoping she'll ramble herself back to sleep, hoping the story end, hoping this story — our story — ends, for good.
I silently remind myself to be patient. Relief is at hand, so to speak. The end of forever is so close I can practically taste it. Like cheese drizzled in honey.
What's one more day in the grand scheme of things?
#
“Do you think she knows she's descended from pharaohs?” Rue thinks.
“Sometimes, Rue, I'm not so sure we are,” I think.
We're still on the shelf in the living room. What did you expect? There's slightly more dust than last time and a new spider is setting up shop in the corner.
“How could you say that?” Rue thinks. “Why else would we be in these sacred vessels gifted with eternal life?”
“Gifted?” I think. “What makes you so sure it's not a punishment?”
The last new spider climbed into my jar and drowned. That myth about vinegar keeping spiders away is total bullshit, by the way.
“Sissy, don't be morbid,” Rue thinks. “Here we are, embodiments of the greatest alchemical achievement of the ages, and you're talking like a peasant.”
“First, I'm your cousin. Second, how are we supposed to embody anything without bodies? Third, it's thinking like peasant,” I think. One million and two. I'm tired of her, tired of counting, tired of everything.
I can sense the last new spider in here with me, sunk to the bottom of the jar, its internal organs dissolved and its exoskeleton filled with stale vinegar.
“You've got to work on your attitude,” Rue says. “What you need is some gratitude in your life.”
If I had lungs, I would sigh. But maybe she's got a point.
I should count my blessings. I thought we'd be in those storage boxes forever. When my granddaughter times seventy nine opened up the lid of that cardboard sarcophagus, she opened up a portal to the afterlife.
I'm grateful for this janky shelf.
#
“Push,” I think-whisper. “This is it. Come on.”
The antique jar is right there at the edge of the shelf. So close. I'm almost free.
I strain. I focus.
TUNKkkkhhh.
The shelf rattles.
“Sissy?” Rue thinks, jolting awake.
I block her out. I picture the jar, a crust of clay looming over the expanse of air that will end my suffering.
“PUSH!” I think-scream.
“Sissy, what's happening?” Rue thinks.
I don't reply. This moment is mine.
The clay jar plummets from the shelf into a sea of air. It spins end over end until it smashes into smithereens.
I focus my psychic energy so I can sense the terracotta shards on the fake wood floor.
“Cousin,” I think at Rue's exposed brain matter from up on the shelf. “I'm your cousin, not your sister.”
One million and three.
Finally, she's gone.
Finally, I can rest in peace.