goryteller: (and he cried all day)
Katurian K. Katurian ([personal profile] goryteller) wrote in [community profile] capeandcowllogs2012-02-14 01:37 pm

the ambulance angels pull up to the graveyard

WHO: Katurian Katurian.
WHERE: All over the city, all over time.
WHEN: February 14th, from beginning to end. Five times.
WARNINGS: Headache inducing time travel. Mentions of murder.
SUMMARY: Katurian vainly tries to prevent Andy's death.
FORMAT: Narrative (solo).

Katurian Katurian can no longer keep track of his own past.

There are one, two, three of them. Four, five. They overlap in strange colors, flooding his brain like living beings. Or stories.

the first past.
February 14th is a normal, normal day and Katurian is writing, writing, writing all sorts of stories, stories of calamity and catastrophe, despair and desolation, death and desire, where the heroes always lose in unexpected, but appropriate ways. He goes to the grocery store to buy vegetables for a stew. He swings by his old, hidden apartment to clean up the junk mail. He stubs his toe on a curb ducking away from a car on the way back home, but he doesn't curse. He hugs himself and laughs about how he wasn't hit, how he wasn't splattered all over the pavement in brilliant shades of red and pink. About how he's living, even now.

Katurian Katurian. Cheater of death.

He doesn't hear about Andrew Bernard's until he gets home.

He shivers and shudders and tears a painting from the wall, the glass and frame cracking and crackling as they connect with the solid hardwood floor. He sobs into his knees. Even if Andy comes back, he tells himself, he'll be changed. He'll be ruined.

After a time, his tears are all dried up and his emotions are deadened. His body is hollow inside, folds of skin held up by stilts.

If there was ever a time to change the past. If there was ever a time to change the past.

the second past.
February 14th is a normal, normal day and Katurian is writing, writing, writing all sorts of stories, stories of calamity and catastrophe, despair and desolation, and then he goes to get ingredients for stew, and then he-- what's this? When he goes to clear his piles of junk mail from his old apartment, there is a notice under the door written in a clumsy child's hand.

The letter is addressed to Mr. PM.

The whole thing is written in code, a set code that he designed for only himself to understand, and he rummages through the abandoned rooms until he finds his cheat sheet and decodes the meaning.

Andrew Bernard will die. Black Mask will be responsible. Stop him.

Katurian does not trip on the curb on his way back home. He does not even go home.

the third past.
February 14th is a normal, normal day and Katurian is writing, writing, writing all sorts of stories, stories of calamity and catastrophe, despair and des-- two notes under the door, written in two separate clumsy child's hands. He rummages through the abandoned rooms until he finds his cheat sheet and decodes.

Andrew Bernard will die. Black Mask will be responsible. Stop him.

The address to a restaurant. A time.

the fourth past.
February 14th is a normal, normal day and Katurian is writing, writing, writing until he goes to pick up the junk mail at his old, hidden apartment and finds three notes written in three separate clumsy child's hands. Andrew Bernard will die. Black Mask will be responsible. Stop him. The address to a restaurant. A time.

A lunch entree.

He returns home to salvage his sleeping pills from the bedside table, his hands trembling. He finds the restaurant an hour before the set time and then walks around the block, feeling that pill bottle in the pocket of his jacket. When the time comes, he finds the back door-- the same time the waitress does, and she says, sir, this is not the entrance. What are you doing? Sir!

the fifth past.
February 14th is a normal, normal day except for the fact that Katurian discovers four letters in his old apartment sent to him by four past versions of himself. He must have used children as intermediaries, he figured. He must have seen that the present was going poorly and stepped backwards, telling the children of the past to guide him into a better future. He must be reliving the same day again and again and again, with no memories of each one after they've happened.

The fourth letter tells him how to avoid the waitress. He does.

He sneaks into the back of the restaurant and dumps crushed up sleeping pills in the lobster ravioli, in a bottle of white wine. Black Mask will dine here at a specific time and with a specific order, he knows this, and he will drink that poisoned white wine and munch on that poisoned ravioli, and he will quietly, quietly die before anything bad can happen to Andy. Oh, he's so thrilled with himself. Oh, he's doing such a good job.

He escapes from the restaurant without being seen, his synapses buzzing with what he assumes must be victory, but is really his mind struggling against the unnaturalness of it all, against the same day folding over onto itself. He is shifting reality and his own brain can't keep up, but so what, Andy is safe now, he is a hero, everything is perfect and excellent and fine. On the way back home, the pressure inside his head builds until it's an orchestra, and he drops to his knees, nauseated, speckles of color dancing in his vision. The pasts flood his vision like living beings. Stories.

(When he hears that Andrew Bernard dies anyway, he does not have the strength to go back.)