Liz and I bonded pretty quickly due to a shared love of music, strange B horror movies, and writing. She was working on a novel while I was there, and despite not being in a genre I generally read, her passion for the story had me continually riveted when she discussed it. I'm seriously excited to see it on the shelves in a few years. I'll be first in line to buy it.
The prompt she gave me was "dreams" which made sense since she mentioned she was into spirituality and dreams as mind expansion. I sat on this prompt for a while, and started a long involved story while I was in my hostel in Bogota, but ended up writing this thing instead. Despite the prompt being from Bogota, the story itself was actually written in Peru. Does that make it my last Colombian story, or my first Peruvian story? I don't know. You decide.
This is a combination of a number of dreams I had during my first week in Cuzco. It's seriously unedited, because I wanted it to be a bit confusing. Even thought it was written in Peru, and based on dreams in Peru, in an abstract way, I think it's really more of a Bogota story. It doesn't have much, specifically to do with Bogota, but for some reason, it feels like a good send off. I absolutely loved Bogota, and I miss it a lot. I'll think I'll continue to miss it for a long time.
Queen of the Night
You’re in an elevator with Freddie Mercury, which is immediately distressing because you’re pretty sure he’s dead. He’s combing his mustache in the reflection of the elevator wall and humming the “Queen of the Night” aria from The Magic Flute.
“You know,” you say, though your voice sounds slightly distant and strange, “when I was a kid, I really, really wanted to be the queen of the night.”
“Really?” Freddie turns to look at you, “As did I.”
But, of course, you’re not really in an elevator with Freddie Mercury, you’re standing in what was probably your old high school, looking at your grades which are inexplicably on the wall in front of the cafeteria. Predictably, you’re flunking half your classes, since you never could keep track of where and when chemistry was. You couldn’t even remember signing up for geography. Despite promising yourself you’d do better this semester so you could be a productive, impressive member of society, you’ve fucked up again, and there’s really no way to fix it but run.
The principal, who looks oddly like David Bowie’s bond villain brother, is leading the search for you. His magical powers are famously difficult to defy, and once again, you’re pretty sure you’re screwed. He’s making trees rise from the ground as he comes towards you, which initially you think is somewhat of an odd use for his incredible magical abilities, but then you remember his large campaign to beautify the school, and it makes sense.
You run. You wish, as you always do, that you weren’t so far behind. You should be ahead, but you’ve ignored everything so much that catching up is an overwhelming task. You’re so outrageously far away from where you want to be, you’re terrified you’ll never get there. The house you’re running through is so hard to navigate, and though the people are nice, you don’t make much of a connection as you run past them. Would this be a nice place to live? Probably. You’re not sure if you want to be alone or not.
“I think my principal is looking for me,” you mention to Freddie Mercury, “I don’t want him to hurt you.”
“No offense, love,” says Freddie, “but I don’t think your principal can really do much to me.” “But he’s, like, a wizard or something.”
Freddie smiles.
“But you’re the queen of the night.”
You realize he’s right, because it is night - though, admittedly, you don’t feel like much of a queen. You’re alone in a large building with faded colors and broken shapes. It might have once been a funhouse, but can’t really be sure. There’s a path ahead of you, lit by security lights, and through you can’t see the other end, you decide to follow it. There’s something you need to do, and somewhere you need to be, but you can’t, to save your life, remember what it is.
There’s an old bar ahead, and you take a seat. The person next to you might be someone you used to know, might be someone you just met, or might be your roommate. They seem to be shifting.
“Have a drink.”
“I can’t,” you say, “I’ve got something to do. And I’m running from my principal.”
“Oh yeah,” says the figure, “I know that feel. You’ll be ok. Let’s get wasted, it’s not like you have anything to lose.”
The figure has a good point, you realize. And they’ve already bought you a drink. You don’t want to seem like a spoilsport, right? Like you’re boring, or uninterested in fun? You want to be the life of this bizarre party, so you have a reason for people to be with you. You want as many people to be with you as you can. You want to be liked.
Or do you want to be alone? Did you ever decide?
A burst of presumably magical energy shatters the wall and you see your principal. His hands and eyes are glowing, and he looks every bit like the supervillain you imagine him to be.
“Oh fuck,” the figure says, “that principal?” They vanish. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or not. The principal strides towards you. You wonder why everyone in your life seems to look like a rockstar. Do you?
Probably not, as you’re somewhat emaciated in a hospital bed. No one looks attractive as a hospital patient. The doctor stands over you, and you remember that you’ve only got six months to live. You panic.
“I can’t die!” you scream, “I haven’t done anything!”
“I’m sorry,” is all the doctor can say, except he says it in Spanish, so he actually says “Que pena.”
“Tranquillo,” you mutter back, wishing you could speak English. You realize you can’t really speak Spanish either, and are angry you won’t have any time to learn it. At least that would have been something. Why didn’t you go to Chemistry? Why did your grades continually suck when you knew you were better than that? You have no time to prove it. Maybe you weren’t at all. Now you’ll never know.
You realize you should probably tell your family, so you try to leave the hospital and run towards home. You check over your shoulder for your principal, convinced he could be anywhere. The hospital seems more like a dark, faded carnival attraction suddenly. It’s hard to find your way out. Someone you used to know, someone you just met, and your roommate grab you and pull you into a room with few broken couches.
“Let’s get fucked up.”
“No, I can’t,” you insist, again, “I’m dying. They gave me six months.”
“Shit,” the figure’s shifting faces fall, “then that’s definitely a reason to get fucked up.”
“I really can’t, I’m going to die and I haven’t done anything yet. I have to go do something!”
“No, you have to relax,” the figure says, “that’s such a stupid thing to worry about. What the fuck are you going to do in six months? You can’t do anything.”
“I might.”
“You can’t. Let’s get fucked up. Might as well go out with a bang, right?”
You start to think that maybe you should. They have a point, it’s not like you can change the world in six months. If you don’t get fucked up, you’ll just sit around being miserable. Either way, you’re not going to do anything important. You never have, and you never will. There’s just not enough time.
The figure hands you a bottle of something and tells you to drink it. You’re about to, when it’s torn out of your hand by your principal.
“This is why you’re failing everything,” he says, his voice an ethereal echo.
“But I’m about to die.”
You have your reasons for doing the things you do. It’s not as if you wander blindly through life. You try to do what you can, don’t you? Is there a way he’d even understand that?
“Probably not,” says Freddie Mercury. You’re both sitting on the floor now, the elevator hasn’t moved.
“I can’t believe I’m dying.”
“Happens to the best of us, love,” said Freddie, “It happened to me.”
“But at least you died a rock god,” you point out, “I’m going to die with my only accomplishment being running from my principal.”
“He still hasn’t gotten you. That’s something.”
“Maybe.”
Your chemistry teacher, who for some reason seems to be Mick Jagger, looks at you skeptically.
“You’re not in this class. I’m sorry.”
“But I finally found it!” you insist.
“No, you didn’t,” says Mick Jagger, “please leave.”
You turn to leave, but before you do, you realize there’s something you absolutely must ask.
“Did you really sleep with David Bowie?”
“Who?” asks Mick Jagger, “Do you mean the principal?”
Your principal is sitting in an elaborately decorated parlor drinking tea. He points to a corner and another tree appears. He shakes his head and it vanishes, apparently deciding it wasn’t right. You’re not sure how you got here. You’re short of breath, like you’ve been running, and you can’t seem to catch it. You realize you’re probably dying. Has it been six months? It must have been. Here you are.
“I finally caught you,” the principal says, “and you’re about to die. It really is a shame. You could have been somebody.”
“I didn’t have time,” you say, gasping for breath.
“Excuses are pointless,” your principal says, “time has nothing to do with accomplishment. You know that. You should have gone to class.”
“I don’t want it to end this way.”
“It won’t,” says Freddie Mercury, “You’re the queen of the night.”
And on the word “night” you suddenly, finally, wake up. You’re in your apartment, and your alarm is going off. In hours, you’ll have to leave for work. You haven’t been in high school in years. You rub your eyes, trying to focus as you drag yourself out of bed and across the hall into the shower. You catch yourself humming “Who Wants to Live Forever” and you’re pretty sure it’s significant, but the reasons why have faded. You step out of the shower and look at yourself in the mirror, noting that you look more like a zombie than a person, but you know you’ll live.
You join your roommate at the kitchen table for breakfast. You’re silent for most of the meal, until she puts her iphone down, and frowns.
“Did you know there’s this kid in New Jersey who just graduated college at fourteen?” she says, bitterly, “I was lucky to graduate at twenty-three.”
You nod sadly, knowing what she’s talking about, and almost agree with what she's saying. But for some reason, the conversation is hitting a nerve.
“You’ve got plenty of time,” you say, not entirely sure where it’s coming from.
“No I don’t,” she insists, “I’m already twenty-four. I’m so fucking old. Do you even thinking about that? Like, we’re almost in our mid-twenties, and what have we got to show for it? We haven’t done a fucking thing.”
You smile, and quietly finish your cereal. She continues to brood as you throw your dishes in the sink to wash them. You’re worried too. You probably always will be, just as you have been. It’s the way things work. You finish cleaning, but stop in the doorway on your way out.
“You know,” you say, “You look like a rock star.”
Your roommate looks up, confused.
“What?”
“You look like a rockstar,” you repeat, “and I’m the queen of the night.”
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