Puddles of Galaxies and Rivers of Stars

Your bare feet patter against puddles of stars and splash among galaxies. The thought of looking down makes you feel nauseous, knowing all you will see is a sea of space and nothing solid. This is death. There is nothing, and there is everything. There is too little and too much. It is the before and the after. You are not sure if your twisting stomach is from anxiety or curiosity.

You've theorized about death before. Some people think there is a heaven and a hell. Others think there is nothing. You were probably somewhere in the middle. One thing you did not account for, however, is that it would be wet.

Beside you there is a woman you have never seen before. Her hair is choppy against her neck and she wears a jean jacket that looks much too big for her. Her skin is dark. When she turns to you her eyes are glowing a bright white and her smile is all teeth with little sincerity.

"Come," she says, "Walk with me."

You are none the wiser.

The pooling of a thousand different universes is cool against your legs. You ask, "Who are you?"

The woman hums a tune nobody knows. "I am Creation," she decides. "and I am the parent of life. I craft souls from my hands and balance stars between my fingers. I am the feeling after finishing a long project and the determination to do more. Artists draw my many forms and set them to be framed in museums of plenty. I am in the earth beneath your feet, the flowers in your hair, the sun that kisses your skin. I am the face of all those who walk my path of life and more."

You blink. Her hair is long now, and her skin is lighter than before. She's wearing a dress. It's ripped at the sleeves.

A pause that is anything but silent fills the space between you. Creation gives you a look and frowns. "It is only polite for me to ask who you are, is it not?"

The world is up to your knees now. If you put your hands by your sides, you're sure your fingertips would leave ripples in the infinite. "I'm not sure," you say, and you are honest. "I don't think I have been myself in a long time."

Creation is thoughtful for a moment. "I see." she says, finally. "Would you like to find out?"

Blink. His hair is shaved and he is tall. Camouflage somewhere it cannot blend into.

"What?"

He stops walking and turns to you. You cannot see anything lower than your own waist. Creation holds out his arm and gives you a smile most would consider charming. It seems empty, to you.

"Do you trust me?"

You do not. But your body of moving on it's own accord, and suddenly, you find yourself taking his outstretched hand. His grip is tighter than you would prefer. Somehow, his eyes shine brighter.

"Good choice," he mutters, and it sounds dangerously close to a joke. He takes a deep breath- was he always breathing?- and he pulls you down hard enough that you're sure your arm is dislocated, but it doesn't hurt, why doesn't it hurt, has anything hurt since you di-

you are underwater. his hand is gone. or is it? you aren't sure where the warmth is coming from anymore. you try to breathe and find yourself choking on galaxies that swirl in your mouth, a feeling so foreign that it makes your stomach flip-flop. you are surrounded by unfathomable realities, infinite timelines. and yet you feel so big among them.

And just as suddenly, you are breaking the surface.

Your chest shakes and you are desperately pushing hair from your face. Someone pats your back as you cough up things you cannot comprehend. You blink away the excess. A face stares back, looking almost sheepish.

"Sorry," they say, sounding almost sheepish with their hair half-shaved half-short, "It was rude to not give you a proper warning."

It is bright now, you realize. The empty space surrounding you is now a shining white, making it look more empty than before. Their eyes are as dark as the galaxies swirling in your stomach.

"Who are you?"

They grin in a way that reminds you of a child. "I am Destruction," they proclaim, bold, "I am the rage you feel as you tear apart the things you were once proud of. I am the fire as it burns through a forest. I am in the eyes of people who hold names we do not speak of, people who have done things we cannot comprehend, people who have and never will be an ounce of light illuminating their name. I am the dark and I am the gray and nothing less."

He is small, half your height. The world shifts so that he does not drown. Shouldering off a leather jacket that pools at his feet, he hands it to you and smiles. "And you," he continues, "are cold."

He's right. The clacking of your teeth is enough to make you wince. You take the jacket.

"Thank you."

"No need," he says, waving a hand. His eyebrows raise as he looks you up and down. After a moment, he holds out his hand, familiar and threatening. "Give my your name."

It's not a question.

They are your height now. Chubby with eyes that are more squinted than before. Your jacket does not change.

"What?" You ask, stumbling a few steps back. "Is this a trick of the fae?"

They laugh and smile in a way that is not meant to give you comfort. "Surely, my friend, you know better than to question those who crafted the worlds you lay upon." It's quiet for a moment in the loudest way possible. Hesitantly, you give them your name.

They hum a tune only you know. Their eyes are darker than before.

"Lay with me," they say. They are lean and slouched.

You are no fool.

You float with Destruction, hands intertwined and the rippling of the world pulling you in a thousand different directions. You aren't sure how long it has been before they start speaking.

"You're.... young," they start. It sounds like a lie. It feels like the truth. "You are young and you are determined. To do what, I'm not sure. Only you know- I suppose the creator can only know so much about what grows beneath their hands. You are a daughter, a son, a child. A brother, a sister, a sibling. Somewhere between the lines of all three. You are loved in the most quiet way and in the loudest screams. You yourself love in a very similar way, I imagine.

"I see you in the hands of all those I have made. You are engraved in the palms of all those around you and the swirl of your fingertip is indented on the bodies of all those you touch. I find you under the dotted i's of an assignment written long ago, in the brush strokes an art project forgotten, between the lyrics of a song sung by those who want to taste your spirit. You are everywhere, and you are nowhere. You are memorized and you are forgotten. You are love and you are hate.

"You are everything," she finishes, braids floating around her head like the sun.

"And nothing?"

"No," she whispers, and it sounds like a promise. Her hand grips yours harder. "Never nothing. Not you."

Her jacket is comfortingly warm as you pick at the sleeve. She hums and sighs.

"I could not let you leave without knowing who you are." She says, and it sounds almost sad. "It would have been cruel of me."

You swallow. "Where will I go?" You ask, and though you have been warned against it you do not feel afraid. Not of Deconstruction. Not of Creation. "Will it hurt?"

"I don't know," she says, and you are no longer floating. You are standing hand in hand, seeming to be dangerously close to the end. "There may be nothing. There may be something so raw you cannot comprehend it. But now is not the time for questions- instead you will find the answer, for this is only the beginning."

"It feels like the end," you say, blinking back tears.

A face that was once yours blinks back. "I know," they say, and though it is strange, the light gray of their eyes is almost fitting. They hold out a hand, a mirror of yourself.

"Do you trust me?"

You do. But you are no fool.

You take a hand that is no longer yours. They smile at you, almost comforting,

and pull-