For Real not for Real

Ever since I watched Earth explode—the Blue Planet suddenly red fire and black smoke, a globe broken in half, core exposed, all the richness of its surface swept away like dust—, I’ve had trouble sleeping. I hang from the cliffside, tentacles stretched out comfortably, and count the passing clouds like my mentor taught me long ago, but rest does not fall upon me. Eye open, eye closed, eye open, I shift and stir in search of this magical moment of loss, when one forgets oneself and one’s worries until waking again. If I still get no relief, swaying endlessly awake in the starlit, silent night, I sometimes fly off for a stroll.

Warm bursts of methane carry me lazily about, skirting the mineral accretions which protrude like threatening human hands, or so it seems in my sleeplessness, forever aiming to grab me and exert their revenge. I drift and waft, easily avoiding their motionless aggression. I have no reason to feel guilt—all my actions were commensurate with the mission and the mission was justified, without a flash of doubt, by the welfare of this galaxy. Probably of the neighboring ones, too. Yet it matters not: I feel… something. Moments come back to me, innocuous daily interactions with the smaller humans, the babbling ones, in particular, whilst I was embedded among them under the guise of a pet cat. It cannot be denied that, despite what horror they become in later stages of their metamorphosis, the little ones have a dark joy about them, a purity of will and intent which would melt the core of any sensitive creature. Alas: a species cannot be broken down in static, isolated phases. You get all or nothing, and responsibility for the whole lies with the more advanced of them—the more consequential in their chosen behaviors. All considered, I can’t say that I have regrets—but I also get no sleep.

On one such night, as I am feeling particularly irritated to be once more fluttering about at the hour when decent octopodes sleep, and the indecent ones at least get silly and fornicate, instead of suffering alone above a rocky wasteland, I suddenly glimpse something unusual. A small object, of a shape unknown in these parts of the galaxy, which I have seen before but should not, and yet its presence seems confirmed, as I alter my course to gather more specific observations, indeed should not be there, what is a human wallet doing here, its leather exterior shining faintly from the glow of the stars?

How can it be? I look around, suspecting primarily a trick or trap of some kind, but a full circular scan of the surroundings yields no visible form of life. Cautiously, I draw closer, considering the two main alternatives that could explain what I am seeing: 1) there actually are humans nearby, conceivably planning a revenge strike, and although many pieces are missing to make this a realistic hypothesis, I may learn more by examining this object which one of them must have lost, 2) by a freak coincidence, among all the fragments and particles projected into space by the explosion, one of them, a wallet, has found its way through the ether and, having avoided the myriad manners of getting destroyed which immediately spring to mind, fallen through these gaseous skies and unto the ground below.

Despite the risks, I must investigate. Alighting softly, I prop the wallet open with two tentacle tips and, with a third, slide out the foremost plastic card, which I can tell bears the rectangular picture of a human face. I inch forward and as the portrait becomes clear, and the name written beside it, I cannot believe my eye: it’s him! That crazy iconoclast billionaire whose dreams of racially pure space colonies set the whole chain of events in motion which resulted in my being sent on that fateful mission. NO! NOT HIM!

That is impossible. What would be the odds, if genuine debris from the blast had made it all the way here—already quite a stretch of the imagination—, that it would be precisely this man’s personal belonging landing at the foot of the mountain I call home? This cannot be real. What kind of cruel trick is my own mind playing on me? The wallet seems real, trembling between my two suckers, my whole tentacle is shaking, I am not feeling well. I have no idea what happens next—

Unless I’m dreaming, meaning I’ve finally dozed off back there on my cliffside, I’ve finally found sleep if not actual peace of mind, I’m dreaming of something unpleasant related to my ongoing preoccupations, which is fine, it’s probably quite common, over time it should get better, in any case it’s preferable to the other option where I’ve completely lost it, much better a nightmare than psychotic hallucinations, much better indeed, if it’s only a nightmare, then I’m fine, I’ll be all right, but how can I tell? HOW CAN I TELL?

About the artist

Antoine Bargel writes poetry and fiction in English and French. His stories have been published in Easy Street, Jellyfish Review, Harpang, and elsewhere. His first novel, Ma vie parfaite, is currently being translated into English. He has a Ph.D. in Romance Languages from the University of Oregon, and has translated over 30 novels from English to French. His personal website is https://antoine.bargel.eu