A Fraying Normal

I wake up drenched in sweat, my pulse pounding like I've just sprinted five blocks in the rain. My attic room looks the same—dim morning light catching dust motes, that old trunk in the corner, and my flickery little lamp—but somehow it feels emptier than I remember.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. My left hand prickles under the glove Mom insisted I wear. Sometimes I think about ditching it and letting the swirl just glow for all to see. But maybe not first thing in the morning. I'm definitely not ready to blow up my entire routine at dawn.

A stray memory pokes at me: the astral plane, Strange's voice telling me I'm a "meltdown risk." The swirl almost exploded with cosmic energy there—I could've rewritten that dimension if I'd wanted. My breathing still feels shaky, but I'm calmer than I should be. No shame about nearly unraveling the astral plane, no guilt about scaring Strange. Mostly, there's a weird sort of pride. Like I'd tested a massive stage light, saw what my power could really do, and then stepped back on my own terms. If a meltdown is in me, it's mine to choose—not Strange's.

Across the room, my old jacket still hangs off the chair, looking more beat-up than ever. Could be my imagination, but I swear the ragged hem has some sort of golden shimmer. Beneath my glove, the swirl pulses like it's hungry. Fragments of a half-dream slip through my mind:

"When midnight rings, we will all unmask…

Woe! woe to you who are crowned…"

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand and open a notes app, typing almost without thinking:

"Aldebaraan shines in the distance…"

Words are spilling out like they're lodged in some corner of my brain, urgent and unstoppable. They remind me of those cosmic glimpses—black cathedrals, decaying honey-sweetness in the air, hush before a massive orchestral finale. I'm not sure why I'm writing them—only that I have to. Kind of like when I doodle spirals all over a page, but sharper.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to replay those astral illusions. I see twisting, obsidian spires in swirling gold mist, distant chanting that prickles my skin. The swirl in my chest speeds up, humming in my ears. Outside, a car horn blasts. I jerk like I've been caught daydreaming, and the swirl settles again—barely.

I stand, yank on my battered jacket, and press the glove flat over my sign. It's still blazing with leftover energy from last night. I might normally worry about illusions popping off uninvited, but all I feel now is mild annoyance that I ever cared. Let meltdown watchers do their thing.

I catch my reflection in the grubby mirror. A ghost of a smirk forms. "Morning, meltdown risk," I whisper at my tired reflection. So far, no meltdown. Strange can keep his wards to himself.

Downstairs, the bookstore is practically silent. Not surprising—it's too early for the usual trickle of customers. The clerk mutters a greeting, but it barely registers. My head's still buzzing with those lines from my phone, swirling in a rhythm I can't ignore. Something about The King in Yellow… I'm sure I saw that phrase scrawled in a dream, or maybe scratched on a wall in the astral plane. With each step, the words keep nudging me, itching to be written down.

I head outside into the city morning. The sun's not too harsh yet; the sidewalks are only half-busy. One woman juggling groceries drops a bag—her oranges go rolling everywhere. A month ago, I'd probably help gather them. Today, I just watch. No malicious glee, I'm just… indifferent. She'll figure it out or not—it's not my problem.

One orange wobbles dangerously toward the curb, about to tumble into traffic. For a split second, I consider rewriting the sidewalk so it doesn't tip over the edge. Feels like I could do it with a snap of my fingers. So I give the air a tiny flick, and a faint swirl of gold shifts the concrete's shape, just enough to catch the orange. The woman snatches it up and stares at me, eyes bugging out. I shrug, moving on. She can chalk it up to a trick of the light if she wants.

Coffee in hand—cheap stuff, but I'm not picky—I slip into a side alley and open my phone again to type a few more lines. The swirl thrums in my chest; my jacket's edges flutter like there's a breeze, even though the air is perfectly still.

"The dying twilight of the twin suns

Embrases and irises the sky with tattered reds.

Nothing warms more than the purple sunset

When I dread the cold of the declining night."

Even as I'm tapping these words out, I can sense the astral plane prodding at me, like Strange is doing a distant check-up. My neck tingles like a slight draft. He's worried. Let him worry. He's the one who dragged me out of bed to scold me. If a meltdown was gonna happen, it would've happened back then.

I test one line out loud: "I saw the lake of Hali, thin and—"

Gold outlines flare across the alley wall, revealing infinity for a split second. The swirl in my chest flutters. I roll my eyes and flick the image away. The swirl settles back down. I can practically feel Strange's unsettled presence. Good. Let him watch me not lose control.

I decide to swing by Bryce's gallery. Maybe I'll check on some paintings or see if anything new came in. Bryce used to love seeing my stuff, but lately, I can tell he's nervous about this new "style" I've got going on. I walk in and spot him tinkering with some sculpture in the corner.

He glances up, frowning. "Sasha? Hey. You look… I don't know. Tired."

Am I? Probably. Or disconnected. It's tough to pin down. I just shrug. "I'm fine."

He sets his tools aside and gives me that worried friend stare. "I tried calling you last night. Thought maybe you'd want to talk. Rumors going around about that woman who promised to come back—something about her dying while trying to replicate your painting without sleep or food." He coughs out a nervous laugh, clearly hoping I'll say it's all nonsense.

My sign pulses under the glove. I feel a spike of irritation. "Imitate my painting? Right." I wander over to an old canvas from last week, my brushstrokes all safe and normal. They feel so cramped now, like I was holding back my real potential.

I rest my palm on the canvas and sense the itch to rewrite it, shape it into something with the lines swirling in my phone:

Crown, starlight, hush…

Gold sparks at the canvas's edge, but I let it fade for now. Bryce watches me with that half-terrified expression, but I ignore him.

He clears his throat. "If something's bothering you, talk to me. I'm worried."

"Don't be," I answer, sounding more distant than I mean to. "I've got a new project anyway—a play." The word tastes odd in my mouth. "It's called The King in Yellow."

"The King in Yel—?" He blinks. "Sounds kinda ominous. Need help?"

I think about it. Half of me wants to share a snippet, the other half insists it's too cosmic for him. After a second, I tap my phone and show him one line:

"Song of my soul, my voice is dead / Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed"

He reads, eyes going big. It's like he's intrigued and spooked at the same time. "Sasha… is this some new style? It's beautiful, but it's… dark," he murmurs.

I tuck the phone away, ignoring the urge to transform the entire gallery into a golden crypt. "If it unsettles you, maybe it's not your thing." My gaze drifts around the room. "I gotta go. Stuff to do."

He starts to say something else, but I'm already heading for the door, mind swirling with half-written lines from a cosmic play that feels bigger than anything I've done before. Bryce's concern feels… trivial.

Back on the street, I blend into the crowd. Someone's yelling at a street vendor, a pigeon almost flies right into me. I keep walking, ignoring the chaos. My swirl flares when I get annoyed, and for a second, black-lace fractals ripple across the concrete. A couple of people stare. I shut it down with a flick of thought, leaving them confused about what they just saw.

No meltdown—just me flexing. Let them wonder if they're going crazy.

I sense eyes on me from above. Glancing up, I spot a silhouette on a rooftop—probably Spiderman or some other do-gooder. The second I look, he ducks out of sight. They're all so freaked out about me. I can't help a little smirk.

"They're so fragile," I whisper, half amused. The swirl beneath my glove seems to agree.

Eventually, I slip into another alley, check the time, and realize my coffee is ice-cold. I toss it in a dumpster and feel this urge to type more lines:

"Which one of them could talk to us? The strumpet seems sweet.

Her glance is lost in the distance; I fear she has drunk enough."

I say the lines under my breath, tasting each word. Shadows stretch in the alley, half-forming into twisted pillars. My jacket ruffles in a wind that doesn't exist. A cat hisses and bolts, terrified. That might've bothered me before, but now I barely feel anything.

The meltdown fiasco with Strange must've changed me more than I realized. I don't have the patience for everyday worries—I'm consumed by something bigger. A swirl that can rewrite matter or reality? Sure. Let watchers keep tabs. It won't change what I'm doing.

I pocket my phone and wander back through the streets, eventually climbing up the stairs to my attic. Shutting the door, I drop onto the bed. The swirl in my chest is practically buzzing with anticipation, like it knows we're about to conjure something major. I prop myself against a pillow, phone in hand, and type away:

"There is no eternal damnation, and this grief that torments you will pass away.

Wait. Contemplate.

Merge with Yhtill.

And you will find beyond your soul the rest that your tortured heart seeks."

Each word feels like it's pressing outward, straining the walls of the attic. I hear the wood beams groan. The swirl loves it. A corner by the lamp warps into black-lace geometry before snapping back to normal. I grin. No meltdown, just teetering on the edge. I'm not here to blow up the planet or anything—it's too small for that kind of drama, right?

I toss my phone aside and inhale. This is what I'm meant to do: write. A month ago, I might've been scared out of my mind at the slightest flicker of "otherness." Now, I welcome it.

I move to the window, peeling my glove back just enough to see the swirling sign carved into my skin. What once seemed horrifying is now strangely comforting, like a reminder of how everything is possible if I decide it is.

I catch a glimpse of movement on a nearby rooftop. Another watcher. Strange, Daredevil, S.H.I.E.L.D.—who knows. I don't even care at this point. I put my palm on the glass and feel the swirl's hum. If meltdown potential is mine to command, I'm not in the mood to prove it right now. I've got lines to finish.

"See?" I murmur to whoever's watching. "I'm not destroying anything. I'm… rewriting."

Silence. They can brood all they want. As dusk settles, I realize I've spent hours stuck in a trance of cosmic writing and tiny reality tweaks. Still no meltdown. But I'm done trying to be normal. If something does happen, it happens. Right now, The King in Yellow is everything.

My stomach's growling, but I ignore it. The battered jacket is flung across the bed, and the air tastes of sweet rot, like honey gone off. Once, that would have scared me. Now, it's comforting—a sign I'm on the right path.

I drop onto the mattress again, phone in hand, reading through the day's lines:

"So much devotion and adoration, all for nothing!

What reward does so much love brings?"

A little chill of satisfaction runs up my spine. I whisper them again, humming. The watchers can cringe all they want—I see the bigger picture now. The brand on my hand says it all. My cosmic script matters more than anything else.

It's getting late, and I can practically see the second act in my mind: rotted gold lace across an infinite stage, an otherworldly hush before the final chord. Normal life? Overrated. If Earth bores me, maybe it'll be the next meltdown. But for now, let it exist—I've got a play to finish.