Void
Void
By Marissa Wilkinson
Faced with the void, I wish for only one thing.
“If I can be nothing else, let me be free.”
The void is bright and clashing and so much of everything, not black and lifeless and nothing; and it answers:
“What do I get in return?”
The Void can speak, apparently. And it is evidently a fan of the barter system.
I rifle through my pockets. Pack of watermelon-flavoured chewing gum. Lip balm (also watermelon-flavoured). A crisp 10-dollar bill. A not-so-crisp used tissue.
“I can give you some gum, a tenner, and a totally unused tissue.” That lip balm was brand new, okay? I’d like to at least use it a bit before I hand it off to some formless entity.
“Cheapskate,” the Void snipes.
“Rude,” I snipe back.
“I’m offering you freedom, something humans live and die and kill for, and you can’t think of anything else you can give me?”
“I don’t have anything else on me, it’s not like I knew I was trading for my freedom today, okay? So, if we could tone down the judgement, that would be much appreciated.”
“I’m sure you have something of value to offer–”
“Gee, thanks for your vote of confidence.”
“Let’s try brainstorming.”
“Okay, how about… you can have my shoes, I guess? They’re Converse, which is basically timeless,” depending on who you ask.
“I’m a void, I am timeless. How do you feel about a couple of years of torture and torment? That’d probably be entertaining.” Okay, so we’re going wild with it, I guess.
“To be honest, not feeling great about that. Thoughts on letting me go free for free?”
“Thinking… thinking… thought. How about you clean my back teeth?” This thing has teeth? “They’re all the way in the back of my mouth,” This thing has a mouth? “So I can’t quite reach them. That seems more your style.”
“Obviously I need to change my outfit if that’s what you think my style is.” I pretend to think for a second, then perk up, “ I’ll do a combo deal, you can have my shoes, everything in my pockets,” Goodbye, fresh lip balm, you will be missed, “And my clothes.”
“Crazy idea, how about you offer me your indentured servitude?” If The Void had a physical form right now, I imagine it’d be looking at its nails, feigning nonchalance.
“That kind of defeats the point of asking for freedom.”
“Have you ever heard of ‘Yes, and’?” The Void starts, sounding very much like a teen stomping their foot, “We’re in the brainstorming phase, we don’t shoot down ideas in the brainstorming phase.”
“Oh my God, The Void is a theatre kid.”
“Have you been calling me The Void in your head this whole time?” Yes, and? “I have a name.”
“Okay, what is it, then? You didn’t exactly introduce yourself.”
“Guess.”
I scoff, “Who are you, Rumpelstiltskin?”
Without a face, it’s hard to read emotions, but something in The Void’s silence feels miffed.
“You’re a really good guesser.”
“Kill me now.”
“Okay.” And then The Void—sorry, Rumpelstiltskin—kills me. Wish granted; death is freedom from that pest.
