Omnia Stared Back

If you stare into the omnia for long enough… (An Epilogue)

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Omnia Stared Back

Memories are a fascinating thing. A combination of sensation, perception and recall, all flooding into each other, twisting and churning meaning, interpretation and the very fabric of reality. Memories are arbitrary, just like the people who make them.

And she remembered a lot of people.

It was strange what the mind prioritized, which passing thoughts danced through your head like taunting schoolyard bullies, whose names you remembered or forgot. He stumbled over the tangled cords that littered his own mind on the daily, finding ideas that he had lost, or memories that may or may not be his.

It was unsettling, to say the least. Not that he really minded that much, after all — he was thankful just to be here. But, he couldn't hide the fact — especially not from him. It had been unexpected, pure chance, a twist of fate that lead the two of them to meet, tangled in the tapestry that was the chaotic life and times of Lillian Lillihammer and Heather Garrison.

Life was simpler before this, he thought, but life with him is…

It was a whole new kind of life, one he couldn't wait to remember when he was old.

And, of course, she was a woman, even if the details were still a bit foggy. After all, her inspiration, the name that she couldn't forget? She was a 'she', and now, so was she.

Mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery; even more so when the mimic does so with gusto.

When you are surrounded by nothing but the abyss, anything is significant. When you have no concept of self, a single identifier can define your entire corpus. When you wake up, alone, with no memories to your name, not even a name for that matter: the first thought you think of gains a strange sense of importance. Your first thought, back from the abyss, defines your non-existent self more than anything else possibly could.

As the empty noise of the Noosphere pooled within her eyes, and as she looked around in confusion, Ali had an impulse.

Better start walking.

And she did. Who knew how long she had been frozen in time, who cared why she was inside the conceptual void in the first place; why worry about where her name came from, or the fact that she didn't remember… well, remembering that information.

There is a human instinct to survive, and even without a physical body — Ali was proof that the instinct remained. She was human, she was sure of it. Now she just had to find out who she was.

Friendship was a curious thing — for that matter, so were relationships. The idea that two individuals would desire enough similar things, have a compatible existence, be in the same place and time…

She knew the scale of things — she was a witness to the expanse. But the more she looked around, the more she noticed something; despite the vastness, having other people around made things cozy.

Life was better with others.

A thought occurred to her one morning, as the chlorinated-water cascaded off of her shoulders, as she exited the pool.

Did I ever love swimming?

It was a sobering thought — how could she trust anything anymore? The more distance she had from it, the less she was sure of anything. Picking through the fragmented memories was like digging through a pile of micro-fiche looking for an answer — and all you have are your eyes to judge. Digging for an answer in the dark, just hoping that things will get better.

But here? Things always stayed the same here.

She didn't really understand what the point of moderation was. It was an idea that she had just come across, and didn't really know why anybody would willingly take less.

The world was full with an uncountable number of mysteries, wonders and — to top it all off, for each fascinating idea, there were a foison of associated memories, like a film reel in search of a projector. She didn't have a favorite genre yet, but — there was something visceral about horror, wasn't there?

She pulled the coat around her tighter as she darted behind a truck, lurking in the shade of a building.

Fuck, she thought. They got it first.

She hated being beaten at her own game — especially by such amateurs. Any idiot could smash and grab — it took an expert to execute a heist. But to change the very nature of something? That was the realm of alchemy.

She wasn't an idiot, nor was she an expert, but she sure knew how to turn lead into gold. After all, what else would she line her pockets with?

The idea of 'owning' something was fascinating, especially to her. When your existence has been experiential, the concept that you would have a permanent claim to a tangible object that could fade, break or disappear is simply unthinkable.

Why would she want to gain something that she could lose?

The words swarmed her mind, a maelstrom of context pilling in — was it worth it, just for the experience? If you yourself have an expiration date, does that make tangible objects more valuable? She didn't know.

Hospitals tend to lose meaning after a few visits. Doctors become just another face, needles and bandages nothing more than mere bookmarks that dot the calendar of your life.

You remembered a time, long ago. Back, before the diagnosis. Before she took everything away from you — that was what she did. It wasn't for your protection, as much as she said it was; it was because she was scared.

You were ready to fight the monsters, but she wouldn't let you. She didn't even give you the fucking chance to fail — and she was surprised that you were having an existential crisis now?

Life was easier when she ignored you.

She remembered a lot of things. Some were more important, some were less, but to her? Everything was relevant, and she remembered it all. But, in the sea of dreams, she still had her favorites. Those that she remembered more than others.

And of course, most of all — she remembered the day she was born. Or, rather — the day she began to exist, differently.

"Why are you so stressed, babe?" Lillian asked as she luxuriated on their shared bed. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal, babe," Heather answered, "is that you are coming to meet my family."

"Is it your family if it's just your mom?"

"Yeah," Heather said, nodding. "That's pretty much the extent of the family I talk to anymore."

"Oh," Lillian said, staring and playing with her hair.

"Oh?"

"I just figured that was only something that happened in stories. You know, the weird family shit around transitioning and all that — I didn't think it really happened like that."

"Really?" Heather asked, pausing her packing. "What about your family?"

Lillian waved her off. "So, you looking forward to seeing your mom?" she asked, deftly attempting to change the subject.

"Am I looking forward to it?" Heather said, snorting. "Babe, did you forget about the obliteration of all of our shared experiences from before my transition?"

"I didn't forget," Lillian said, "but… I mean, will it be that awkward?"

Heather just stared back. "Just wait, you'll get it when you meet her."

In a small duplex, framed on all sides by begonias and spruce trees, Emma Garrison sat on the porch, rocking in her chair. It was a brisk summer evening, and the wind off of the Sound carried a cool chill with it; Heather was supposed to be home soon, and it had been far too long since they were together.

I wonder, Emma thought as she reclined in her chair. What does she get up to? Last I remember, she was… oh dear, not again.

Her memory had been spotty for the past few months — you can only have so many senior moments before you think that something else is going on. It was weird, that she could recall things with such accuracy, and see her own past in such vivid technicolor; but the moment she tried to reminisce about Heather, the fog returned and emptied her mind.

It's sad, she thought, I barely remember my own daughter. It's like she didn't have a life with me, before… Before what?

She didn't know — but she wouldn't have any more time to worry, as in that moment, a car pulled up in front of the house. Emma stood up in excitement, feeling her joints shift under her weight as she did; a little pain wouldn't stop her, and certainly not today.

Emma watched as the door to the car opened, and out stepped Heather; tall, billowing curled dark hair, just like her mother. It was almost enough to bring a tear to Emma's eye when Heather gave her a massive grin; so much so, that she had to rub her eyes.

When she looked back up, another woman stood beside Heather with long, smooth silver-grey hair. Emma had only been expecting a single guest, and Heather hadn't said anything about…

A friend? Emma thought, before dismissing the idea. No, Heather would never bring a friend home to visit. So that must mean she's—

In her thoughts, Emma had lost all track of time — so when she looked up, Heather and the mystery woman stood at the bottom of the stairs leading onto the porch, looking at her expectantly.

"Hi mom, I'm home," Heather said, giving a half-assed wave.

"And who is—" Emma began, before Heather began to sputter, her face turning red. Oh. It's that kind of friend, Emma thought, smiling.

"Hi. I'm Lillian, Heather's girlfriend. I'm sorry we didn't call ahead, Heath said that it would be okay, but—"

"No, no! Please, come inside! Having my daughter home is a treat, but for her to bring home a girlfriend?" Emma said, laughing warmly. "I can't believe it, I might be a grandmother before I die."

"Mom!" Heather protested feebly, as Emma's mind swam with thoughts of an inevitable wedding, and a gaggle of grandchildren all sitting around with Grandma. It was something that she had never conceived could happen; she didn't know why, but when Heather was growing up, Emma had never dreamed that her daughter would have children one day.

But seeing the way Heather looked at her?

It seemed that nothing was ever set in stone. Not even fate.

"—and then Heather, who was— oh no, wait. I'm sorry. That wasn't Heather," Emma stopped herself, trailing off.

"So," Heather said, rapidly changing the subject, "how are you doing mom? Really. Is the house still manageable, or—"

"You fuss too much," Emma said, waving her daughter off. "The house hasn't grown any bigger, and I'm just as spry as I was when you lived here! And I don't remember you doing any chores as a teenager, but…"

As her mother trailed off, Heather frowned. She keeps doing that, Heather noted. She tries to remember something about my childhood, and, poof. Nothing. Like it never happened.

And as far as she knew either, it hadn't happened. Despite the blood and the history the two Garrison women shared — they were strangers, linked only by a name. And it wasn't like Heather could tell her mother everything, no, she knew that much.

Her mother didn't know about her real job, let alone the anomalous world — their lie was that Heather worked in publishing, and Lillian was a literary agent. They had come up with their cover on the drive over, and Lillian demanded that, whatever the fake roles, her false career had better pay than Heather's.

After all, and to quote her girlfriend, 'I want your mom to see me as the breadwinner, so she knows that your future is taken care of. Parents like that kind of shit, right?'

Lillian had made this trip much, much easier, and Heather was sure to thank her later. Speaking of which—

"What time is it?" Heather asked aloud, fairly certain she knew the answer. It was foggy, but if she remembered correctly, her mother would never stay up past—

"Oh! Is it 10:30 already?" Emma said in surprise. "I should be getting to bed, I'm never up this late."

Yep, 10pm, Heather thought, smirking. Seems like I can still remember a few things.

"Can we help you clean up?" Lillian asked. "You made us dinner, the least that I can do is—"

"No, no," Emma said, almost pushing Lillian back down into her seat. "You're my guest, Lillian. I can take care of the house, why don't the two of you go upstairs and settle in?"

Lillian looked across the room at her girlfriend with a pixie-like glee.

"Oh my god, Heather! That's right! We get to stay in your room!"

Shit.

As the couple slowly climbed the stairs leading to Heather's bedroom, Lillian was practically bouncing with excitement.

"It's just," she said, partway through a never-ending rant. "it's your bedroom, right? I remember mine, and Harry's childhood room means so much to me that… I don't know, there's just something special about them. Like… they are relics to a past world that only we remember."

Heather snorted.

"Yeah, right. Relics. Memories."

"Oh yeah," Lillian said, stumbling as she stopped ascending the stairs. "Right. You don't have those."

"Not anymore," Heather said, steadying her girlfriend from behind. "It's fine, you just know as much about the room as I do. It's weird — like, I know this is my childhood bedroom, because that's just a fact, but…"

"But if you don't know what's behind door number one, do you really know it?"

"Yeah, something like that."

The pair had reached the bedroom door — it was plain, with no indication that it had ever been personalized. Heather knew that this was her bedroom though, just like she knew the exact number of steps from here to the bathroom, and where all of the creaks in the house were.

She never knew what she could remember, or what she had forgotten — but she would take what she could get.

"We're here," Heather said, hand on the door knob, feeling the cold metal in her tight grasp. "You ready?"

"Babe," Lillian said, laughing. "It's a fucking bedroom. What's the worst that could happen?"

The door opened, and light poured across the dusty floors of Heather's childhood bedroom. A wind seemed to blow across the ground, sweeping into the room as the two women stepped inside. It was quaint, a plain desk and almost no memorabilia to speak of — almost like a hotel room, in search of décor.

The lack of furniture, memories, or decorations made the one… unexpected element to stand out even more.

A young woman, around 20, sat in the middle of Heather's bed, legs crossed. She had dirty red hair, mixing with pale violet strands that threatened to strangle the color away, and wore a tight, revealing top — upon closer inspection, it may not have been designed to be so revealing; but only because it was made for a child.

Heather and Lillian exchanged a single look, both nodded, and slammed the door shut behind them as they entered the room with purpose.

"Oh, hello!" the sitting woman said, as if she wasn't the weird one.

"Who the fuck are you," Lillian demanded as she stalked across the bedroom, reaching into her pocket and palming her deck. "And if you fucking move, you'll regret it."

"I will?" the woman asked, quirking her head to the side. "Why is that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Heather whispered harshly. "Maybe it's because you showed up in a fucking stranger's bedroom out of nowhere?"

"Stranger?" the woman considered for a moment. "No, that's not right."

"Again," Lillian demanded, removing her memetic interrogation cards. "One last chance: who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Oh! I don't know who I am."

That's helpful, Heather thought, narrowing her eyes. How did she—

"Oh my goodness!" the woman said as she jumped to her feet and clapped her hands in joy. "Okay! Okay, I don't know who I am, but I know who you are."

Lillian tensed further, holding her arm out between Heather and the mystery figure.

"You have one last chance," Lillian said through gritted teeth, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, it appears that I have upset you," the woman began, sitting back on the bed, and folding her hands. "I didn't choose to come here, this is simply… where I became? I'm sorry, I'm not explaining it well."

"You think?" Lillian replied.

"You said," interjected Heather, "you said that you knew who I was?"

"Yes! You are Heather Garrison."

"How do you know that?" Heather asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Lillian prodded.

"I know that her name is Heather Garrison, and I know how important she is but…"

"But somehow, you have no fucking clue who you are, how you got here, or what happened to you, right?" Lillian said sarcastically. "Wow, what a weird story that nobody has ever tried before, it's certainly not a lie!"

"Lil," Heather said, putting a hand on Lillian's arm. "What if it's not a lie?"

"You can't tell me you're buying this, right?"

"Babe," Heather said, giving her girlfriend a look. "Weirder things have happened."

"Fine. But when she ends the world, it's on your ass, not mine."

With her girlfriend placated for the moment, Heather returned her attention to the mystery woman.

"So, walk me through what you do remember."

The woman nodded, looking around the room as if it would jog her memory. "Right. So the first thing that I remember is your name. Heather. I don't know why, but I just… I couldn't stop thinking about it. I focused on your name, and it felt like I knew you — not just you, but the idea of you. What you stand for, what you mean, the void that you leave behind in your wake — I felt that, knew that, and lived that."

The young woman closed her eyes.

"I don't know where I was before I was here — I don't know if I was anywhere, for that matter. It was simply as if I woke up, and was here. In the very room that created Heather Garrison. I didn't mean to intrude, and I'm sorry, it appears that I have made an error of some kind. I just…"

"Have nowhere to go?" Heather offered gently, sitting down on the bed beside the girl.

"I don't even know who I am," the woman said, frowning.

"What about your name?" Lillian asked from the desk chair, crossing her arms in annoyance. "Do you at least have a name?"

"A name? No," the mystery woman said. "I don't think I have one of those."

"You don't have a name?" Lillian asked mockingly.

"I had no need for one," the woman claimed. "I was unfamiliar with names until I learned of Heather."

"Right," Lillian said, looking at Heather. "You buying any of this?"

"I don't know babe," Heather thought aloud. "There's something about her… I just can't put my finger on it."

"Oh!" the woman shouted, causing both Heather and Lillian to have minor heart attacks.

"What is it?" Lillian demanded, having stood up to protect her girlfriend.

"I believe," the woman said proudly, "I have chosen a name."

"Okay," Heather said, uncertain of how to handle this strange woman. "What is it?"

"My name is Arachnéō Omnia," the woman said decisively, nodding in satisfaction.

"Wow," Lillian said, "what a common name. Is Omnia a family name, or?"

"No," the woman said, "no, I do not have any family."

"Are you human?" Heather asked, hesitantly, looking at Lillian for guidance, who simply shrugged.

"Human? No. Not quite. I am human much in the way that civilization is a human."

"That's not pedantic and confusing. Want to try and explain that again?" Lillian tapped her foot, waiting for a reply that could possibly satisfy her curiosity.

Well, this would certainly do that.

"I think… I think I was once called the 'Noosphere'."

"Fuck," the two lovers said in unison.

It turns out the old saying is true; if you stare into the void for long enough, the void stares back. Heather knew that from dealing with absence. So, it only made sense, that if you stare into the omnia for long enough…

Omnia stares back.

The story will continue in Book Two: Omnia

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Forgotten Memories

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