Back To The Abyss
Alexander Gordon Jahans
I’m standing on the edge of a cliff somewhere deep within the bowels of my mind, the roiling raging abyss lies far below staring into my soul.
The Farsh-nuke approaches out of the shadows, paisley tie, three piece suit and emerald green eyes, the butcher of Britain come to talk me from the edge. “This? Again? I thought you were over this? I thought you were better?”
“I am.” I say, lifting a trainer off the ground to wave it curiously over the edge.
“And this is better?” says the Farsh-nuke staring into the abyss nervously.
“Absolutely.” I say. “I’m not afraid anymore.”
“The abyss is something you should be scared of.” says the Farsh-nuke. “This isn’t like spiders or girls. This isn’t a fear you need to conquer. The Abyss is fear and rage and cold, dark brutality. It is everything you are not.“
“I know.” I say. “But I’m not afraid of it anymore.”
“Just what the fuck happened with you and that- that- with him?” asks the Farsh-nuke struggling to find the words and biting back obvious contempt.
“We had fun and he was nice.” I say, idly.
“Uh-huh? Well something happened to get you here? So what did?” asks the Farsh-nuke staring into my soul.
“I scared him and he asked me to leave.” I say.
“So... what? You’re worried you’ll go dark side and become Darth Vader?” asked the Farsh-nuke.
I chuckle to myself quietly. “No. No, I know what happens if I go dark side.”
He looks blankly back at me.
“You.” I say. “The Great Farsh-nuke, the Butcher of Britain and the man who makes the impossible probable. You are every childish fantasy I’ve ever had. The Id that I fear, all lust and rage and violence. Except you’re not a realistic fear. My ex? Now he was a real mirror. The real shadow of the soul.”
“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow.
“Arrogant, selfish, a complete idiot whilst also a complete genius and unlike you a man with a far more realistic mirror to my own frustrations. His was to submit selfishly with only pleasure for himself with a fruitless perfectionist desire for partners.” I say. “I met my mirror and I gave myself to him, dedicated to myself to his pleasure and I realised something very important. I’m not just you, not even with a willing submissive.”
“Then what are you?” asks the Farsh-nuke.
“I’m the submissive woman as well, or at least part of my mind fits that archetype.” I say. “He was mine and yet I was his, I lived to pleasure him, and did so knowing that if I wanted to work or pleasure myself I had to be elsewhere. I was not the monster I feared I might be and indeed as the relationship ended I realized I don’t just want a submissive woman. It’s a nice fantasy when you don’t have to think about what happens next but agency in a partner is just convenient apart from anything else. I want a partner who can think for themselves and make their own decisions, who can get into screaming matches with me if shit gets serious yet understand that the screaming is just like shaking a mess of cables to untangle them, it may seem rough but it lets tightly wound things shake free. Communication sometimes requires screaming and I will take that over soeone who hides under a blanket to speak to me any day.”
“Oh...” says the Farsh-nuke. “So I guess you won’t be writing anymore stories then?”
I shake my head. “When the whole controversy about the fanfic I’d written happened I thought I was a monster, I felt like I could never write again but now I see that I can and that I should. You see I need the submissive women of my fantasies to have agency and choice, I just want them to choose to be submissive and if people are going to say that my writing them denies them of consent then they can get tae fuck because that is a very peculiar logic which requires the assumption of sapience on the part of fictional characters which do not exist within our universe. Even if it is fanfic based on real people the act of artistic creation is the creation of a new universe, even one very like our own.”
The Farsh-nuke nodded. “I can understands that but you know they’ll come after you, right? This is going to annoy a lot of people, people you care about, whose positions you generally support. This won’t just be nazis and trump supporters telling you to kill yourself. This will be feminists and trans activists and lefties... They will hunt you down and try to destroy you for representing the patriarchy.”
“I know.” I say.
The Farsh-nuke stares at me. “Seriously? You? Mister I-killed-two-fish-once-now-I-shall-never-harm-a-fish-again? You are going to accept the possible wrath of the left?”
“That’s why I’m standing on the raggedy edge, staring into the abyss.” I say.
“Of course you could always just lie and not publish your fiction?” says the Farsh-nuke.
“I’m a writer, the videos may pay the bills and I may be an appallingly bad writer but I am a writer and a writer writes.” I say. “No one ever has to read it if they don’t want to and if they want to keyword search to the part that annoys them they can know that they are in the company of misogynists, racists, tories and anarcho-capitalists. Let that irony burn them as they try to burn me.”
The Farsh-nuke sighs. “You aren’t capable of this. You care too much about what these people think. You like being the good guy.”
I lean over the edge and stare down at the roiling abyss raging far below.
“No...” says the Farsh-nuke seriously.
“If they think I’m a sexist transphobic piece of shit then they won’t notice the difference and I was never a good man anyway, not really.” I say idly then I look back at him. “I don’t matter. Feminism will not live or die on what happens in my fiction. My fiction will however make me better able to live through the bullshit to come and I need to keep making my videos to fight against the right wing media.”
“They won’t understand.” says the Farsh-nuke.
“Oh, of course they won’t.” I say with a chuckle. “But fuck what they think. I’ve made peace with myself. My videos matter more than my fiction so let the hatebase swell to include the left.”
“So what are you going to do?” asks the Farsh-nuke.
I start walking away from the cliff edge at a careful pace. “Exactly what the friend who tried to ruin me wants.”
“And that is...?” asks the Farsh-nuke.
“Take a running jump off a cliff.” I say as I come to a stop and turn around.
The Farsh-nuke goes pale. “You don’t have to do this?”
“Bollocks to the bechdel test, subby hot chicks in bikinis here I come.” I say running towards the cliff edge.