I avoided spoiling anything and tried to avoid doing anything else untoward, but as a result I sound insane. Thanks for bearing with.
So, when my friend told me that a sequel to DIE was coming out, I wept.
She actually had to tell me twice, because I sort of blanked the information from my head?
Something weird about this story is it's a story about stories, about caring for people who aren't real, and people you don't know. About allowing the unreal to enter your life, and change how you think about yourself and the world around you.
They're not real. She isn't real. She's barely even real to herself. And yet, I was so scared for her. So so scared. I shook about it. My local-ish comic store had the first two of four issues released. I stuttered trying to buy them. Really, I was scared for her because I'm scared for me. That's how it usually is with fake people, and sometimes, if you're not careful, real people. They are going back, and, in a way, so am I. There is no other way.
Some of the things I was worried about are happening, some aren't. Alongside them are more—I was going to say "cuttingly real" but it's not strong enough—laceratingly authentic elements of a certain character's lived experience and feelings, among others. They are just...so true. I can't say anymore about this, it would be improper, but—there it is again. How could he be that three times so cavalierly, when, of course, it is so disgustingly devastating, the idea of doing it once and not doing it perfectly. This rumination paired with Sophie's line about formula is Skin-crawling. Not her fault. Gutting nonetheless. Gillen's fault 100%, but for a good cause, I know it.
Of course, the thing that scared me wasn't the obvious thing, or what I think will be most obvious to most. It's the little details, about whether there is time. But there is never time. Taking as much as one does is always almost too selfish to bear. It always is. These characters are loaded indeed. With backstory, with wants. With assignments. I hate assignments. I hate gods. I hate being given the choice of painful selfishness and more painful discomfort. I hate when someone draws the line for you between what is living and what is dreaming. I hate it for all of them. All of us.
But it's the way it is. It was never going to be different. This is part of what I ignored when I settled into the idea that the ending was the ending: not thinking about how hard it would always be, even though I knew full well how hard it would always be. No pain, no game. And whether the writer writes more, or the illustrator grabs a new sheet, the game is never over.
Said friend also said you "wouldn't put people through the wringer simply for shock value, and would have better things to do if it weren't important." I agree so much. I trust you. I will keep trusting you. This is not an indictment.
There's a reason I started reading in the first place. I'm reading a bunch of things that will hurt me. Always. I say it's because I need to see myself in stories, and there aren't any good stories I have found where we don't get kicked right in the gut. I'm lying a little bit. I think even if I found some, I would still read stories where we do.
I think I am just really lost in thought about my own die, my own spaces I keep in my head to get hurt on purpose. My own monsters made mundane, my mundanities made monstrous. Stories that grip me too tight and hold me too close. How they pull me away, not for years, but hours, certainly. Days, at times. How there are things that happen there that I just cannot explain, how this is the closest I will come, outside therapy, and even then—
My side twenty (or my one?) has a new level in construction. To its faraway builders, I say "thank you," with a dribble of blood running out of my mouth. I know it will be spectacular. Inevitable. Ugly. Beautiful. Best of luck.
