I’m at Atlantis. I distinctly remember that’s where I am, standing before aquamarine walls with protruding crystalline lights. I am so angry. I don’t remember what for. Certainly not for the interior design? A frigid moon shimmers through waters of the suspended lake above me, filling the room with a twilight broken by the faint gold glow of the diodes. I can’t identify myself. Who am I? Hatred and violence swirl endlessly within me. 

I walk around the room handling the smooth leather of the couch and armchairs. I pull up schematics for the apartment on the hologram as I play and caress the water ceiling. As I move into the bedroom through the circular hallway to the left I feel intense déjà vu, like I have misplaced my years in this place. Yet the apartment is empty even at this late hour when its inhabitants would have convened for the day by now. 

My play with the water in the bedroom ceiling is becoming uniquely therapeutic as I throw it around forcefully. I jettison some at the bed like from an exploded pipe. Fortunately for the poor thing most of it is waterproofed, but unfortunately that does not quench the burning in my heart. You know how your heart can suddenly pump blood a few degrees too high? I pull the water down so that it envelops me and begins to flood the rest of the apartment.

But that is not enough. I recall the kind, dark-haired lady who inevitably must be my next victim. Not her personally — that would be a crime. The idea of her however, is precisely my impetus for flooding the whole apartment and then on to the hallways and into the adjacent apartments and then the lobby with all of its circular seating. It all must go! And if she is not here, then I will be content if only my idea of her drowns.

The gushing roar of a tidal wave fills my hearing, and the crystals shine blindingly in the opaque foam of whitewater. I feel thicker materials moving through the stream, which I immediately place into my arms. As the various types of fish slap my body with their spasmatic fins, I spear them through with the crystals on the wall, creating red flashes of light as their blood whisks away with the water. I need not pull the water further because the apartment complex is now a make-shift siphon for the whole sea. As I gut thousands of fish pouring in, the water becomes more polluted with their red blood than not. 

I’m leaving. I don’t know where to, but Atlantis just isn’t cutting it out for me. The whole thing is flooded with fishes’ blood. The stench is already overwhelming — I’m swimming in it. I push myself through the endless red like a claustrophobic, but it isn’t the crime I committed that I’m running away from, it’s my failure to scratch the itch to dismantle, break apart, deconstruct. 

As I burst through the lake’s surface, the bright moon strikes me in the eyes. I look around hoping to find the roman-nosed lady flopping out of the red, sputtering on fish guts. Instead I see many shadows and ghosts gathering on the shore some fifty meters away. I stop as they turn towards me but only for a moment; they must not realize I instigated the hullabaloo. 

I set forth into the dark abyss of the sky. I feel the wind is a little dry, but I collect what moisture I can none the less. I get my oxygen and nitrogen and pump it into compact globules where I can. They almost solidify as I press the molecules close together. I know I shouldn’t venture out alone like this, but I feel more than just lucky. I feel intrepid.

I attempt to reach a speed unattempted by man. The air flies past me even as it becomes more vacuous. The particles become so rare that even at my intense speed, mining the air won’t maintain my reservoir forever. I need to go faster. I’m headed who knows where and who knows if I’ll get there. Isn’t that exciting?!

The deep is stifling, but Antury is a beautiful launch pad, a highly detailed orb shining with a silver glow just beneath my feet. It’s oddly unmoving, shrinking rather than floating away. I can almost wrap my toes around it like the Creator. The sun is warm on the surface, but stings out here without any protection. 

I push myself faster. The air is much more accommodating to velocity in space. I have no fear as Antury becomes a speck too small to see and the air becomes cold again. I manipulate the molecules in my sphere so that the area in front of my face bends into a concave lens. I search curiously at systems, stars and galaxies, magnifying the lens further if I find anything interesting. But my search and travel goes on for hours without any sign of reprieve, even as my breathing supply slowly diminishes. The auditory and visual silence is pleasing to me. The lack of people, structures, organizations, businesses, or rhetoric is precisely what I need right now. 

Even if I die, as is likely, I will be content in the nothingness of space. But I must, if at all within my power, find a place to break apart or render inert. Better a place I do not know, one where my personal feelings towards the objects will not dissuade me from ripping, tearing, and exploding them. I look to the left, I look to the right. For efficiency I have yet to deviate from my original course, but I search diligently the celestial lights, censoring my vision so that I may live to complete my objective. 

The depths are so infinite. Hours fly by. I suspect I had only a couple days worth of breathing air to start and a replenishing rate of a few minutes each hour. As my head goes in and out of consciousness, I find solace in the fact that my wings will continue to carry me and collect air where they can until I’m utterly dead. Then it all fades.