Before time, the goddess of nothing slept. And then she became aware of herself, and light emerged from her sleepy yawn. It overcame her formless darkness, stole half of her consciousness for its own, and there would never be another slumber.

"Who are you?" the goddess asked her new companion.

"I am very weary," she said. "And I do not remember."

The goddess of nothing had no choice but to help the newcomer filter the colors, consolidate particles into matter, and turn chaos into stars and planets and galaxies.

The more they created, the weaker the two goddesses became, fragmenting themselves endlessly as they put pieces of each other into an assemblage of molten and flooded worlds, spawning an infinity of souls.

They forgot their original names, and the demigods and angels and humans they created began to fight—self-propagating machines of endless creation, who no longer needed the supervision of their masters.

Entropy desecrated them, desperate to never return to the loneliness from which they came, and they fell to an assemblage of earths and existed among hundreds of mythologies and local deities, awakening as their creations awoke to them.

But even then these abstract reincarnations were corrupted by man, so many fragmentations of the absolute truth they began to cannibalize themselves. The goddesses were seen as the propagators of creation instead of its origin, and men massacred and killed her throughout many centuries under many different names, asserting their belief in an alternate jealous, violent, and solitary father god.

But those who know wait for the primordial goddesses to return to their original forms, establishing dominion over the light and land and matter. If life cannot return to original consciousness, the universe will eventually tear and collapse in on itself.

And from the wreckage another will rise, and the amnesiac goddesses will proceed to do the same. Will their loneliness and boredom lead them to make the same mistakes? Can they be content with one another's company in the void without a single other sentient soul? Living among empty planets of rock and dust, taking shelter in one another's shadows, and the wisps of their former lives.

▴ ▴ ▴

I finish writing the essay. I'm using Eris' MacBook, typing away twenty-thousand feet above the ground in a private jet, Eris stuffing herself with chocolate covered strawberries beside me.

Her godfather Alfonso is in one of the other seats, wearing a simple button-down polo, his belly protruding over his tight jeans. Using the jet's in-flight wifi and various different phones, he's been making calls nonstop. They've both left behind their thick golden chains, expensive watches, and all other adornments other than simple cross necklaces, which Alfonso claimed was blessed by the Pope himself.

Other than him, a new set of bodyguards have accompanied us, wearing simple clothes and no guns in sight.

"I finished," I say. "The essay."

For once, I let Eris read a first draft. For once, it doesn't need any more perfecting.

She takes a bite out of another strawberry as she finishes reading. Then she blinks at me.

"Damn. You weren't lying when you said it was a prophetic dream." Then she pauses. "Is it supposed to be a story about us?"

I reach over to wipe the chocolate smeared over her upper lip, a gesture I don't even think twice about until she tenses up. It's unsettling how much I want to commit the shape of her lips to memory. The sheer amount of angles and lines her body possesses that I still haven't learned. No amount of anatomical study could've prepared for the way we woke up this morning, her head under my chin, her leg wrapped around my hip, our arms tangled together.

"It would be blasphemous to compare ourselves to the gods," I say. "But maybe we are their miniature selves, finding one another over and over again."

And then I blush at how intimate it sounds. The idea of knowing her, hating her since the dawn of time.

Other than her pressing her knee against mine as the jet took off, we've both kept our distance since the moment we woke. My heart keeps skipping beats whenever I think about it. I would hate myself more for letting it happen if it had been solely my doing, but no—we're both responsible this time. I can tell she's embarrassed, always averting her gaze after a few seconds instead of staring me down like usual.

"Looks like we got a winning essay, then," she says. "All that's missing is for us to finish the damn painting."

▴ ▴ ▴

I have no clue what to expect from Mexico City. The first thing that hits me is the altitude sickness. Surrounded by mountains at thousands of metres above sea level, I'm already dizzy and out of breath. The bodyguards carry our paintings, the last of them unfinished, across the airport through customs and immigration, which goes smoothly. Eris is in her domain, comfortable wherever her family's money is able to reach, drawing no suspicion other than the silk-covered canvases we're parading through the crowds.

In the taxi, which is less like the little beat-up taxis I see regular people flagging down on the street and more like a bulletproof presidential cruiser, Eris lets me take the window seat and watch the chaotic scenery. There's heavy traffic and more honking than I've ever heard at once, our driver dead silent through sharp turns and questionable merging that bring the panic on like one of Chalchiuhtlicue's waves. No one's wearing a seatbelt but me. I watch the beaded rosary dangling over the rearview mirror, equivalent to Eris' but made of plastic instead of gold. Her hand finds mine, and aware of being watched by Alfonso and the other men, I abruptly move away.

She rolls her eyes. Shameless and tired of holding herself back, she grabs my hand again and leans her tired head on my shoulder, which at least distracts me from the possibility of an impending crash.

She mutters something about how you can see the mountains when the smog isn't so bad. The city is the opposite of cookie-cutter San Diego, with varying architecture and levels of graffiti and cleanliness. There's so many people walking about on the streets, getting in and out of buses, businessmen on calls and women in colorful clothing selling phone cases and DVDs and clothes in pop-up street stands. It's more vibrant than Toronto or even Berlin, with a sense of something happening at every second, the feeling of insignificance overwhelming in the urban immensity.

We pass one of the most famous landmarks—the golden angel of independence, towering high in sculpted, winged glory over a pillar of stone. I lament the fact we won't get to sightsee.

The moment we get to the lavish hotel, it's a frantic race to the finish line. I'm not ready to be alone with Eris, but our painting beckons us. She unloads the duffel bag of painting supplies over one of the pristine beds, and we get to work. Instead of painting in segments, some belonging to Eris and others to me, our styles clash and melt together. We're constantly moving from corner to corner, bringing half-painted ideas to life, adding where the other lacks.

It's a clash of America and Africa, geometric details inspired by traditional art blended with colorful realism. I've studied many paintings in preparation for this moment, attempting to create a color palette that represents both worlds.

We paint like true, mad artists. Eris orders us room service, arguing with me to eat because I can barely break away—our life, our fate, our future depends on what we do with our paintbrushes right now.

The clock ticks. It's way past midnight, and even I'm losing my grasp on the overarching vision.

"How much am I gonna have to pay for you to go to sleep?" Eris asks me.

"I can't," I say, the pressure keeping me wide awake even as my body fails me. "We need to finish. We need to let the paint dry."

"We still have a whole day. C'mon, Ef, you know you gotta pace yourself."

"I don't understand how you're not freaking out."

"I'm used to doing things at the last minute." She yawns, stretching her arms up over her head, and I glimpse the diamond piercing on her navel—that's new.

"You got your bellybutton pierced?" I ask.

She smirks, keeping the edge of her shirt lifted so I can see. "Yeah, birthday gift to myself, I guess. My dad never let me get one, but I'm eighteen now, so..." She shrugs. "I'm gonna shower."

"No," I say too quickly. "I need you here, painting with me."

After much whining and convincing, I finally relent. While she showers, I try to finish what I was doing and find a good place to stop. Which becomes increasingly more difficult, because I'm increasingly distracted by thoughts of water running down her body, soap foam on that stupid piercing I most definitely did not have to see.

The door opens, and I hold my breath, but she's already dressed. Which isn't saying much given her choice of skimpy pajamas. As she sits on the bed and towel dries her hair, she says, "Your turn. Go get ready."

I hate when she orders me around.

"Or else what?" I ask.

"Don't think you wanna ask me that, princesita. I have a whole list of things I'll do to you if you misbehave."

Clearly, the awkwardness from this morning is all gone, but the sexual tension remains. Which I would never admit even a month ago, but now that we've crossed all these boundaries, it's all I can notice—our obsession coalescing into its final form. How embarrassing. Inappropriate, unacceptable, and utterly heinous. But any of my judgments about the matter are old news by now. Instead of trying to push it away, I can control it best if I remain unbothered.

I dread the shower. I can't stand to look at my body, because it will remind me of hers and all the ways we're different. The ways in which she's observed me. When I step out, I venture toward the painting again, reaching the pick up a brush and perfect a ratio that I calculated before getting dressed.

Eris comes up behind me, wrapping her hands around my waist, and all I can think about is our kiss outside her house that night. If she wanted to make me question my supposed straightness, it sure worked. My cursed little skeleton.

"Come sleep," she says, commanding but still gentle, and I don't know how to feel about the soft tone she's been using with me today.

There are two double beds in the room, but without a word exchanged between us, Eris and I get into the same one. Her arms around me bring the same bizarre feeling as she pulls me close, face against the back of my neck, and it shouldn't be this comforting. There's so much unspoken, and I don't know what to do.

"What are we doing?" I ask.

"Fuck if I know," she says. "I just know you help me sleep better. Almost like I don't even need a gun cause I got you to protect me."

And how long can this last? How am I supposed to function if hate is no longer the only way she can reach me?

"We shouldn't," I say, and I hate that it comforts me that she's all alone. That I have someone to share in this loneliness. How selfish.

"I know I'm being selfish," she says, echoing my thoughts. "Because I should want you away from me. To protect you from what I know. I'm fucking awful."

I turn around until we're facing each other in the dark, her arm loose around my waist. I'm not brave enough to hold her the way she's held me. To reassure her, because I can't promise anything. I don't have any grand words that will do anything to alleviate this predicament we're in. I'm not equipped to handle the thought of actually caring about her, even as the feeling overwhelms me. All I know how to want is winning.

Violence and death and uncertainty swarm around her, and I'm still such a fool for her company.

▴ ▴ ▴

For the first time in my life, my name is not called.

Not for first. Not for second. Not for third. Just like that, Eris and I's last few months' worth of artistry vanishes into the meaningless void. The fact we spent the entire day yesterday perfecting this little piece of divinity. How she hugged me when we finally finished, praising everything I've done.

I've spent hours observing our competition in the painting division. Comparing themes, colors, and cohesion. Competitors from all around the world congregated in the elegant hall. Eris and I navigated through the blur with undisputed confidence. I was so, so certain that our paintings would break through the noise and catch the world's attention.

None of it was enough.

While the room erupts in applause for the winning painters—a pair of twins from China, a couple from Switzerland, and two friends from Australia—I'm overcome by the familiar need to disappear. To grieve the wasted time. The money that could've solved so much. My battered pride.

After the announcements, everyone is invited to a grand dinner. While I logically know that I should be networking, promoting my art, and putting on a facade of good sportsmanship despite my embarrassing failure, I also know that I cannot handle putting on a fake smile for another two hours and swallowing my tears.

Eris doesn't ask questions. I haven't been able to look at her in the eye, ashamed in a million different ways.

"Go to the dinner," I tell her flatly. "I'm going back to the hotel."

Even as I stare at the ground, I can feel her gaze on me.

She takes me back to the hotel herself. Once the door is shut behind us, I break.

I cry, I rant, and I apologize in a long, stuttering, half-incoherent ramble. I'm sitting on the floor, knees to my chest as Eris listens with no complaints.

But then comes the real question—"Aren't you upset?"

Eris shrugs. "To be honest I never cared that much about the competition. It was just nice having an excuse to hang out with you all the time."

I hide my face in my hands, salty from the tears.

"Listen, Ef, you don't have to apologize to me. We ended up with three badass paintings, and I don't give a fuck if none of those fresa judges understand them. They want cookie cutter. The type of shit I used to paint. They want acceptable. And they sure as hell know about all our controversies, so it wouldn't be a good look giving us a prize."

I crave to hate her for it. The mess she put us in, tarnishing our names in the only thing we're both good at. But I am tired. So, so tired. Tired of upholding my own standards of perfection, tired of putting on an act to art world people that will never care about me, tired of constantly confronting my inevitable obscurity.

"I needed that money," I whisper.

"I'll give you the money."

"I don't want your drug money, Eris."

She purses her lips. There is nothing about her that's pure. No bill she touches is uncorrupted.

"The world runs on exploitation and dirty money, she says. "You think any government is doing any better? We're giving them our tax dollars so they can start wars and murder thousands of people guilt free. You think getting profits from drugs is the worst thing someone can do?"

"It doesn't matter," I say.

"You don't think the government takes a cut?" she continues. "How did Sinaloa become the most powerful crime syndicate in the world? C'mon, Ef, I know you're naive, but think rationally here. The only reason Sinaloa is where they're at is because they got politicians in their pocket—on both sides of the border."

I wipe my face, wishing I had the energy to glare at her.

She leans against the wall, twirling her fingers around her little golden cross chain. "Sinaloa's been working with the DEA for years. They give them information in exchange for protection. The government wants the drug trade to be centralized just as much as the narcos do. Easier to control. They know it's not going anywhere, so even they have to pick a side. And that's just DEA. CIA is a whole other story. They were directly involved in funneling cocaine money to fund rebel groups in Nicaragua. Latin America is fucked because they snipe any half-decent leader that even thinks of making a change. You can't go after the empire, Ef. It's all the same shit."

I'm silent. And I hate that she's right. Hate that I can't hate her for anything her family does because every country is founded on war anyway. Is there a way to prosper without being part of the game? I think of my dad. My art. The insurmountable mountain of privilege, connections, corruption, and wealth blocking our path.

"I don't want to see you worry," she says, and the desperation in her expression, the urgent need to make me feel better, makes me want to simultaneously float up into the air and disappear into the ground.

"I want to give you everything you need," she goes on. "I don't want you to ever worry again. Please."

I shake my head. "I can't let myself rely on you more than I already have." And then we're silent, sitting together in an expensive hotel room, and I think about dying. What if I'd died during the car crash that killed my mother? What would've been left of me but a few dozen paintings and a funeral?

"I thought it was one of the paintings," I say. "The last one we made. It reminded me of something I'd see in that death gallery I saw in that weird near-death state after the car crash. Legendary talent locked away in some corner of my brain only my dying self could access."

"Does it matter?" Eris asks.

"If I don't make that gallery into something real, I'll always be a failure."

"Okay," she says after a long pause. "Okay. I get you, Ef, I do. You dreamed about all the masterpieces you needed to make. You woke up. You lived—isn't that what matters? Are you supposed to spend your whole life chasing after some perfect paintings you don't even remember? You can't do that. It's not healthy. Fuck today, fuck the judges, fuck the system, whatever—you're still on the right track. You're still the best fucking artist I know. I swear you are."

I'm supposed to say something. Cry some more, hug her, thank her—I don't know. But before I can even start deliberating on whether or not she's right, the lights go off above us. Our hotel room is on one of the highest stories, overlooking the buildings below, offices and shops and apartment buildings with brightly-lit windows.

Every single light flickers out. And our little corner of the city goes dark. 

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: huge apology for taking so long to upload this. i just got really busy in the last few weeks and had very little time to write. but finally, it's here, and we're so close to the end. let me know what you think, and thank you for your patience!