Cadmium Yellow
This is to you, a thousand years in the future, or past, or sideways, or whichever way that the wheels drive. Hi. My name is Cadmium, same as all the other Cadmium. I used to have a body in the past, it was made of cells, and now, the cells are all outside. I am surrounded by cells. A sphere of them stretch out in each direction around me like a luminary orb or one of those old, human body parts. All of the cells house other Cadmen. And our cells are dirty, no matter how many times we try to clean them, no matter what we do or how much we do it. Granted, it’s hard to clean things without a physical presence.
Outside of my cell is black. The vacuum of space. Then, towards the centre, a shape has formed, another orb made of bright, searing light. I’d imagine it might be hot, purifying, fiery. Like an old flower. But I digress. At the centre of our sphere is a ball of interlocking wheels, and on each wheel, is a set of spinning eyes. I have counted each one of them. There are three hundred and sixty five per wheel. There are six wheels. They spin omnidirectionally like a gyroscopic, watching body. And they burn to look at.
Sometimes I wonder whether watching them might clean my cell. I’m not sure how I get to that reasoning, but the fire seems pure. Clean. Like it could wash away my imaginary, acrid scent. Sometimes I think about phasing through the back panel and out into space. Being an incorporeal spirit, it would probably be possible. Just line my atoms up in the right direction. I feel dirtier after that though and, for some reason, look at the centre of the spinning chariot. I’m not sure how or why it works like that.
I used to see another Cadmium far off to my right. By some miracle, he managed to retain his corporeal mouth. He liked to scream. But when he wasn’t screaming, he liked to talk about the possibility of escape or moving beyond. Floating. Neutron absorption. He tried to reason with those in the adjacent cells. Why do we need to be tied down when we can escape? Anyways, the flower in the centre grew brighter, burning, buzzing. Spores of white light flew towards him like pollen. And I have not seen him since. Sometimes the celestial eyes will look at me, their retinas blotted with lights like trachoma. I’ll think something horrible. And they’ll spin so fast that they merge together.