Many people have hated Sara, particularly those who glimpsed the real Sara.
Those who could be said to have liked Sara were sexually frustrated males of a lower order. Sitting in this white room, Sara doesn’t take much comfort in this fact.
A small ball of carbon rolls across the floor in front of her, leaving behind it a vague trail.
Upon seeing this, Sara loses composure, choking in fear and anger and shame and blindness.
She knows what comes next, but she doesn’t know how she knows. She never did have what one would call an inquiring mind, and this served her well at moments like these. Such questioning would only lead to more questions.
But now, onto the event we’ve all been waiting for, namely that where Sara Eats Carbon.
Even while she begins to eat the first ball, more follow, taking on impossible vectors, always leaving a vague trail of debris, some of which hang in mid air.
Soon she is ingesting carbon, grazing like a cow. She is the last remaining white thing in the room. Pristine and white and self contained in a cubic sea of carbon-black. The taste is bitter and reminiscent of nothing. It is hard to chew, as it turns to a stubborn sort of dust that refuses her saliva just short of paralyzing her with insanity.
Sara, you are eating the charred remains of your dead relatives.
Sara, you are in heaven.
When the carbon is gone, the room will be white again. And Sara will sit on a rigid couch of rough fiber and pretend to wait patiently while the very seams and rivets of her eternal soul bubble and seethe and beg to unfurl.
In this struggle, her cauldron of singularity approaches strange abilities to seek audience of the creator, whose empty ears spew carbon out of reverse black-hole worm tunnels, jettisoning her white prison to places with mountains of indigestible dead tissue requiring slow consumption prior to white rooms. White rooms waiting to be black and white and black again.