Second Nature – Lacey Verhalen

March 16, 2026

The icon’s tanned face gleamed on the big screen, washing the audience in flickering light. It’s a grotesque environment, born from violent fury. A wretched, murderous vortex of entropic demise. The universe contains no harmony. Even the stars are a mess. In footage from the jungle set of his most legendary performance, the artist continued his tirade, vitally handsome and yet uncorrupted by his riotous fame. Now wispy and grey, he sat center stage, twisting backward with tightly grimaced lips to watch his younger self on screen. The packed crowd sat silent and still. Glowing heads beaded across a string of seats. Proximity to the star combined with the stabbing speaker volume ignited in the audience a sense of enthusiasm that bordered on panic. 
        As the credits rolled, a spotlight illuminated the artist’s sullen expression. He sank into his chair, weighed by a pendulous spirit coated in the ashes of burned ambition. Indulgence and industry had plainly wrought their meanness on the man. The chrome and clean-cut CEO of the organisation, Vincent Edmund, sat by his side, greeting the crowd with a wide scissor-like smile. So tell me, he asked with sharp enunciation, do you still hold such revulsion toward nature? The artist began responding with hand swatting intensity, but the words flew right over Maya Caine’s busy head. Sitting in row C, seat 22, she was still stuck on the idea of stellar disorder. For her, the universe spiralled in eternal song and sequence, not only when the grasses bent at our will. She recalled endless hours spent in the cradling branches of a palo verde tree outside of her childhood home, convening with bees in a cloud of flowers so yellow they seemed to store the sun. Who but the consummate poet of doom, she wondered, could colour constellations as chaos. The urbanite on stage must gaze up at the eyes of infinity and see only a bright swath of scattered rocks.

Interviews with the artist were notoriously tricky, but today he was especially obstinate in a way that caged the conversation. One of Maya’s friends, who had recently seen the artist speak, warned her that he had become as insufferable as a bitter widowed uncle. Recent works reeking of a nostalgic pining for purity made his ego-bred animosity easy to diagnose, yet Maya still wanted to see a long-time hero in the flesh, even if it meant undermining her already delicate adoration.
        Twenty minutes into the conversation, her once revered idol appeared a mere metamorphic problem sagging on stage. Experiencing his onslaught of self-flattering promotion felt like watching a fat cat trying to claw up a tree. Vincent egged him on, asking what specifically fuelled his prolific output. Anchovy paste, sardines on hot buttered toast. The artist smugly credited a fish diet and raw talent for his energetic production. I simply believe I have an unparalleled ability to import beauty into empty space. As supporting evidence, he cited his recent collaboration with a young tech magnate. Up next was a ride on a billionaire’s rocket for a work promised to be out of this world. He was shameless about filtering sensitivities through a profit imperative. Power’s little demons inflated him with an insomnia of desire. At his own fatiguing inconvenience, the artist, sweaty and surly in his suit, continued boasting about his approaching galactic adventure. As soon as he ran out of steam, the CEO opened the floor for Q&A.
        A dutiful crowd pitched mostly softballs: Tell us about your mother. The link between truth and suffering. What makes you proud. Celebrity had a stupidly pacifying effect. Maya stretched her piano fingers high. When selected, she stood, pulse racing, immune to manners. I’d like to hear more about the eugenic current in your latest performance. I might be wrong, but I sense traces of grievance and fear refracted in most of your recent work. She naively hoped for a show of introspection, but instead, the artist scoffed and coldly quoted a cryptic line from his new autobiography, Speculative Extremes. 
        The CEO, who was subtly signalling to a uniformed employee standing side-stage, let the artist continue his targeted rant. Soon, the uncomfortable shifting audience prompted him to skilfully swoop in with wrap-up remarks. Abruptly, and rather absently, the artist laboriously rose to his feet and left the stage.
        As the audience began to rustle, collecting their belongings to leave, a few people gave Maya punitive stares for taking a jab at their king. The icy attention soon faded, but the uniformed woman on stage continued watching Maya with shameless intensity. Something about this woman’s possessive focus felt strangely ominous to her, and for a second she began to wonder if she had upset the organisers with her question. 
        Maya watched the floor as she pulled on her jacket, attempting to ignore the employee’s tracking gaze. When she reached the auditorium exit, the prim woman gently addressed her with a disarmingly silky voice. Your question really struck me, not many people are critical of the rightward shift in the artist’s latest work, she said while gently gesturing for Maya to move away from the flow of the crowd. It’s wonderful to meet such a bold and critical woman. Name’s Perry Weston, I work as the organisation’s in-house gardener. Maya shook the woman’s calloused hand.
        First she noticed the dirt stuck under her nails, then her dark stare. Her wide set eyes were sad and familiar. Securely contained in her fitted jumper, Perry moved with controlled strength. Maya found it easy to trust this melancholic woman. It wasn’t long before she found herself backstage, having hypnotically followed this edifying gardener. Our extraordinary garden is actually Vincent’s own private project. After every event I offer an exclusive tour to the most interesting audience member, Perry said with a soft smile.
        Maya had always been told that feeling special is a sin, but she couldn’t help but enjoy a tingling delight. The gardener had picked her, she’d detected that distinctive flare that fuelled Maya’s secret sense of superiority. She continued to follow Perry to a backstage door that opened to a dull corridor. Perry playfully tilted her head down the hall, inviting Maya in. They were in the belly of the building, a stuccoed bland interior that had not been given the same designer care as the public spaces. Perry’s ring of keys clanged with the beat of her broad steps. At the end of the hall they reached another door, which Perry carefully unlocked and opened. This time they were greeted by a narrow flight of descending concrete stairs. Maya peered into the deep cavity only to find the end was out of sight.   
        Yes, the garden is underground, Perry confirmed, seeing Maya’s surprise. Immune to the claustrophobia that crept over Maya, Perry casually moved down the first few steps. Maya hadn’t expected a basement garden, but she was even more shocked by the decrepit state of the stairway. Strobing fluorescent lights were sparingly installed on the walls, exposing curls of peeling paint. Still, despite a tight knot gathering in Maya’s throat, she was intrigued, drawn by the fruits of being tenaciously affirmative. She followed Perry, careful not to let her silk skirt drag on the dirty ground.
As they stepped down, their breath made small clouds in the chalky air. Perry told Maya about the garden’s forsaken history. Initially this space was made as an underground sanctuary, a little slice of replicated wild for busy workers to relieve the restlessness of a life shrunken to boxes and screens. Sadly all of the building’s employees preferred some romanticized authentic version of the outdoors to our little paradise, so Vincent, our CEO, decided to transform the place into his own private wildlife preservation. As she spoke, Perry regularly glanced back at Maya with a reassuring expression.
        After what felt like a country of sluggish steps, they reached the garden entrance. There stood a wooden door weighted with rusted padlocks of unnerving proportion. Maya felt her deep distance from the outside world. She looked over her shoulder back up the stairs. This prompted Perry to explain that the locks were a mere safety precaution. Couldn’t have escaped wild species roaming the office floors now, could we? She winked. 
        It’s best to leave your belongings here, Perry instructed, tapping a scratched plastic box screwed to the wall. Maya obediently surrendered her possessions, her vegan leather purse and a stray tube of lipstick, as Perry began unlocking each padlock. Buzzing with suspense, Maya imagined herself a daring voyager, summoned to behold the wonders of some covertly collected treasure. Pulling open the heavy oak door, Perry made way for her guest to enter.
        Maya had to shield herself from the piercing hot light. In just seconds a striking chlorophyll green flooded her squinting vision. Everything metal and cement shook from memory in the face of this obscure landscape. The air inside was thick with nauseating smells of fruit and rubber. Dazed, Maya absorbed her surroundings. Overhead a golden orb burned at heaven’s height. Moss and decomposing leaves carpeted a mushroom-flecked floor. Disfigured buds on twisted stems jaggedly reached towards towering pine and birch. A strange mix of jasmine and blueberries crowded a six-armed cactus. It seemed the space had never been tended, let alone toured; there was no sign of clipping or cultivation. Crusty lichen covered rotting debris, ropes of tangled vines sagged from above, every detail of the place elicited images of God.
        Maya turned around and looked at Perry in a state of dizzy awe and was met with a waterlogged stare. Magnificent, isn’t it? Paradise filled with bugs pollinating plants feeding on electric light. With a steadying hand, Perry led Maya through the ankle scratching brush, pushing aside every thorny branch in their way. With sales-like enthusiasm Perry recited the garden’s top features: a ventilation system controlling regular air changes, seasonally synced cycles of day and night, a freshwater river run by mechanical currents, plus a selection of the world’s finest species.
        As they moved deeper into the space, the air felt increasingly thin and charged with vile potentiality. It had an intoxicating effect on Maya, causing a tightness in her chest. She began to wonder about oxygen and exit routes, but an ambient electrical buzz from above flatlined her every thought. Perry rambled on about the connection between radiation and plant growth, pollination and murder, at an increasingly incoherent speed that matched her quickening steps. By now Maya had given up any effort to protect her skirt, yielding to the pull of barbed branches. When an arresting smell of sweet metallic decay choked her breath, she stopped to scan for the source. Within arm’s reach a boar carcass lay splayed out over a boulder. Rib bones were exposed beneath furry scraps of matted flesh. Maya gawked at the scene, waving away the flies that drunkenly buzzed around the animal’s untucked intestines.
        How did this happen? Perry continued walking, slow to respond, causing Maya’s stomach to sink. Death is that little beast inside of you, and it’s important that you live together in perfect harmony, Perry finally replied as she climbed over a fallen log. I contributed most of these garden critters myself, she continued with pride. Saved them from a doomed life outside. Here they’re safe from the risk of being shot dead, charred like toast, or choked by pollutants and pesticides. Vincent sometimes catches me leading rescues down here and chides me about compromising the quality of the crop, but you know, variety is the spice of life. Perry pushed through a pathless bramble and waved for Maya to follow.
        Reaching a creek, Perry effortlessly jumped from rock to rock. Maya took her time carefully replicating the slippery path. Following Perry up a muddy bank, she nearly stepped on a writhing snake clinging to its last moments of life. A blanket of ants devoured its eyes. Shocked by the animal’s agony, she found herself momentarily disembodied. Floating over the scene, she watched her scratched and filthy self following a suspect figure through a complex maze of vegetation and meat. Maya pressed her palms against her eyes and pulled inwards until she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. Our tour will be over soon, we just need to reach the clearing ahead, Perry promised with grave assurance while pulling Maya up onto a mossy knoll. 
        Exiting the shade of oppressive trees, they arrived at an open field. Dry flaxen grass crunched under their steps as they moved into the bright clearing. A cool breeze stirred the stillness. Perry faced Maya, took her stinging hands, and spoke with the silence of the enclosing trees. A sly glint flecked the pits of her eyes, now purple as plums. Perry stared at Maya with the gravity of a doctor about to report a terminal illness. She couldn’t help feeling she was about to receive some terrible news. Perry gently squeezed Maya’s hands and, in a sharp instant, ripped herself away to sprint with terrifying agility back into the cover of trees. Maya stood there in disbelief, a warm rock of central security ripped from her gut as Perry shouted from a distance, Stay there, you’re going to love this.
        An engineered wind carried a gust of terror through the field as a dry tension squeezed Maya’s racing heart. Any lingering calm vanished along with the sound of Perry’s fading steps. A rush of longing the company of the auditorium crowd suddenly consumed her, followed at once by a punishing regret. Her curiosity suddenly seemed to belong to a category of miscalculations. Marvel at the end of its margin. Swaying slightly, lightheaded, she forced air through clenched teeth. Escalating fear dissolved between her ribs and teeth, rearranging her atoms into something wild. She thought of her warm bed and dog at home before a growing fog of dread obliterated any craving for comfort. All that heaven knows, held hostage underground.
        A cadenced clicking, like ice cracking, punctuated the shifting light. A once easy daylight blue now glitched into a numinous pink. Softly an electric hum rose, thrumming through the air as the pink faded to a sinister amber, the space pulsing with the rhythm of an artificial dusk. Shadows began to creep over the fiery field like spilled puddles of oil. Maya felt something like the cold company of a ghost float across her path. She covered her head with her arms as the mechanical concert swelled into a final, fractured clap.
        A deep velvet darkness, encompassing and cold, swallowed the space. As if from the depths of a lake, Maya called out, but was answered only by the soft cooing of an owl. A twig snapped in the distance. She froze as a surging trill of crickets coiled around her. Leaves rustled in the wind from increasingly active fans. Another steady clicking sounded, slowly increasing in speed until a grid of faint stars filled the sky. There, in a row of brighter lights, finite shining bulbs formed neat constellations.