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Unperson
It’s hard. It’s hard to understand It’s hard to understand why things happen It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and maybe you are but you don’t remember It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and maybe you are but you don’t remember except you do remember because you saw it It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and maybe you are but you don’t remember except you do remember because you saw it in the mirror looking at you It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and maybe you are but you don’t remember except you do remember because you saw it in the mirror looking at you and staring at you and smiling It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and maybe you are but you don’t remember except you do remember because you saw it in the mirror looking at you and staring at you and smiling with your face but it wasn’t your face It’s hard to understand why things happen and you can do nothing about them and nobody will explain them to you and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and maybe you are but you don’t remember except you do remember because you saw it in the mirror looking at you and staring at you and smiling with your face but it wasn’t your face But it was your face and smiling at you and staring at you and looking at you in the mirror and you do remember except you don’t remember and maybe you are a monster and they look at you like you’re some kind of monster and nobody will explain to you what happened and you can do nothing about it and it’s hard to understand why things happen It’s hard to understand why things happen It’s hard to understand why It’s hard.
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Right Between the Eyes
I never quite understood who Granny was. Sure, I loved her and looked forward to the weekends, nights, or after-schools my brother and I got dropped off at her place. She’d give us a real home-cooked meal from the Old Country, replete with spices more flavorful and intense than my mom’s ‘sprinkle of pepper’. We’d sit and eat and she’d tell us stories from when she was little and then we’d get ice cream and more stories as we stayed up way past our bedtime. Our mom would complain but with a twinkle in her eye. She was glad her boys got time with her mom. We were happy but Granny always did one weird thing. Every time before we left, she’d kneel to face us and gently press her thumb on our foreheads directly between our eyes. I could feel the crags of her skin on my face long after we left. She’d press and mutter something in a language I didn’t know and then give us huge hugs. One time I asked what she was doing and she just said we weren’t done yet and wouldn’t elaborate. I didn’t follow up because I was six, but it stuck with me. I was fifteen when I was supposed to go to Granny’s house after school to help with some light fixtures. I was getting big and strong and she was much less of either so I was glad to help out. I was driving over when my mom called. She never called when she knew I was driving because she didn’t want me getting into an accident. She drilled it into my head to never pick up the phone while in the car but she was calling and I knew I needed to. I pulled over and picked up, my stomach knowing something was wrong before I even did so. Mom was crying. Hard. She told me not to go to Granny’s. Said there had been an incident. I remember the specific word. Not accident – incident. She said she had gone to drop off groceries and found the house a mess. Some of the paneling and wood had been ripped off the house, chunks taken out of it. Smoke poured out of the open door so Mom ran in and found Granny’s stove on full blast. Granny was inside. I only found out later through police reports and gossip that things were much worse than I could have imagined. Granny was involved in human trafficking. She had been holding captive a German brother and sister she had smuggled into the country. They got loose. Things went bad. Turns out, trafficking was the least of her crimes. Nobody ever used the term ‘cannibal’ but it was clear enough. The worst part, though, was the realization that came from my brother about her pressing her thumb against us. It all made sense then and it all felt worse. She wasn’t protecting us or anything like that. She was testing the meat. Wide Boy
Gerald had been large from birth. His mother suffered greatly when he was born and the doctor, though he tried to be quiet, said something along the lines of this was a toddler, not a baby. Dark humor and the like but he wasn’t wrong. To be clear, Gerald wasn’t fat. He wasn’t obese or anything to that effect. Nobody called him chunky or husky or any other euphemism for ‘this is a fat child’. Because he wasn’t. He was simply large. As he got older, he expanded. His shoulders became the width of a desk. His torso filled out to nearly the same degree. His legs were nearly literal tree-trunks, same with his arms. By the time he hit high school, the football coaches were practically on their knees, begging him to play as a lineman. He agreed because, despite his size, he was quiet and gentle and quite well-liked. Girls would hang off his arms and giggle. Boys would get their egos dusted just a little in comparison. And still he grew. In college, something took hold of him. He continued to expand. Fitting through doors was now difficult. He had to order a special bed to be able to sleep in the dorms before he gave up, bought one, and rented an apartment. He walked everywhere because he couldn’t fit in a car or into a bus. The charm of his size when he was younger began to decompose just a bit. He wasn’t the Big Guy anymore. He was something else, something that made people uncomfortable in small ways. Still, he was not fat or overweight for his size. He simply was just bigger and broader and took up more and more space. Entering the workforce, he found that suits could not contain him. Dress shirts wouldn’t fit his size. He had to special-order everything he wore and, even then, he would outgrow the clothes if they took too longer to deliver. He had to go sideways through doors now. His shoulders would brush against opposite walls in tight hallways and then not-so-tight hallways. He grew proportionally so his head had the rough shape and size of a computer monitor. When he shook hands, he would end up shaking the person’s forearm as well. And still he grew. Older and older, bigger and bigger, Gerald grew. As big as a car, as big as a bus, as big as a house. He grew and became more desperate to stay connected to people. Nobody would try – they were too intimidated. He towered over every other person and then every business and then every city. He grew and grew and his thoughts turned from acclimation to something more ethereal. His head became metaphorically in the clouds, then literally so. He grew and his body filled the space that existed for others. He became something beyond big. He became heavenly. He grew and he grew and one day his head poked through to Beyond. And he found himself happy. Easy Lover
The room is dark and quiet when I enter. Soft music floats around, lightly brightening the corners I can see. In the middle of a room, there is a bed. Large, thick, red satin sheets covering it like a cliché. I wonder if I’m going to hear a saxophone. Smell lavender? Where are the candles? I chuckle to myself. Then she steps out and I realize I like cliches sometimes. She’s covered from neck to toe in tight, shiny leather. She has a small mask covering just her eyes but I can see them glimmering brilliant green even in the dim light of the room. A shock of red hair – my favorite – tumbles down to the middle of her shoulders. Crimson lips part in a smile and I feel a sizzle of excitement down below. “You must be Joshua.” she says and it’s not a question. I nod because my tongue is unable to respond, already dreaming of being somewhere else. “Good. Please, sit on the bed.” I obey and I figure I’ll be doing a lot of that. The best is soft and the sheets smooth against my legs. I’m just in shorts and a t-shirt, as requested, but I feel more naked than if I were actually starkers. “So, you chose the ‘Afterlife’ package today, yes?” I nod. It was simple and spoke to me. Fire Down Below, the Garden of Earthly Delights, and Being Taken to Heaven. It was silly but sexy at the same time and I couldn’t resist. I’ve been to more than a handful of ‘escort’ hotels but this one really was a cut above. “Lovely. Lay on your back, love.” I do. She pulls my shorts off and the cool air in the room momentarily causes a bit of shrinkage. She laughs and tells me not to be embarrassed and that we’ll take care of that in a second. The shrinkage evaporates in favor of iron. She leans down and places a kiss on it – how I held my water, so to speak, I’ll never know – before pulling out a straight razor and some shaving cream. Huh. This is new. What follows is ten minutes of agonizing tension as she meticulously trims me bare. When she’s done, she nods appreciatively at it – it hasn’t reduced a millimeter – before unzipping the pants of her catsuit and sinking onto it. Lava engulfs me and I groan and I curse and I grip the sheets. Another ten minutes of biting my tongue and trying not to disappoint before I feel the surge and warn her. She smiles and gives me a kiss that rattles my tonsils. “Tell me when you’re ready.” she whispers and I am ready. I tell her and feel release bubbling and then the razor is at my throat and biting into the flesh and my trachea and tearing through both and my eyes widen and I unload life into and onto her at the same time. Full package, indeed. Not so silly. Lose Yourself
You feel heat in your veins as it pours into you, spreading across your entire body. The needle withdraws, just a speck of blood following, and your body gets warm, wrapped in a blanket of bliss. You feel the chair beneath you as it sags under your weight. You feel the leather stretch and you feel every stitch. You reach and take your headphones from the stand next to you. They are heavy and thick and padded with foam. Your ears prickle with sensations as you slide them on. You watch your hand extend and press ‘Play’ on the stereo, the rough logo on the dial scraping your fingernail. You exhale as notes begin to fill the world around you. Loud, large, thick notes dancing around you, tearing into your eardrums. Guitar strings plunking silver systems into your mind. A voice floats over top. Soft, melodic, ethereal, yet with a power you cannot identify. It speaks of the world of old and the world to come. It speaks of things above and things below, things that hear and see and feel, things beyond our human sense of understanding. The room around you feels smaller now. Your eyes slide in their sockets to see everything in your home. It is the same. Of course it is. The same couch, the same desk, the same faded wallpaper, the same stain on the carpet, the same bird-like beast perched on the lamp. The wait what was that last one? Your eyes no longer glide but snap to the source of the confusion. Nothing is there. A lamp alone, a singular glowing light in the darkness of the room. Silly you. The voice continues. It pulls you to lean against the back of the chair. Pulls or pushes, you can’t quite tell. Either way, the music is louder than it had been. Did you turn it up or is it because of the song itself? The voice continues. It is harsher now. Not quite as gentle. Not quite as sweet. There is irritation laced within it. Anger. Hate. Not much, only a spoonful, but the sugary lightness frays. The voice continues. Different lyrics now. Specific, not vague. No more allusions to before and after. No more mystic teasing. The voice distorts and sings/screams/sings of something coming. Something Arriving. You feel your mind tugged at, as if someone held a leash wrapped around it. Not painful jerks. Light, firm pulls. Your room is tilted now. Every piece of furniture slants. Or are you slanted? You can’t quite tell. The heat in your veins is molten now. Your lungs ache with unshed breaths. The voice no longer retains the semblance of kindness. It demands acquiescence. It demands you bend the knee to the Coming Queen. You cannot move. The chair is forming around you. Molding around you. Your arms and legs are sinking into the leather, the dead, dark skin growing over yours. Replacing yours. You try to speak. The music plays to an empty room. Papa Don’t Preach
Daddy always said we got to behave in ways ‘round the ‘good folk’, as he called ‘em. The Good Folk of Arrington deserve a penitent child. The Good Folk of Waterford deserve a child burstin’ with excitement. The Good Folk of Lastonbury deserve a child radiant with the love of the Lord shinin’ from his face. A new town, a new me. Daddy’d stand up front and rage and wave his fist and go all purpley in the face and I’d perform how he told me. It was only just me and him for the longest time. Father Mordecai and whatever name he came up with for me that town. Sometimes John. Sometimes Jacob. Sometimes Thomas. One time in Brittonville, he let me pick my own name and I was Lucas and it felt right in a way I can’t quite explain. He’d preach and I’d cheer and life worked. Then she came along. We was in a town called Henley and Daddy was in fine furor. He was raving ‘bout the evils of sin and how we was meant to repent of our trespasses. Real good book-wavin’ stuff. He did his call for them what needed confession and then this lady stood up and walked forward. She was taller’n him and skinny like a cattail, but her belly was big and round and looked like it hurt. She said her name was Jessie an’ she had committed sin outside marriage and was scared she’d go to Perdition. Tears an’ all. It sounded good, real good, and she looked true and scared. Daddy’s face changed as he looked at her. Sure as I’m standin’ here, it did. The hard judgment left his eyes and he looked at her with somethin’ I know now was altogether unchristian. He took her hand and blessed her and she cried and he cried and then Jessie came along with us forever. She didn’t have no baby. We got out away from the good folk of Henley and she told Daddy when she thought I didn’t hear that she just wanted out ‘a the town. She stuffed her dress with clothes and lied and Daddy smiled a smile I didn’t like and then he kissed her and said we had a family. I didn’t like our family. Jessie was pretty, yeah, but she was mean like a polecat. She’d pinch me and hit me and tell Daddy I said unkind things and he’d whup me but good and tell me I needed to be nice to my new mama. I was always nice. Then she gave me a baby brother and I knew it was wrong. Full dark hair, eyes that saw me right from the jump. She called him Ian. I hated that name. I hated him. Daddy didn’t care. He loved his family and it didn’t include me. So I left. Daddy didn’t stop me. He should’ve. I’d’ve never started their camper home on fire if he had. I’d’ve never watched ‘em burn. Screaming in Digital
They called it ‘lucky’. Jules died on the operating table at 7:48 AM after a car accident that severed some important blood vessels. The doctors kept her alive long enough to start the process of Uploading. Was it experimental? Sure. Was it ethical? Gray area. Did she consent? She had no next of kin, no visitors, nobody who could speak on her behalf…so the surgeon spoke for her and, why yes, Jules was certainly willing to undergo the Uploading process to advance scientific knowledge. She’d be honored, in fact. It would give meaning and value in death to a life bereft of both. So, at 7:30 on the dot on a cold winter morning, a steel cord was placed – not gently – into Jules’s head and extracted her mind, her soul, her essence from the fat and water making up the physical brain. When the upload was complete, the body that had once housed Jules collapsed and died without ceremony or reverence. Organs donated, body cremated, ashes placed in a simple jar and put on the wall with all the other unclaimed unloved. Her mind, though, was the object of interest. Once it had been Uploaded, the drive containing it had been whisked away by a few scientists who were practically vibrating with excitement. They brought her to a nondescript building filled with technology most of the world did not know existed. They took her to a room with a computer and they plugged her in. They waited and waited. 75% complete. 85%. 90%. Upload complete. They watched the screen, a large clunky thing, as it lit up with a digital representation of her face or, at least, what she believed herself to look like. It was a sad face, sagging at the jowls, with eyes deep and aching. Jules had not had a good life, but it had been hers. They watched as her eyes looked around her, as disorientation clarified into confusion. She asked where she was, a tinny voice through the speaker. They didn’t answer – they hadn’t come up with that technology yet. She asked again and this time her voice was louder, uglier, desperate. Where was she? What was going on? This wasn’t her home. This was dark. This smelled strange. This had noise, bad noise. She asked again and again and the scientists, once so eager to see the results of a mind unshackled by physical restraints, grew uneasy as they looked at each other. ‘Who was that?’ Jules asked on the screen, her eyes going wide, saucer-like. It looked like something big, something shadowy. It was getting closer. Who was it? What was it? On the screen, her face grew darker, as if something was looming above it. That was impossible, of course, but the scientists had done the impossible already, so who was to say? Jules began to scream. Loud, terrified, frantic screams that tore through the speakers. They reached over and unplugged her from the machine, turned the machine off. Her screams remained. Sleeping With the Television On
Some people require their resting place to be totally dark and quiet before they can rest. Not me. I need something filling the corners of the room with sound. A distraction, maybe. Ever since I was little, my bedroom being silent and dim was a source of terror, not comfort. In the quiet, monsters came. As I got older and was allowed to have electronics in my room – something my parents were understandably reluctant about – I started with a radio. The crackling noise from the speakers did wonders for my rest, assuring me that I was not alone. Even though the singer wasn’t in the room with me, they were there for me and that was enough to ensure a peaceful night’s sleep. After that, I got a television and that was even better. Now, instead of guitars cutting through the blackness, I had both dialogue and light slashing into the fear that lurked. I would fall asleep to Chandler Bing cracking a joke or Bones doing…bones stuff. I was always asleep before I got too far. The point is that the TV allowed me to rest. Since then, it’s been a constant in my life. Everywhere I’ve moved, there’s been a consistent order to how I set things up in my apartment or condo. First, my bed gets placed and made up, sheets tight, ready to hold me at night. Then, the TV is set up and located in my bedroom, even before I bring in a dresser. I could have my place completely bare except for those two things and I would survive. It is how my life works. It is how I live. It’s 4 PM right now. Summer. Hot. Very hot. Uncomfortably hot. The air conditioner screamed at me for a while, just like it screamed for an entire city, I imagine. About twenty minutes ago, the AC went still and the lights slammed off. From what little I can see on my phone, there is a complete blackout in the city. Not rolling, not controlled. Total and significant. I’m sweating now but it’s not just because of the heat. Every report I can see on my phone says it’ll be two days minimum before everything gets back up and running. Two days’ worth of damp and unpleasant. Two days of sitting in my sauna. Two days without my TV. My phone is already dying. I can tell. The battery is in yellow. I can’t let it play all night even if I wanted to. Tonight, I will have to sleep in the dark and hot and silent, unprotected by my loud defender. I will see nothing. I will hear nothing except my own breathing as it gets louder from fear. I will see It crawling from the corner of my room, a pitch-black hound with too many eyes. It will howl and my mind will tear like tissue paper. I have tried so long to avoid this, I really have. In the quiet, monsters come. Higher Power
Be not afraid The words reverberate like ripples in the air, physically manifesting as floods of sound. Windows crack and burst. Metal twists and snaps. Cars rattle, sirens scream, pavement ruptures. Lights flicker and die. Across the city, a wave of Noise pours over everything and everyone, soaking them, drowning them in cacophony. Eardrums strain and pulse as the deluge swells in the heads of 250,000 people. Those brains, only human, only ant-like, overheat, overwhelmed by pure It. There is only so much the human mind can endure at any given time. Prolonged abuse is tolerable, if unpleasant, but a sheer, complete reorientation of what one knows to be reality within the time it takes for three words to be spoken? Madness abounds. Chaos spreads, tears into the fabric of society like a starving wolf among a flock of lambs. Peace is ripped asunder, reduced to component parts within a machine that can no longer operate as it once did. Violence. Violence such that that old rule of law is cast aside in favor of protection – of self, of property, of loved ones – and redress of ancient wounds long since healed or forgotten. Blood feuds, old resentments, broken hearts – they all come to the forefront and demand appeasement. There is death. Some instantaneous from fear, ironic in a way. Some as the reformation of reality becomes too much too bear. Some from guilt after applying violence not normally in their nature. Some as a result of said violence being applied. Primal actions creating primal consequences. Humanity foregone in favor of animalistic impulses. A few, far too few, resist. They see and they hear and they understand that what is happening is not what it appears. Others less fortunate throw themselves on the mercy of what they can conceptualize in only one way. Not the few, however. Not those who were able to resist the pull. They know that this Voice, this echo from beyond understanding? It is not benevolent. It is not kind or gentle. It is not loving. It does not wish to save its people, lift them into new life. It is not God. What it is remains to be seen. There are no words to form a label for something that Was Not and now Is. It is as if trying to identify the inner workings of a magic trick with seemingly no explanation. A bird from thin air. A cane suddenly in a hand. All illusions have reality to anchor them, but It does not. It did not exist. It now does exist. Be not afraid A second blast of Sound from whatever It is thunders and cracks the heavens open. The emanations are no longer to subjugate the masses. The people are irrelevant. Flies swarming the flickering light. As the very nature of Who We Are strains and stretches and splits, the swollen sky gives birth to Others. More. They grasp and moan and howl to the furthest reaches of space. Be not afraid How? Why?
Darling, we could run away together. Get in the car – right now – without a plan, without a destination, without anything but you and me hope and excitement and we can drive until we run out of gas. We could start a new life somewhere, anywhere. We could be new people with a new relationship and new dreams. All our sins left in the past. Doesn’t that sound heavenly? No, it doesn’t matter the reason. Does there have to be one? Why can’t I just want to start again where nobody knows us? What’s so wrong with that? Darling, you’ve talked about moving for months now. You’ve said you want to start fresh, find new restaurants and stores to explore, and make new friends. You’ve talked about it at length and I’ve listened and I finally want to take the plunge. Oh. You meant without me. I see. Well, darling, it just so happens that I want to – need to – leave regardless. Never you mind the reason. We can go somewhere together and forge a path together. I know you just said you want to be alone but I just don’t want that. So, we’ll leave together and stay together. It’s simple, isn’t it? Elegant in its way. A sliver of familiarity in a new environment. That’s not what you want? I understand and I hear you. I acknowledge that you want to be done with me and I am absorbing that knowledge. Until I’m finished processing, though, we’re together and we’ll leave. Tonight! We will leave tonight. I’ll drive and you’ll snooze in the passenger seat and the music will play and all will be comfortable and exciting as we head into the unknown. It will be perfect, darling, despite your current protests. I’m not getting it? You’re breaking up with me and I need to accept it? That’s silly, darling. That’s not happening because you can’t leave. Not me, not anyone. You’re part of a whole now. You can’t leave the whole without ruining the entire thing. You and I, we’re like a set of lungs. We breathe each other and the loss of one becomes the loss of both. I don’t want to lose you and you don’t want to lose you either, do you? Keep your voice down. This isn’t productive. I am not holding you captive. I am not restraining you against your will. Those are signs of cruelty and I refuse to be cruel. I’m simply reminding you of the situation, of your entanglement. Don’t you worry. We’ll sort it all out when we get there. Stop – no, stop – Damn. Darling, what have you done? You’ve gone and broken your neck in my hands. How silly. What a waste. We had a future together that you just couldn’t see. No matter! We will still get in the car and leave. Tonight! We will drive and I will drive and you will snooze in the trunk and all will be comfortable and exciting as we disappear. |
Here is where I''ll post random stories that aren't, as of yet, in a larger book. Call it a free ride into the mouth of madness, yo.
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