- Creak
- i'm half assing it
- Alien
- What's Chicago
- QuickSand v2
- QuickSand
- Walls Up v3
- Walls Up v2
- Walls Up
- Exhale
- What's Missing? Copy
- What's Missing?
- The Clear Mask
- The Peak of Princetown
I opened the window. If I stayed here much longer I'd go down with the house. Outside I could already see the ground inching closer to the second floor. I pulled back, grabbed an arm bag, and threw in a pile of clothes and a few books. I zipped it up and got ready to jump out.
I continued to get ready.
I stood there getting ready for an hour.
I slowly sat down on the floor, to continue getting ready. I cradled the bag in my arms. I couldn't shake the feeling I didn't have enough. I wanted to take a few hats. Maybe more books. My game system. My TV. My bed. Everything in my room.
I was still getting ready when soil started to rise past the open window. It began pouring in.
I once met someone who sold sounds in jars. They were delicate. I don't know how he did it, but he always isolated the exact sound he wanted. If it was a bird chirping, all you'd hear was a bird chirping. But if you weren't careful, and opened it up on, say, a busy street, then the sound would be corrupted. Suddenly the sound of rain on the rooftop would be overlayed with honking horns and heels on the sidewalk. I've seen people mess them up so bad that even with the jar closed you could hear an entire circus of house pets, electronics, music, family discussions, family arguments, smashed ceramics, gunfire, and books snapping closed. I'm still surprised people would keep the jars around, as if they can still make out the original sound of a crackling fireplace over the chaos. I'd find it tiring.
It was when a jar fell on the floor and shattered that I asked him how he did it, the sound of TV static evaporating in the air. It was all in the clay he used, he said. He had a supplier that dug up regular old clay from the ground. Then he went into the forest and collected stones. Then he visited the city and would chip off bits of the brick buildings. Both of these had to be done sometime close to noon, when the animals of the forest were active and the sounds of people were echoing through the city (which of course made it much more difficult to gather supplies during the winter, hence his stockpiling). At the store, he would then grind both samples into dust and mix it in with the clay. After that, all he had to do was make the jars, isolate the sound in as sterilized and silent an environment as possible, and capture it within.
I can't breath here.
My wife is a sweetheart. My son is a darling. We have a beautiful daughter on the way. I can't stand it. I can't stand it the way my teacher's couldn't stand my homework.
I hear about volunteering for a test. A test of strength, it says. A test for science. And I think "I'm strong." Or I should have been. I should've been strong like my dad before me, like my grandpa, who fought in The Great War. He still calls it that. It really must've been great. He should know, he was there. Not like spineless historians.
They want to send a man to space, they tell me. Deeper space. The original goal a few years back was just plain old shallow space, but that shit-hole country on the other side of the globe beat us to it. Then it was the moon. The shits beat us again. Fuck it all, and fuck them in particular. We hold control of have the earth and they have the balls to beat us to space. How cloying for attention can you get.
The lab rats I'm speaking to have a different idea. A new one. Only someone from this country could've come up with it. They know the shits are ahead of us in terms of rockets and satellites, and that they will always be ahead by just one inch, cheaters. Of course they prepared for that; this country is ready for anything. So they have a back up; a way to send a man all the way to the asteroid belt, without even needing to stock on supplies or oxygen. A faster way. A biological way.
I don't want to say good bye to these people I live with. I try to leave at night, but she wakes up. She's crying. I don't know what I did this time, but she's crying. I can't listen to crying anymore. Grandpa wouldn't have put down his gun if he'd seen someone crying would he? And yet for years I did so much shit because someone cried to me about it. She cries about everything. My son cries about everything. They can't shut up about it.
I slam the door. It stops me from going back.
The lab rats get to work right away. They hit me with a needle, then put me under a lamp of sorts. A bright one, like when I put tin foil in the microwave when I was seven. It's almost immediate, what's happening to me. I feel stiff. Solid. Dense. My lungs are slowing. I feel something growing on me. I try to lift my head, but my spine feels welded together. I can only turn my eye to my cheek, on which I can barely see rock and mineral forming. The light reflects off of a crystal, hurting my retina. I close the eye in pain, and before long I can't open it again. My other eye is covered soon enough.
Later, what could have been a hundred years later, I feel carried, like on the back of my dad's truck. Then turned upright. Then accelerating up and up and up. My stomach drops into my pelvis. I feel full of food, but I haven't eaten since I left. Oxygen is flowing through my blood, but my mouth and nose is sealed off.
I feel dizzy now. I don't know where I am or how long until I reach the asteroid belt. I don't think I'd know the difference now. The asteroids won't know the difference. They won't know a stranger when they see one. And I won't know them.
I can't breath at all.
"What's Chicago?"
"I'll show ya."
And so the next day, they took a short walk from their squat house to the train stop. It was very empty.
"Is this Chicago?"
"Nah."
The train arrived at 12:48 PM, hissing and squealing. The old uncle and his tiny nephew boarded. The nephew wanted to ride on the upper level, so they climbed up and grabbed the two-person seat at the far end. The nephew stared out the window for the entire hour long trip, nearly pushing his cap off of his head. A few other passengers boarded on the way, but it wasn't a crowd.
Half-way there the nephew repeated the question, to which the uncle replied "I looked it up before we left. I'll know it when I see it, don'chu worry. It's old. So old even the people who live around it don't remember what Chicago is. At least a history teacher said that once. But I learned what it is. I'll keep an eye out for it." He scratched his rough face.
When the buildings started to creep onto the horizon, the nephew asked "Is that Chicago?"
"Nope."
The train stopped underneath a vast, wet concrete structure, open to the exposed are on the left hand side. It felt cold, although it was 70 degrees out.
The uncle held his nephew's hand and led him towards a set of doors at the end of the platform. Through the doors was a drastic change in atmosphere, the walls, floor, and columns composed of shiny browns, reds, oranges, the air conditioned to be a comfortable warm.
"Yup, here we are. Chicago," said the uncle.
The nephew in fact was staring back through the doors. He'd heard a fluttering, and saw a couple pigeons fly in from the outside, landing on the tracks.
"No, I don't think that's it," said the uncle, and he dragged his nephew away.
Up an escalator was a food court area. A few more pigeons strutted around like they owned the place. Bored workers hunched over the counters, at least in the areas that weren't completely empty. There appeared to be no one at the tables, but the nephew didn't have a chance to get a good look, as the two went straight towards the next escalator without stopping.
Outside were empty sidewalks and streets. The buildings suggested to the nephew that there should be a lot of people around. When he asked his uncle, he said "I don't think we're looking for people; we're looking for Chicago. Besides, it's not rush hour. Yes, that's right; I made sure we got here outside of rush hour."
As the nephew followed across a nearby bridge, he looked down towards the river. It appeared as an olive green. Was it filthy? Or was it the sunlight's fault? Hard to tell.
The uncle stopped abruptly. The nephew looked up, and when he saw his uncle nearly falling backwards, tilted his head even farther at the building in front of them.
"That is Chicago, I believe."
The building was in fact tall and shiny. Maybe "Chicago" was just another word for "shiny". However, the nephew turned around and saw a building that was equally shiny. He tugged at his uncle's coat, pointed, and asked "What about that?"
"Nah, I'm sure this is the one," replied the uncle.
After a few minutes of staring at the sun's reflection, the uncle held his nephew's hand again and continued in the same direction. At the next intersection, the uncle nearly jaywalked in front of a lone car. After a pause, he chuckled and said "Heh, sorry. Sun spots." The nephew's cap had mostly protected his eyes.
It was a much longer walk to the uncle's next stop. As they moved, the buildings went from tall and chrome to stout and red, like old bricks. A number of them held colorful murals, some unfinished. They passed under an elevated train track that almost looked abandoned. The nephew wondered if maybe any of these were Chicago, but it was all the exact opposite of shiny.
They finally turned left when the street went no further. They passed an important looking building with lions out front. Then they passed two very strange fountains with faces on them. Finally, they climbed a set of stairs and stopped in front of a large, silver bean. To the left was a single stranger. Yet more pigeons pecked at some of the crumbs that fell as he ate his hotdog.
"Yeah, this should also Chicago," said the uncle.
"Because it's shiny?"
"Huh? Eh, no, no. It just is Chicago, I guess."
Now the nephew was really confused.
"There were other things I saw called Chicago, but these three things were what was listed the most."
The nephew turned to the stranger, who's head was pointed slightly away from the bean. Slipping out of his uncle's hand, he approached and stood at the stranger's legs until he was noticed. The stranger, feeling like there was a mistake, his mouth full, said "I'm, um… waiting for someone."
"What's Chicago?"
The stranger swallowed, licked a bit of mustard off his lips. He eventually replied "I… don't know. Sorry. I keep hearing it's somewhere around here, but I've never had a reason to look for it. I've only seen buildings and… people, I guess. Not as many people as there used to be, but still, lots of people."
The nephew shrugged, a little disappointed, and went back to his uncle, who whispered "Eh, I wouldn't listen to that guy. I bet he can't even tell you what that hotdog's made out of." And he laughed a little.
It was approaching 4 PM when they started back. A few clouds were blocking the sun. The streets were starting to get a little busier. The nephew had resolved by then to keep an eye out. Maybe if he could independently pick out something that was "Chicago," it would all click.
So he observed. He observed someone leaving an old art store, taking his supplies down a nearby alley. He noticed people in the windows of the short apartment buildings. He heard a train rattle on the rusty yellow tracks, elevated above them. When they reached that bridge again, the water had shifted to a deep blue, and an approaching boat could be seen in the distance. At the food court, the cooks and cashiers were chatting with the few customers that had shown up. Approaching the 4:35 train, they by chance had their tickets checked by the same conductor, who recognized them and wished them a happy trip home.
The nephew wanted to sit on the lower level of the train car this time. It felt nice, to be only slightly closer to the people around them.
Halfway there, the nephew asked his uncle if he had visited Chicago before.
"Oh, today's the first time. I'll show ya some of the tourist sites I read when we get home."
I don't remember seeing so much carpet. I don't remember it being anything more than a drab shade of blue and brown. Trying to do so means that, in my mind, memories of our time as toddlers appears on a perfectly white carpet, a carpet that has never existed in this house. That is what happens when I try to remember the carpet as it once was. It's either what it is now or what it never was.
I also remember the sound. It was a jolting sound. The sound that tells a kid that things can break.
Dad was in the play area. My brother and I were in the living room, just across from it. Dad was upset about something. I think that there were toys on the floor. Why he didn't expect the toys in the playroom to be on the floor I don't know. But he was scolding us for something like that.
He picked up a truck. A toy truck. Big, bulky, wooden thing it as. There were two, one for each of us. They were the toys we didn't swing around as much. I don't even remember picking them up, though we no doubt did.
Dad had said something. It might have been the usual phrase of "If something falls: Pick. It. Up." Not that these toys would have fallen, of course; a kid was more likely to just leave them there after playing, but I guess he didn't think of that. I don't know if he was thinking in that moment when he tossed the truck towards us.
He didn't throw it /at/ us. He didn't even hit us or anything. But it did land hard. Loudly. A clunky rattle, the sound of a foot being put down on rickety playground piece. One of the axle's popped out and flew off, the truck appearing almost crippled.
I only remember that we were frightened by that. Otherwise, the memory goes blank after the sound.
There are shelves all around the house; at random moments we would get the idea to clean one of them up. The earliest occasion of this happening was a small shelf located in the corner of the play room. We used to use it for holding onto children's books. Then other people started putting any kind of book there. Then any kind of object. Then it wasn't a usable shelf anymore. but my older brother decided one day to organize it. So of course he began by throwing everything on the shelf on the floor.
This confused me at the time, so I asked him about making a bigger mess to fix a smaller mess. he just insisted that it was the best way to do it. i insisted that it wasn't, mainly because I didn't like being condescended to. But I didn't particularly care about that shelf anyway. So I left him to it.
The mess on the floor was not picked up for a very long time, however.
My dad was a race car driver. it both makes perfect sense while also being hard to believe. He's definitely the type to be into that, and not just because he actually enjoys watching those things drive around in circles over and over. He's definitely the Midwestern type, and knows more about engines than the average person.. At the same time, so much of the house is dedicated to something aside from race cars, or cars in general. You might find a scarce poster of a motorcycle, or an old racer jumpsuit. otherwise, everything i some other tool, item, knickknack, etc. Something that might be useful someday, or something that might be valuable someday, or something he might want to try someday. Tools upon tools upon tools I don't even see the purpose of. Board games that will eventually be vintage. Beer brewing kits, parts for pine cars, radios tuned to random frequencies.
As I grew up I felt very sick of it. Partly because everyone else was. Whenever Mom stepped on something, or found something she needed out of reach, or couldn't access the washer because there were boxes stacked on top of it again, she would say "Never, /ever/ grow up to be like your father." I I never fully absorbed that, but I had no intention of doing the opposite. Life was set out for me. I just had to pick a field, stick to it, and hold onto a comfy life.
The first thing I remember is the sound. I and my brother, we were 6 and 7, respectively. We were sitting on one side of the living room, right next to the door to the play room. Dad was on the other side, a few toys scattered about his feet. I don't remember if he stepped on any of them, or if he'd immediately noticed them upon entrance. He was upset, that was clear. He said a lot that I don't remember, many things that may as well have been gibberish to us. He definitely said the one phrase he'd said a hundred times: "When something falls, Pick. It. Up," each consonant being as stressed as possible.
This time, however, he picked up one of the toys by his feet. A yellow dump truck. Big, bulky, wooden thing, heavy for us. And then, trying to emphasize his point, he tossed the toy towards us. It landed on the floor right in the middle of us. He obviously hadn't tried to hit us, but it scared the two of us all the same. The clatter was loud. It felt like it shook the house. One of the axles of the truck popped off, bouncing away.
I don't remember if Dad apologized for that, or anything. I actually don't remember anything at all. It ends right after the sound.
The phrase is a phrase I've heard a million times before. A lot of little things might bring it up. A remote might be misplaced. The shoes by the door would be too in-the-way. Potted plants would be sitting in the kitchen sink. The laundry room in the basement might be simply impossible to use, with boxes and old VCRs piled in the way, or on top of the washer. All of these might have been frustrating enough for Mom to tell whatever children were nearby "Don't ever grow up to be like your father." She wouldn't shout it; rather, her voice would be strained, as her eyes rolled away from us. The phrase stuck with me, personally. I'd think of it upon hearing the sounds of Dad moving things around downstairs at night, or when he'd turn the house upside down when he was home alone.
There was the tiniest of bookshelves in the playroom. We originally used it for storing children's books. As the years went on it stored young adult books, then basically any book, then eventually just anything period, eventually becoming completely unrecognizable, whatever. Back then it was pretty full. I wanted to organize the books into alphabetical order, but the process of removing a book and finding a place for it felt pretty slow. It was my older sister who passed by the doorway and advised "Take all the books off, then put them back."
I didn't understand this at the time. It felt counter-productive, to make a bigger mess in the process of fixing a smaller mess. But I did try to follow her advice. And of course in hindsight I see the reasoning. None of this changes the fact that I was too lazy to put the books back on the shelf.
The next time I cleaned something of my own fruition was a few years later, in I believe the fifth grade. I was with my brother in our room. We'd never actually "cleaned" it before, preferring to occasionally shove the clothes on the floor to the side and make a usable path. But this time we had a little more dedication. We were focusing on one area of floor, one specific pile of clothes. And for an hour or so we removed on article of clothing at a time, either tossing it or donating it. And, eventually, we finally saw the carpet beneath it. We were kinda proud.
Creaking stairs, and a knock at the door. Dad leaned into the door. And there he asked us "Hey, uh, you guys got room for these suitcases? You might need them someday."
The both of us already had suitcases. But we said yes. So there he placed three large black roller suitcases on the spot we had just cleaned. My brother and I stared at them for a while. I don't know if he knew we had been cleaning, or if it had just been a coincidence.
There are certain neighborhoods around the globe (but mainly in urbanized countries) that are so utterly perfect that those that live outside of them find them difficult to believe in. They're built above wells, meaning you can shower until you turn into a raisin. They're right next to forest preserves, preserved perfectly in a shell of plastic. Restaurants from the sixties are in perfect condition, so much so that residents believe they can achieve immortality by never leaving. The crime rate was at a flat zero year round, as far as the denizens are concerned. And they're only concerned about what they can see out their windows, watching carefully for any suspicious visitors or animals.
None watched more carefully than Klaus, for none were more prepared than Klaus. Klaus took measures into his own hands when it came to ensuring the condition of his house remained as it always had been. The grass on his lawn was perfectly trimmed to be one and one half inches tall, each blade being meticulously polished with a nail file. Also, he would spray it with a certain, starchy substance of his own concoction, causing it to dry and harden, while also ensuring it was bright, green, and organic for as long as possible. This had the effect of creating a lawn that resembled those that were seen in summertime commercials. It also ensured that the grass was sharp enough to pierce even the thickest of combat boots. Children quickly learned to not play near his house. Delivery boys would have a chance to practice their pitching skills. Traveling salesmen shouted their ludicrous offers from the sidewalk, as if Klaus was the only customer left on the planet.
Klaus also took other measures within the house, though he had been the only one inside of it for years. Ever surface, visible or otherwise, was so clean and shiny that any intruders would be blinded upon entrance. Furthermore, if someone was not wearing shoes (which they wouldn't be, given that the doormat said "Please Remove Your Shoes"), the carpet would be so fluffy and smooth that they would inevitably slip and fall. All of the clocks in his house were synced up to the second, meaning they would all ring at the same time. It was a symphony that Klaus had gotten used to, but was also a cacophony that would deafen anyone else. The china and vases in his house were all placed exactly in the center of whatever coffee table they rested on, meaning he knew exactly where they all were, thus meaning he had access to any sort of heavy club at any given moment. Klaus was, all in all, secure in his house. So of course he was terrified all hours of the day.
He was too afraid to shove his worries to the back of his mind, since forgetting his worries meant they would inevitably come to fruition. So his televisions were all turned on, all connected, all set to whatever news channel Klaus switched too, all at full volume, so the latest stories and tragedies could echo around his house, ensuring that he never missed a beat. And with each new disaster, he would write down a new reminder for himself in terms of how to avoid disaster himself. He kept these notes in alphabetical order in a filing cabinet, ranging from "Do not drink disinfectant when sick," to "Do not keep 5G phone within 25 feet for extended periods." Klaus did not differentiate between information, shuffling through his notes every Tuesday, reading through every entry, shivering at words like "Pit Bull" and "Death Metal."
Klaus viewed himself as the standard for personal well-being. He took steaming hot baths every two hours, using dish soap to clean his body. He ingested nothing but uncooked pasta on whole wheat bread, having been told that those were super foods. And in between both of those activities, he stood in his living room, ensuring his body remained fit by never taking a moment to sit down. Given all of this, he viewed himself as set to live until he was 150.
This was one area Klaus was incorrect about. As much as he understood his house, he understood far less about his body. He ignored the pain in his feet, his cravings for basically any other food in existence, his aching skin, red and dry from the constant bathing, burnt from the reflection of the light on his walls, a similar effect to sun being intensified from bouncing off of the snow. Though this cause him great harm, he ignored it. He was brave, he told himself, for keeping to this strict regimen. He was therefore afraid of nothing, he reminded himself every day. Everything in his life would stay the same, he whispered before going to bed every night. And yet, there was one occurrence in his life that even he had to admit he was terrified of.
Approximately once a month (it was impossible to predict exactly when they would visit), a stranger would approach by leaping clean over the lawn, their landing audibly cracking the sidewalk (which he would have to go out and perfectly replace). After that, they would stand precisely in front of the door. Though the blinds covering the windows of the door obscured their face, Klaus recognized the silhouette as exactly the same. Large. Strong. Six-and-a-half feet tall. When they knocked, the tightly screwed hinges of the door rattled. And at this moment, Klaus would be at a loss at what to do. Once he managed to pick up one of his vases before gently placing it down, suddenly afraid of shattering it in the conflict. Another time he actually sat in his recliner, trying to sink so far into it that he would be perfectly hidden. Recently he was so shaken by their presence that he stood in his usual spot perfectly still, like a statue, without even realizing he was shaking until the stranger marched off the porch as usual, leaving behind dirt, grime, and sometimes blood on the porch. Klaus had no idea who they were or what they wanted; but they were certainly bringing disaster with them.
She was not. This was actually the one time of the month Rona was not followed by disaster. Rona spent most of her time getting into trouble across the country. Either she would piss off the kind of people who were always waiting to be pissed off, or she would help one of her many friends out of trouble through her brute strength. Her lower legs were extraordinarily scraped up from constantly leaning her motorbike so close to the road. On top of that, each month brought a new scar, each day another chance at losing a limb. She was not afraid of words like "Revolution" or "Infection." She was ready for everything by virtue of not being prepared for anything.
So she had been biking through Klaus's neighborhood, rushing to break the face of a Neo-Nazi, when she saw a little girl with a bleeding leg on the sidewalk. Pulling over to check, it was nowhere near being fatal, but still surprisingly deep for a scratch. As she took the girl to her parent's home address, she explained through shivering tears that she'd fallen near Mr. Saint's house and hurt herself on the edge lawn. Rona did not have a chance to ask what exactly that meant as they approached her front door. The parents only gave her narrowed eyes before shutting and locking the door.
Rona then leapt over Klaus's lawn and knocked on his door, ready to give him a loud warning about his grass. She braced herself for the worst. What kind of crazed hermit weaponized his lawn?
The same kind that doesn't answer his door. Rona knocked after thirty seconds, then knocked again after another ten. She checked her watch. She was pissed, sure, but she was already pushing her time. Could she leave a note? She had no paper on her. Besides, a note did not have the same impact as a good solid talking to. So after another minute of waiting, she determined to come back at a later date, leaping back over the lawn and taking off again on her bike.
Thus, whenever Rona was driving close to the area, she would stop by, double-check that the grass was still deadly, then bound over and give a knock. Often she was already on her way to another task, meaning she could never wait forever. She was positive someone was still living there, hearing the faintest of breathing behind the door, sometimes a shuffle. But whoever they were, they weren't inclined to approach the door. What were they hiding?
As the months went on, Rona was going more and more out of her way to stop at this one house. Once she even skimped on a trip to the hospital to reach his house (not that she would have gone to the hospital anyway, screw the bill). It was an obsession she was able to explain less and less. It wasn't just about the grass anymore; she hadn't witnessed any other accidents, and in fact noticed that children were always on the other side of the street. Maybe it was the house itself, how it was always exactly the same as the last visit. Even the cities were constantly under construction, always featuring streets or alleyways she had never traveled down before. It was impressive of the owner, even aesthetically pleasing, to keep the house in such photographic quality. But Rona also found it uncanny, the stillness of it, the thought that anyone could live there for so long without being seen.
The non-interaction continued long enough for Rona's profile to be on file at the nearby police station (though the police were soon to terrified to approach her). There finally came a time when Rona was free. Actually, she had been on her way to another engagement when she got a call explaining that the matter had been anticlimactically resolved. So there she was, in the middle of the highway, when she saw the opportunity she had been given. She floored it to the neighborhood, and upon reaching the address, leapt off her bike (which continued to spin out, bounce off the road, and smash into someone's wall), leapt to Klaus's porch, and gave a knock so hard that the walls of the house creaked ever so slightly. And this time she would stay as long as it took.
Klaus did indeed feel his house rock back and forth, causing him to jump five feet in the air. He hadn't even thought his house was capable of creaking. He'd polished and reinforced the entire thing himself after he'd bought it. What could shake the foundation like this? He slowly turned towards the front door, and saw their outline.
He remained still for a while. At first an hour, then two. But they did not leave as usual. They knocked every couple of minutes, and though they did not knock as hard as that first devastating blow, it was always loud and jarring, shattering the silence, calling Klaus to the door. He had not answered that door for years, yet each knock resurrected his old sense of manners, to speak to whoever had concerns with him. This pulled at the fear that kept him frozen in place. It tore and shredded at it until he couldn't take it anymore. So, like a sloth, he lowered himself from the ceiling fan, tip-toed toward the door, and peaked out from behind the curtain. A second later he pulled back again, trembling, as Rona had instantly noticed him.
Rona pounded on the frame a few more times, shouting "I know you're in there!" before restraining herself. She didn't want it to sound like she'd come here to threaten him (though she kept the possibility in the back of her mind).
Klaus felt 100% threatened. He had done nothing wrong, and yet here was this powerhouse nearly knocking down his house like he was a member of the KKK. He was just a guy trying to avoid death and taxes at all cost; what did he do to deserve human contact, something that would inevitably get in the way of that goal?
Rona swore she could hear Klaus's heartbeat from the outside. She knew she was the intimidating type, but she hadn't expected a visceral reaction like this. She took a deep breath and whistled it out slowly. She stated to the door "I'm just here to talk about… about your grass." Actually, was she? A few years ago it had bothered her enough to know exactly what she was going to say; right now she wasn't sure.
Klaus's usual plan was to say nothing, and he had no intention of deviating from that plan. Talking was revealing. No talking pushed more people away than his grass. But his grass had no effect on this woman. His house was failing him. Would silence fail him too? If he approached that door, would she shove her hands through the window and throttle him until he tried to scream? He took a couple more steps backward.
Rona heard his two steps backward. Was he planning on running away? Would she chase him? She didn't really want to. But if he left, what would have been the point of coming out here? She at least wanted one answer about this place. But she wasn't here to break and enter either. But… maybe if she only did one of those things…
Klaus stumbled and fell onto his ass in horror when he saw his door pop right out of its frame. Rona casually turned it and leaned it against the frame.
There are certain neighborhoods around the globe (but mainly in urbanized countries) that are so utterly perfect that those that live outside of them find them difficult to believe in. They're built above wells, meaning you can shower until you turn into a raisin. They're right next to forest preserves, preserved perfectly in a shell of plastic. Restaurants from the sixties are in perfect condition, so much so that residents believe they can achieve immortality by never leaving. The crime rate was at a flat zero year round, as far as the denizens are concerned. And they're only concerned about what they can see out their windows, watching carefully for any suspicious visitors or animals.
None watched more carefully than Klaus, for none were more prepared than Klaus. Klaus took measures into his own hands when it came to ensuring the condition of his house remained as it always had been. The grass on his lawn was perfectly trimmed to be one and one half inches tall, each blade being meticulously polished with a nail file. Also, he would spray it with a certain, starchy substance of his own concoction, causing it to dry and harden, while also ensuring it was bright, green, and organic for as long as possible. This had the effect of creating a lawn that resembled those that were seen in summertime commercials. It also ensured that the grass was sharp enough to pierce even the thickest of combat boots. Children quickly learned to not play near his house. Delivery boys would have a chance to practice their pitching skills. Traveling salesmen shouted their ludicrous offers from the sidewalk, as if Klaus was the only customer left on the planet.
Klaus also took other measures within the house, though he had been the only one inside of it for years. Ever surface, visible or otherwise, was so clean and shiny that any intruders would be blinded upon entrance. Furthermore, if someone was not wearing shoes (which they wouldn't be, given that the doormat said "Please Remove Your Shoes"), the carpet would be so fluffy and smooth that they would inevitably slip and fall. All of the clocks in his house were synced up to the second, meaning they would all ring at the same time. It was a symphony that Klaus had gotten used to, but was also a cacophony that would deafen anyone else. The china and vases in his house were all placed exactly in the center of whatever coffee table they rested on, meaning he knew exactly where they all were, thus meaning he had access to any sort of heavy club at any given moment. Klaus was, all in all, secure in his house. So of course he was terrified all hours of the day.
He was too afraid to shove his worries to the back of his mind, since forgetting his worries meant they would inevitably come to fruition. So his televisions were all turned on, all connected, all set to whatever news channel Klaus switched too, all at full volume, so the latest stories and tragedies could echo around his house, ensuring that he never missed a beat. And with each new disaster, he would write down a new reminder for himself in terms of how to avoid disaster himself. He kept these notes in alphabetical order in a filing cabinet, ranging from "Do not drink disinfectant when sick," to "Do not keep 5G phone within 25 feet for extended periods." Klaus did not differentiate between information, shuffling through his notes every Tuesday, reading through every entry, shivering at words like "Pit Bull" and "Death Metal."
Klaus viewed himself as the standard for personal well-being. He took steaming hot baths every two hours, using dish soap to clean his body. He ingested nothing but uncooked pasta on whole wheat bread, having been told that those were super foods. And in between both of those activities, he stood in his living room, ensuring his body remained fit by never taking a moment to sit down. Given all of this, he viewed himself as set to live until he was 150.
This was one area Klaus was incorrect about. As much as he understood his house, he understood far less about his body. He ignored the pain in his feet, his cravings for basically any other food in existence, his aching skin, red and dry from the constant bathing, burnt from the reflection of the light on his walls, a similar effect to sun being intensified from bouncing off of the snow. Though this cause him great harm, he ignored it. He was brave, he told himself, for keeping to this strict regimen. He was therefore afraid of nothing, he reminded himself every day. Everything in his life would stay the same, he whispered before going to bed every night. And yet, there was one occurrence in his life that even he had to admit he was terrified of.
For years now, on the 20th of every month, a stranger would approach by leaping clean over the weaponized lawn, their landing audibly cracking the sidewalk (which he would have to go out and perfectly replace). After that, they would stand precisely in front of the door. Though the blinds covering the windows of the door obscured their face, Klaus recognized the silhouette as exactly the same. Large. Strong. Six-and-a-half feet tall. When they knocked, the tightly screwed hinges of the door rattled. And at this moment, Klaus would be at a loss at what to do. Once he managed to pick up one of his vases before gently placing it down, suddenly afraid of shattering it in the conflict. Another time he actually sat in his recliner, trying to sink so far into it that he would be perfectly hidden. Recently he was so shaken by their presence that he stood in his usual spot perfectly still, like a statue, without even realizing he was shaking until the stranger marched off the porch as usual, leaving behind dirt, grime, and sometimes blood on the porch. Klaus had no idea who they were or what they wanted; but they were certainly bringing disaster with them.
She was not. This was actually the one time of the year Rona was not followed by disaster. Rona spent most of her time getting into trouble across the country. Either she would piss off the kind of people who were always waiting to be pissed off, or she would help one of her many friends out of trouble through her brute strength. Her lower legs were extraordinarily scraped up from constantly leaning her motorbike so close to the road. On top of that, each month brought a new scar, each day another chance at losing a limb. She was not afraid of words like "Revolution" or "Infection." She was ready for everything by virtue of not being prepared for anything.
And yet, for a period of five months she found herself in the exact same suburb on the exact same date. It was quite strange. And since that first month, she'd noticed the house with the razor sharp grass and the constantly drawn blinds. Prepared for the usual havoc, she decided to swing over to the front door via the oak tree and knock. That first day, she had been prepared for some nutter with a gun, or maybe an imprisoned family.
What she got instead was no answer. Nothing at all. Not even a peep. But despite that, she found herself attracted to the same house those next four months. And after those four months, she found she couldn't stop visiting. Every time the 20th came around, she found the urge to push aside whatever she was doing to check on whoever was holed up in that house. Once she'd even skimped a visit to the hospital for a wounded arm to ensure she dropped by on the same date at the same time (though she would have skimped on the hospital visit anyway, damned medical bills). She figured it was a mix of curiosity and pity. Though she also found that this house was the most grounded thing she'd come across in her life. It was the only thing that remained the same over the years.
Throughout the whole time she'd visited, she'd only caught a single glimpse of the stranger on the inside. Scrawny. Fragile. Perfectly ruined skin. Short hair, brushed to the side. A trace of ego on the face, behind the mask of terror. She wondered if she could ever do anything to help him. She wondered if he would do anything to help himself.
Klaus was an introvert before disaster. He remained an introvert during disaster. And by God, he would continue to be an introvert after disaster. For as far as he was concerned, out there it had always been, and would always be, a disaster.
And he took measures to ensure that this remained the same. The blades of grass on his lawn were all perfectly trimmed and polished, to the point that he could cut his finger on the tips of all of them. Children learned not to play recklessly outside his house. Delivery men would practice their pitching skills. Traveling salesmen would shout their offers to Klaus as if he was the only customer left on the planet. And, under the cover of the night, Klaus would take his nail file and examine every inch of his lawn to ensure that its condition remained at this standard.
Klaus upheld other practicalities as well. The walls of the interior of his house were so white that they would blind any intruder. His carpet was so fluffy and smooth that anyone without shoes (which they wouldn't be wearing, as the mat by the door said "please remove your shoes") would slip and fall uncontrollably. Every single clock in his house was perfectly in-sync and set to ring every hour, a cacophony harmonious to the ears of Klaus, but deafening to anyone else. And of course all to send the message that he was not accepting visitors at this time.
How could Klaus stand the presence of strangers when every stranger on the planet was losing their mind? People were enforcing boundaries on the streets, countries were being divided into smaller and smaller states, rulers and presidents were constantly threatening to go to war. Klaus knew that there would be a tipping point. A disaster. A horrible event that would cause pure devastation around the globe. Devastation meant desperation. Desperation meant fighting over resources. Fighting over resources meant war, mass panic, the apocalypse. What else could possibly happen? No; Klaus knew full well things were about to get worse. He wanted only to be prepared. He was doing the rational thing by weaponizing his lawn.
Then one morning, he had just performed a few finishing touches on the grass and was about to go inside when he noticed a figure on the sidewalk across his lawn. He granted himself no time to observe, darting straight through the front door and slamming it shut. The sun was not quite visible, but the sky was showing its first traces of blue. As such, he risked peaking from behind the blinds.
The figure outside crouched and examined the grass, sliding a finger across a single blade. Having observed its dangerous quality, the stranger took several steps backward onto the street, and then, after a moment of warmup, ran forward and jumped straight across the lawn and onto Klaus's porch.
Klaus flew back and trembled. He had not caught their face, only their massive, muscular body. Klaus grabbed a nearby vase and held it like a club, fully prepared for the door to go flying off of its hinges. All that came instead was a soft knock.
Klaus recognized that he had time to conceive of a better plan. The door was locked, and he sure as hell wasn't opening it. Whoever was outside had to be dangerous. Perhaps they meant no ill will, but what desperate times must have fallen the world for some random ruffian to come knocking on his door, of all houses? They would come in, and whatever they brought in with them would be trouble.
As the intruder knocked again, Klaus put down the vase in the exact position it had been in. He calculated his chances. Fighting? No shot against someone so tall. Could he rely on his defenses? Possibly not, given the previous feat they had performed. What to do? They were knocking again. What to do?
Indeed, they did knock a third time. And after that, they slowly opened the door. They did not take off their shoes (barbarian). The clocks rang out, and they did not flinch. They wandered through the entrance, then slowly turned into the living room. And there Klaus sat, sunk into his white recliner. He had figured his best shot was to try to blend in, to camouflage his pale, clean body against his white, clean furniture. How could he be seen?
Well, he was seen, as the stranger set eyes on him the moment they entered the room. For this was one thing Klaus was wrong about. His skin was not pale and clean. Sure, he did take many, many baths; however, as a result his skin was chafed, dry, and red with the intense soap he used, the boiling hot water he rested in hourly. This effect was amplified by how clean the house itself was, reflecting and intensifying the fluorescent lights he used, burning his skin similar to the effect achieved by sunlight bouncing off of fresh white snow.
The stranger approached Klaus and knelt in front of him. And it was here Klaus could see exactly who it was.
It was his wife. She appeared even stronger than before, her skin calloused, visible remnants of burns across her body. She had endured something. Something horrible. Though it was one step below the one thing she had said she could not endure: Him.
This was still true to an extent, but she had felt as though she should visit anyway. She still appreciated Klaus's dedication, his precision, and his vigor. It made him insufferable to live with, but it did not make him horrible. That said, as she stared at Klaus's perfectly still form in the recliner, even she was surprised by just how much he had fallen.
"Klaus… Klaus, honey…. are you okay?"
I'm okay, Klaus told himself. Klaus, you are not okay, everything else in the world was telling him.
"Klaus, you're in such a horrible condition."
Not as horrible as what's outside, Klaus thought. The outside you've brought in here, Klaus retorted in his head.
"Klaus, I need to get you to a hospital."
Hospital.
"Klaus, you're shriveling up."
Hospital's are clean.
"Please. I don't want you to build this wall around yourself. Let me help you."
Klaus remained as perfectly still as he could will. Even so, his will could not prevent his head from twitching the smallest of nods. Klaus's wife took the sign, having to take thousands of minor responses from Klaus over the years. As such, she reached behind his back and under his legs, and picked him up in a bridal carry.
Klaus's skin burned at being touched. He would have screamed if he hadn't repressed the urge, as he always had. All at once he felt weightless and yet as if he was falling from furthest point of the atmosphere. At first he watched the furniture he was being taken away from, the house he had spent so many months keeping clean. Who would watch it when he was gone? How could he possibly return to this place when dust would inevitably build up, where it would cover every single surface?
But then he looked up at his wife. And she was not looking at him, instead looking ahead, focused on getting him out of there. And he felt something. He did not feel himself falling in love again. Rather, he felt a little safer. In this state, he was carried out the front door, the sun popping up over the horizon.
“Sit up straight. Suck it in.”
I became rigid, holding my breath. Teacher Mosephine peered down at me as she walked by. She moved on soon enough.
I am not the only one she’s told this to. The other students around the classroom don’t turn to look at me. One of them may have gasped, but they must have cut themselves off before it could be heard. I could tell, though. The air in the classroom felt a little tighter, the walls pulled in slightly closer. Mosephine wouldn’t be able to catch that. She was too used to it.
She continued to speak as she turned at the end of the row, slowly pacing back to the front of the classroom. Her back was to me soon enough, so I stole a glance out the window. An unfamiliar city was on the horizon. The school was no longer able to afford the property it had been on (as the principle had spent money on a security system and repainting the lines on the parking lot), so it had to relocate to a cheaper place. Mosephine had insisted that we not be made to move from our seats, so they decided to spend even more money on helicopters to pick up the building and move it here. She had to tell us to sit up straight repeatedly during that trip.
Satisfied in how we were behaving, she picked up a piece of chalk and began writing on the board. So I took another, longer look. Even at a distance, the buildings of the city were sparkling and imposing. I couldn’t imagine people wandering that place on a daily basis. It was a maze built by us, for us; yet it couldn’t just be us that used it, could it?
A pigeon landed on the horizon. I blinked, and realized it was actually on the windowsill. The back of my mind alerted me not to stare too long, but the bird (or the rat with wings, as Dad might call it) made the window all the more mesmerizing. As such, without that bird I wouldn’t have seen someone’s hand rise up on the outside. This hand landed on the windowsill with a muffled thud. This was followed by another hand that did the same.
Feeling the gasp of another student again, my head snapped back to the front of the class. Mosephine had turned her head over her shoulder, away from the window; however, it was not me she was looking at.
“Stop tapping your desk,” she said to Ashley, with her signature glare. Poor Ashley hadn’t been doing anything.
Mosephine went back to the board, and I turned to the window again. By that point a head (which I would age to be around 14 or 15) had appeared, his elbows holding him up. The pigeon had moved to the side, ruffling its feathers. His cheeks were round with dimples from his mischievous smile. Though I could not see beneath his chest, I imagined him being quite stout. A wrinkled, flannel shirt covered his elbows. I found myself hating him, simply for that look he was giving me, like I was the weak link in a chain.
He reached down with one of his arms, his gaze steady despite his body being rather unsteady. Out of a pocket (presumably) he pulled up a thin white rope for me to see. After a moment, he brought it down to the sill and began moving his hands out of sight. I wasn’t sure if there was a handle on the outside, but if there was, I would assume he was tying the rope to it. When he was satisfied, he grabbed the leg of the pigeon, which only now tried to escape. He brought it down to the sill again, firmly keeping it in place as he tied another knot. As soon as he let it go, he dropped down without hesitation. He might have been okay; it was only the second story. Or was it the third? I could no longer remember.
All that was left was the pigeon, which was frantically trying to fly away. And as it flew away, I realized that it had pulled the window open just a crack. Not enough for it to be visible, or audible. But I could feel it. The class was no longer shut tight. The air was rushing out.
CLAP I heard. “Face forward!” shouted Mosephine. I felt panic rising, my head growing light. Should I tell her? I began to shake, and I tried to speak. “Raise your hand before you speak!” I raised my hand. “It is not your turn to speak!” I brought my hand down, sitting up straight and holding my breath. She gave me that signature glare, standing above us all, before slowly turning back to the board.
What was going to happen? I didn’t know. The class had to be airtight for a reason. Was I the only one alarmed? Was I the only one who noticed? I held tightly to my desk, my head feeling lighter. Then it was my stomach that started losing weight. Was I going to throw up? I didn’t want to. It had to be because of the leak.
Mosephine had drawn a plus, minus, x, and what I now know is the division symbol. None of us had learned it then, though. One student asked, and Mosephine said to him “We’re not learning about that one right now, are we?”
I almost lost focus, as the same question bounced around in my mind. My fingers began to slip. My own blood felt as if it were turning to helium. I looked around desperately for something else to hold onto, but I realized there was nothing. Mosephine had kept all the bookshelves out of reach, and the other students didn’t realize anything was wrong. Not visibly, anyway.
I turned to the window, my ears beginning to pop. The pigeon continued to pull against the window. I could feel myself being pulled outwards. One more tug, and I wouldn’t be able to fight the release.
It was then I could see someone on the ground. The air was pulled from my lungs, my mouth becoming dry. Was it the same troublemaker who had opened the window? It couldn’t have been. I couldn’t make out their face, but their hair was grey, and they were much taller. They looked over their shoulder, walking towards the horizon. Towards the city.
The window was now a millimeter open. My fingers slipped, and I was pulled away. Not with a yank, but almost with a gentle nudge. Perhaps it only felt that way, as I had dissolved by that point. I became the breath of air that the classroom exhaled.
I don't remember what I was laughing at, only that I heard someone whisper, "You're faking it."
I kept laughing, masking my reaction. Clearly no one in my family had heard it. Everyone around the table went on laughing or eating or both. No one even realized my mood had changed. I almost fooled myself, as I kept laughing (despite having forgotten what we were laughing at). But while I laughed, I wondered.
The temperature had been shockingly perfect. Excellent lunch outside, one last picnic at the end of August just before the chills closed in. Some of the flowers were still out, and not a single leaf had fallen off the trees. And yet, it was dry enough for the mosquitoes to leave us alone, for the bees to be nestled in their hives. It was all in balance, and everyone around me was laughing, stirring the fresh air throughout my family's yard. Amazing. Beyond belief. I couldn't just interrupt that, could I? No, I decided, I'd imagined it. So I kept eating.
The next moment I remember about as clearly as the first. I was sitting at a PC. I don't remember what I was doing. Something that wasn't urgent, but of looming importance, like taxes or job applications. I'm almost certain the internet had disconnected, preventing me from finishing. I sat and waited for it to come back. It took its time. A long time. I could move on to something else, but what if it came back just as I left? I could do it later. But I'd told myself I wouldn't put it off. If I put it off now, what would stop me putting it off later? Then I heard it again say, "Stop faking it."
Faking what? Frustration? I don't see why that would be faked. I mean, the first instance was, I think, in regards to my laughter. Which I wasn't faking. Or I suppose I was faking it after I had been told I'd been faking it, but my point is I was in company then. I had a perfectly fine reason to force laughter. Why would I fake being angry in the privacy of my own home? Should I bother answering for this voice I know nothing about? Just thinking about it made me tired. Too tired for anything resembling taxes. So I left the monitor.
The instances increased in frequency after that. I think. I don't know, maybe it happened, like, three times, and the rest were my imagination. Or maybe none of them were my imagination. Or maybe they'd always been my imagination. How much can someone imagine something like that? I lack even the talent to imagine a face in the clouds, let alone a voice in my head.
It was always when I was reacting. Someone would say a joke, and I'd instinctively huff. Or I'd get cut off in traffic, and I'd hit the steering wheel. Or one time (one of the times I'm sure it happened) my grandmother had died. I had frozen when I'd been told, then tried to get on with my day, then failed, then approached my mother. And throughout all of this, I'd hear, "Fake, totally fake, you're not being real." And just like that, I was concerned with being, "real," so concerned that my reaction would no actually become fake. I stifled my sobs, and walked away before she could notice. She didn't deserve to hear me pretend to be sad.
After a while, I wondered if anyone did deserve to be around anyone faking anything. All the time. Every conversation, every greeting, every look I shared with someone else would be followed with, "Faking it," which itself was followed by, "Why should they have to endure me being a faker?"
I still doubted the voice. Or I should say I still wanted to doubt the voice. Whoever was telling me this wouldn't say it so often if they didn't truly believe it. So the question is really what lead them to believe it in the first place. They never said, of course. I think I tried asking a few times, and always I got something like, "I just know." And they do seem to just know. I mean, if I was to really dig my teeth into any of the facts I have a grip on, it would be boiled down to, "I just know," right? Anything can be doubted if turned over enough times. So how could I doubt what I was being told by this thing so distant and yet so close to me?
The last instance is what has me really worried. I'd woken up with my legs in a cold sweat, I wanna say at 3 in the morning. I'd had a dream that hadn't scared me awake so much as unsettled me to the point where I wanted to leave. Three people in a box, a glass box (was there glass?), on the outside of which was a crowd of people paying fierce attention. One was bored, aimlessly jumped back and forth from the floor to the ceiling to the floor, as if there wasn't any gravity. Another was curled to the right mumbling something, I honestly don't remember. The third, scratching and clawing at the walls like a cartoon character, sparks flying off of thin air, their eyes wide with anger. Slowly all three of them grew more and more tired in what they were doing, each of them panting, struggling to keep going, the crowd outside losing interest, walking away.
I lay there for a while, closing my eyes for periods of five to ten minutes to convince myself that I was asleep. Finally gave up and rolled out of bed, planning on grabbing a glass of water. By the time I had entered the kitchen, I'd forgotten why I was there. And then I heard, "You were faking it." Whatever it was I had wanted to do, if it was fake surely it wasn't worth remembering. I kinda wanted to cry, so I approached the living room to curl up in a chair for comfort. "It's not real," it said, so I heaved a sigh and stopped walking. I had the urge to scream, so I went down into the basement for a place to let it out. "Really? You think you have a reason to scream?" I didn't, I realized as my foot left the last step. l turned around and leaned back, my shoulders hitting the wall, sliding slowly down, resting on the ground. My legs fell cross-legged, and I focused only on my breathing. Of all things, my breathing couldn't be fake, could it?
Something. Something tickled the back of my neck. I ignored it. Only a pulse. It continued. It went wild. I felt it softly but desperately pushing my head away from the wall. Fuzz. Something fuzzy. A rat? Could I have rested my head on a rat? I leaned forward the barest minimum, and just like that the feeling was gone. But was it? I was aware of what was back there. Something was there. On my neck, resting just between my shoulder-blades. I weakly reached back, and when my hand found that fuzz, my heart spiked, and I yanked it into view.
In my grip struggled a white dandelion. The fluff around its head shimmered as it writhed and flexed, leaves on its well-developed stem flapping about haplessly. Its roots were slung from my collar-bone, still attached to the tip of my spine, where I noticed the pain of hair being ripped out, the warmth of blood sending a shiver down my back.
So what should I do? I've thought about getting it over with, pulling out the roots. But what will happen to me? What will be taken with it? Could I live without it? What if I cut it? Cut it off and leave it on my driveway. Maybe even just blowing the seeds off its head will teach it a lesson, make it stop tickling the back of my neck. But either way, I've no doubt it will grow back. Not just in me. If I was to throw it on the ground, or blow the dust off its chin, its seeds would spread. No matter where I do it, the wind will eventually catch them, take them everywhere, where they'll eventually land on someone else, dig their roots into the unsuspecting. Maybe that's already begun. Maybe one's already drifted away.
I don't remember what I was laughing at, only that I heard someone whisper, "You're faking it."
I kept laughing, masking my reaction. Clearly no one in my family had heard it. Everyone around the table went on laughing or eating or both. No one even realized my mood had changed. I even almost fooled myself, as I kept laughing on (despite having missed what we were laughing at). But while I laughed, I wondered.
Where had that voice come from? It hadn't come from a specific direction. I could have certainly turned around to check if someone was behind me, but then someone would ask, "Why did you turn around?" and I'd have to explain that I'd heard a strange voice, and everyone would react in some way that was not laughter, it would've been a whole thing. Definitely not a thing I wanted to cause. So I kept eating.
The next moment I remember about as clearly as the first. I was sitting at a PC. I don't remember what I was doing. Something that wasn't urgent, but of looming importance, like taxes or job applications. I'm almost certain the internet had disconnected, preventing me from finishing. I sat and waited for it to come back. It took its time. A long time. I could move on to something else, but what if it came back just as I left? I could do it later. But I'd told myself I wouldn't put it off. If I put it off now, what would stop me putting it off later? Then I heard it again say, "Stop faking it."
Faking what? Frustration? I don't see why that would be faked. I mean, the first instance was, I think, in regards to my laughter. Which I wasn't faking. Or I suppose I was faking it after I had been told I'd been faking it, but my point is I was in company then. I had a perfectly fine reason to force laughter. Why would I fake being angry in the privacy of my own home? Should I bother answering for this voice I know nothing about? Just thinking about it made me tired. Too tired for anything resembling taxes. So I left the monitor.
The instances increased in frequency after that. I think. I don't know, maybe it happened, like, three times, and the rest were my imagination. Or maybe none of them were my imagination. Or maybe they'd always been my imagination. How much can someone imagine something like that? I lack even the talent to imagine a face in the clouds, let alone a voice in my head.
It was always when I was reacting. Someone would say a joke, and I'd instinctively huff. Or I'd get cut off in traffic, and I'd hit the steering wheel. Or one time (one of the times I'm sure it happened) my grandmother had died. I had frozen when I'd been told, then tried to get on with my day, then failed, then approached my mother. And throughout all of this, I'd hear, "Fake, totally fake, you're not being real." And just like that, I was concerned with being, "real," so concerned that my reaction would no actually become fake. I stifled my sobs, and walked away before she could notice. She didn't deserve to hear me pretend to be sad.
After a while, I wondered if anyone did deserve to be around anyone faking anything. All the time. Every conversation, every greeting, every look I shared with someone else would be followed with, "Faking it," which itself was followed by, "Why should they have to endure me being a faker?"
I still doubted the voice. Or I should say I still wanted to doubt the voice. Whoever was telling me this wouldn't say it so often if they didn't truly believe it. So the question is really what lead them to believe it in the first place. They never said, of course. I think I tried asking a few times, and always I got something like, "I just know." And they do seem to just know. I mean, if I was to really dig my teeth into any of the facts I have a grip on, it would be boiled down to, "I just know," right? Anything can be doubted if turned over enough times. So how could I doubt what I was being told by this thing so distant and yet so close to me?
The last instance is what has me really worried. I'd woken up with my legs in a cold sweat, I wanna say at 3 in the morning. I'd had a dream that hadn't scared me awake so much as unsettled me to the point where I wanted to leave. Three people in a box, a glass box (was there glass?), on the outside of which was a crowd of people paying fierce attention. One was bored, aimlessly jumped back and forth from the floor to the ceiling to the floor, as if there wasn't any gravity. Another was curled to the right mumbling something, I honestly don't remember. The third, scratching and clawing at the walls like a cartoon character, sparks flying off of thin air, their eyes wide with anger. Slowly all three of them grew more and more tired in what they were doing, each of them panting, struggling to keep going, the crowd outside losing interest, walking away.
I lay there for a while, closing my eyes for periods of five to ten minutes to convince myself that I was asleep. Finally gave up and rolled out of bed, planning on grabbing a glass of water. By the time I had entered the kitchen, I'd forgotten why I was there. And then I heard, "You were faking it." Whatever it was I had wanted to do, if it was fake surely it wasn't worth remembering. I kinda wanted to cry, so I approached the living room to curl up in a chair for comfort. "It's not real," it said, so I heaved a sigh and stopped walking. I had the urge to scream, so I went down into the basement for a place to let it out. "Really? You think you have a reason to scream?" I didn't, I realized as my foot left the last step. l turned around and leaned back, my shoulders hitting the wall, sliding slowly down, resting on the ground. My legs fell cross-legged, and I focused only on my breathing. Of all things, my breathing couldn't be fake, could it?
Something. Something tickled the back of my neck. I ignored it. Only a pulse. It continued. It went wild. I felt it softly but desperately pushing my head away from the wall. Fuzz. Something fuzzy. A rat? Could I have rested my head on a rat? I leaned forward the barest minimum, and just like that the feeling was gone. But was it? I was aware of what was back there. Something was there. On my neck, resting just between my shoulder-blades. I weakly reached back, and when my hand found that fuzz, my heart spiked, and I yanked it into view.
In my grip struggled a white dandelion. The fluff around its head shimmered as it writhed and flexed, leaves on its well-developed stem flapping about haplessly. Its roots were slung from my collar-bone, still attached to the tip of my spine, where I noticed the pain of hair being ripped out, the warmth of blood sending a shiver down my back.
So what should I do? I've thought about getting it over with, pulling out the roots. But what will happen to me? What will be taken with it? Could I live without it? What if I cut it? Cut it off and leave it on my driveway. Maybe even just blowing the seeds off its head will teach it a lesson, make it stop tickling the back of my neck. But either way, I've no doubt it will grow back. Not just in me. If I was to throw it on the ground, or blow the dust off its chin, its seeds would spread. No matter where I do it, the wind will eventually catch them, take them everywhere, where they'll eventually land on someone else, dig their roots into the unsuspecting. Maybe that's already begun. Maybe one's already drifted away.
Before me sat the man who had claimed the capability to understand everything. That's is not the same as knowing everything, a note on the outside of his office had stressed. He was less of a walking library and more of a stationary magnifying glass, was how he'd stated it. A magnifying glass that would, in all likelihood, need adjustment to achieve proper clarification. As I witnessed myself, when he asked me "When you say people, are you talking about all people? I'm afraid that would take a lot of reservations on my schedule, which I guarantee I don't have. If you'd be willing to perform multiple visits, on the other hand, we could get started." His fingers were on his keyboard, at the ready.
I really, really wanted to interrupt him so we could continue, but I'm still very tired from the process of discovering this professional. If only I could jot down in a timely manner the excruciatingly linear process of meeting one person after another who gave me the vaguest directions and scarcest of rumors. Rather, I took a breath after he'd finished and stated "No. No I do not want to understand every single person on the planet. I want to-"
"Beyond the planet as well? That would take even longer. That would also depend on your definition of 'person.' Would you be referencing the human race, or sentient beings as a whole?"
Could I really doubt his sincerity in saying that after the bizarre acts I'd had to perform to get here? Of course not. So I brushed it off and clarified further with "No. Not as individuals. As a group."
He blinked, and typed briefly on his keyboard. Then turned back and ask "So would you be referencing-"
"The human race, yes, whatever."
He nodded and continued to type. His expression remained neutral, although broken by a yawn.
"I apologize if I'm reacting slowly. The commute is relaxing to a fault. Trains, their gentle rumbling and their rushing landscapes, they pull me into a deep meditation, a meditation I wish could last-"
"Is all that typing necessary?"
"I must be clear as possible." I don't know why he couldn't just transcribe what I'd said verbatim, but whatever.
"So when you say you want to understand the group, would you mean group behavior?"
I found myself losing hope. If he couldn't understand what I meant, could he really understand anyone else? "No, not group behavior. I mean everyone. The thing everyone shares. What is it?"
"Brains, hearts, bodies, and… actually, that might be it. I can imagine people living without most of their other parts, given treatment, and maybe-"
"No, not physically. I mean deeper. Deep into our psyche. Or 'soul' if that helps you get it."
This created a moment of silence between us. He moved his tongue across his teeth beneath his lips. His brows grew closer, and his eyes angled towards an empty spot on his desk. He then asked "What's made you interested in this topic?"
He was really getting beside the point, but to get past it I gave the blunt "There's nothing else I don't know."
His right eyebrow twitched. And in the fairness of hindsight I was really tooting my own horn. But mostly, it was true. I could learn about certain ideas more in-depth. But why? I knew all I needed to know. Except this.
He typed a little longer, tapped the enter key with a bit of finality, stood above me, and said "I think I can help you. But I can't describe what you want in words. Some things are impossible to put in words. As such, I'm going to have to ask you to wait out in the lobby while I prepare something that will assist in understanding. Does that sound fine?"
"Fine," I replied.
"No need to get huffy."
I was not being huffy. But arguing wouldn't help, I knew, so I left.
The lobby is heated, but it still feels rather cold. The seats are plasticine and shiny. The upper walls are vaguely rough but still clinical, while the lower walls feature aged carpeting. Its far too cramped by the standards of other lobbies, to the point where they've elevated platforms I can hit my head on for providing more benches and chairs. The windows, most unnervingly, show only a foggy outside that conceals how I arrived. Worst of all, I'm alone.
Maybe that's a blessing in disguise. I might be the first to define, in concise words, the "human condition" as others have put it. I'll do the piece of translation this weirdo is refusing to do for me. I will provide the thing people have been searching for since recorded history came into being.
Just why does it have to be so difficult?
Clifford searched high, trying to view it through the treeline. No sight of it yet; only grey clouds, blanketing the sky above. He continued to peer, craning his neck as high as it would go, which made it all the more difficult to watch his step on the uneven ground. The pebbles and twigs had evolved into fallen tree branches and boulders, the tree branches becoming endlessly thick tangles he couldn't force his way through without receiving a new scratch on his face. However, he began to perceive the end of the woods ahead, and only then did he wonder if he'd made a wrong turn, as he should have been able to see his destination by now. It was when he stumbled out of the dimly lit forest he realized that he had been going in the correct direction after all.
It was the mountainside ahead of him he had mistaken for the grey sky, for it towered so high it was as if the horizon had been pulled upward, already giving Clifford a sense of vertigo. Around the tip of the landmass before him was a coat of snow. This was contrasted by the splashes of red further down, lava flowing out of the orifices sprinkling the wall of stone. Such was the mystery of Mount Monarch.
The base of the mountain was less than two miles ahead. At that point sat a small collection of huts, known as Princetown. The patch of land wasn't grand enough to be any sort of abode for royalty, but that wasn't how it had earned it's name. Given the nature of the mountain, it's front had been known as a place of danger, with constant outflows of lava obliterating anyone who dared to settle, even releasing an occasional rain of fire. However, one piece of land wasn't touched once. It even held a small patch of flowers; daisies to be exact. This area had been gold for warring princes who wanted a naturally defended military base, even though it was captured and recaptured many times, the name switching with each new prince (Charlestown, Henrytown, Jeffreytown, etc). The place eventually became independent when the princes managed to wipe each other out, and as a result became the perfect place for mountain climbers to rest before making the ultimate journey.
Clifford did not want to stop, but he knew he had to. His supplies were already stretched as they were. If he expended his energy too fast, he wouldn't even make it halfway. He found an inn and requested a room, as well as a reservation for three days later, the time he'd estimated he'd be up there. The keeper flipped through a log book, stopping when they were nearly at the last page.
"Get a lot of visitors here?"
The keeper took a glance at the massive backpack Clifford wore, and mumbled "No, half of them are reservations."
The sound of a whistling kettle called the keeper to the kitchen. Clifford, curious, fell for temptation and leaned over to see what was in the log book.
It wasn't long until he saw a pattern. Most of the people who'd booked a room also booked a reservation. And written in the margin of every single reservation on the page was "Didn't show up."
…
The night's rest allowed his sore legs to recover.