Oh, for crying out loud. This is the guy who so desperately needs my help? Puh-lease.
Here—stand next to me. See where I’m pointing? He’s the one pondering a giant jar of bone broth protein. What the hell is that? I swear, you humans are going backward in your evolution.
Don’t get butt hurt. You are. The first step to healing is admitting your problem.
His shopping cart is already brimming with bull shit: sipping vinegar, ten bottles of supplements, ancient grain granola— Seriously? You people nourish your bodies with what you think is a hunter-gatherer’s diet while surrounded by concrete and steel and lights, which literally snuff out the heavens. You don’t even know what the night sky looks like.
Sorry, I’m ranting when I should be paying attention to this dumbass.
Peering in, listening to his thoughts, reading his memories—
Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know it seems invasive, but I’m allowed. Now be quiet, I’m trying to figure this guy out.
Holy fu—
Wow.
Okay… the tearful begging prayer makes sense now. Sheesh. Lots of work to do.
I see you’re sticking around to watch, you voyeuristic sicko. Well, here are the bullet points so you can follow along, cause if you’re going to stay, you’re damn well going to learn something. This here is Kirby Reid. He’s just shy of thirty years old, a pharmaceutical rep, and single, which is baffling, cause look at him. He’s muscular, tall, and symmetrical, his hair and beard oil-black and I believe those are called “bedroom eyes.” His short sleeves and tight pants beg the world to stare and boy does he love that.
So, of all the people who could use my help, why him? You’re all quite pitiful. In this grocery store alone there’s a love-addicted sexual abuse survivor, a woman whose son is a heroin addict, a heartbroken youth, a bulimic. So much loneliness, and with a simple root cause: you’ve surgically separated yourself from the life force you’re an integral part of and, thus, believe you’re alone in this universe.
But you’re wrong. As above, so below. Which means I feel the same despair and hopelessness. It’s hard not to feel—
Ahem… sorry. You don’t want to hear about that.
Anyway.
So, why Kirby? I haven’t the foggiest. Creatures like me—your folklore has named us a million times—we have a higher power, too, and as I understand it, I’m only sent to people who can help themselves. I haven’t been put to use in a long time, though. Long enough that I was beginning to wonder if there was any hope at all…
Well shit, there I go again.
Never mind me. I’ve been in a mood lately.
I have an idea for Kirby already. Pretty boy is rather fond of this guy Ryan, a kind-hearted sort-of friend, who’s so calm and forgiving normally that when he gets angry, the impact is like a nuclear bomb. I need to set Ryan off, so someone he loves will have to die—
Alright, alright, no need to be so dramatic and accusatory. You wouldn’t be protesting if you needed help. You’d want me to do whatever I could. So zip it, hypocrite. Also, promise me something: whatever happens next, remember that Kirby asked for this. He also wasn’t specific. Just this morning, he begged and begged, please make me healthy, even though not a damn thing is wrong with him.
Poor fool doesn’t understand what he’s asked for and that’s not my fault.
Hang tight for now. I’ll be in touch when the show starts to get interesting.
So, you’ve come back for more, huh?
I’ve been thinking—I’m a little worried you’re going to hate Kirby, so I’ve decided to let you in his head. Supervised, of course, to make sure you behave yourself. You can’t root around his subconscious, no matter how riveting it is in there. Understood?
Good, let’s get you up to speed.
A week has passed and things have happened, but I’d like to keep you in delicious suspense. Kirby is back in the grocery store, heading to checkout.
You ready? It’ll be weird, listening to someone else’s thoughts.
Enjoy.
Kirby always gets in the line closest to the front doors so that he can see outside. There’s a crow out there tonight, perched on a garbage bin and diving for scraps, which distracts Kirby from the nervous jitter in his gut. He shifts focus between the bird and the people at other registers, who seem harmless and unarmed.
He’s third in line, which he hates, and the customer at the front—a refined fellow, fifty-ish—is trying to buy a jug of soup and a box of organic tampons. The soup causes difficulty; the cashier signals a supervisor. Kirby’s gut jitter intensifies and he starts counting time: he’s already spent forty-five minutes in the grocery store, which was ten minutes too long already, and the woman in front of him has a full cart. Abandoning his own is unthinkable, so he’s stuck.
So Kirby focuses on the crow. It unearths a half-eaten sandwich, flings it onto the pavement, and feasts. He finds this amusing. He takes deep breaths.
Enclosed spaces terrify him.
Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s quite engrossing, isn’t it?
Look at his hands on the cart, at how tightly he’s squeezing. Someone new has appeared in the neighboring line and Kirby is sizing him up, looking for a lump under the guy’s clothing.
The lump could be a gun.
Yeah. That’s what we’re dealing with here.
The older man is done, and the next customer—a lady twenty years Kirby’s senior, dressed in tie-dye with feathers in her hair—starts to load the conveyor belt. Kirby tries to be patient with the slow cashier because she’s probably a trainee, but the ten minutes over his limit is swiftly turning into twenty. Satiated, the crow flies off, freeing Kirby’s mind to ponder his barren, fluorescent surroundings and himself as a vulnerable, expendable speck… a half-memory, half-feeling emerges, nagging him to look—
Okay, okay… that’s enough. We’ve reached “none-of-your-damn-business” territory. You’re not going to find out what really troubles Kirby before he does— Oh shit, the tie-dye lady was talking to him. And now he’s repositioning something heavy in her cart so the UPC faces the cashier. Wow, the way tie-dye is looking at him is practically sexual assault.
“Thank you, young man!” The woman drapes a be-ringed hand on Kirby’s shoulder and squeezes, then points to her foot, which is wrapped in a medical boot. “I’m helpless because of this stupid thing. I shattered the metatarsal bones, hiking up Mount Misery.”
Oh, brother. This woman is peacocking! Look! She thrust her pelvis forward and positioned her sweater to brandish a little skin. Kirby has this effect on women and some men.
“Oh, that’s rough,” he says. “When does the boot come off?”
“Another month. And you know what I’m going to do right afterward?”
Her fingertips tickle her collarbone and Kirby smiles, one eye on her throat, the other on the cashier’s slow progress.
“What?”
“I’m going to hike the goddamn Appalachian trail, that’s what. And you know why? Because you’re only as old as you feel.”
Are your eyes rolling, too?
“You’re so right.” Kirby nods heartily but he’s counting tie-dye’s items. Ten more to go… “It’s hard, fighting against your own body, wishing you could make it do what you want—”
Okay, so I’m going to save you from the rest of this conversation because it’s literally about diarrhea. Seriously. Once upon a time, Kirby thought he had ulcerative colitis and I’m going to fast-forward to the surprise ending—he did not. He also never had hyperthyroidism, gallstones, or COPD… Tie-dye’s flirtation has petered out, but diarrhea does tend to kill the mood.
The lady leaves the line without goodbye; Kirby moves up, smiling hello at the young cashier, relieved he finally made it to the end. He likes her hair, which is the color of burnished copper.
“How are you today?” he asks.
She scans Kirby’s first item, squeaking, “Good. And you?”
“Very well, thank you.”
Kirby bags his own groceries. This will get him out of this place sooner, but he also doesn’t like to be waited on. As he fills his totes to the brim and lugs them into his cart, he is acutely aware of the way this makes his arms flex and catches the cashier staring. He smiles. Her gaze is like warm fingers grazing his skin, making him warm and tingly as she desires him and probably imagines him naked. Her charming, delicate little face flushes. He decides to ask for her number. Why not? Physical love is a decent replacement for the real thing.
His phone rings.
It’s Ryan. Remember him? I might have forced an arrangement that, ah, ended in a life lost. Which you knew I was going to do, so don’t go looking all horrified now. You didn’t exactly stop me.
The phone is in Kirby’s leather bag—it’s a portable medicine cabinet—and he answers while bagging one-handed. His face pales, his mouth making a little “o” of shock. The people around him sense the bad news and freeze, watching him, as if misfortune is contagious.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Kirby says. “I had a crazy week, and—”
Bystanders near and far can hear Ryan crying through the phone speaker. Kirby’s eyes well.
It sounds mean, but I’m thrilled Kirby is upset because it proves something can be done for him. That being said, guilt for damage already done isn’t going to cut it.
“I’ll be there soon, okay?” That’s encouraging. Kirby swallows hard. “I’m so sorry, man.” Good, he means it.
The rest of the transaction passes in a haze. Kirby mutters a quick “thank you” to the cashier before pushing his cart out the door. Look at her, ogling his ass as he leaves. Can’t you see he’s upset! Kirby pauses at his BMW—because of course he has a BMW—forgetting his groceries. He leans against it, staring across the black asphalt and the incessant light and hum of an urban street, taking deep breaths to slow his racing heart. He looks up at a sky filled with stars he cannot see.
It’s no simple thing for him, to be in any public place, especially inside. Maybe the drama with Ryan was too much, right out of the gate. I just wanted to get him out of his head for five seconds.
Oh, shit, he’s really spiraling.
“You didn’t have a crazy week,” he tells himself. “How could you lie to Ryan? What did you do?”
Good, good… keep going. Face it! Kirby is an expert at avoiding—
“Ryan loves that turtle… you fucking piece of shit!”
Wait, wait.
PAUSE!
Are you relieved I made him kill a turtle and not a human? Wow. I didn’t expect such blatant prejudice out of you. That turtle’s life is just as meaningful as yours. You’re a psycho.
Un-pause.
What’s wrong with me?
Yes, Kirby—
Something’s wrong with me.
He’s clammy and dizzy, his heart beating too fast. Again, the thought comes: something is wrong with me. I’m—I’m—
No, Kirby, you have it backward. Nothing is wrong with you. Something happened to you—there’s a difference.
The thump of a car door shutting grabs Kirby’s attention and pulls it outward; he doesn’t want those people, three spaces over, to see him like this, so he collects his wits, loads his groceries, then drags his cart to the corral and slips into his car. I take the passenger seat. Dammit. It’s happening already. Kirby drives out of the parking lot, down the street, to the light. Left will take him to Ryan’s, but he’s forgotten about Ryan. He’s focusing on his heart and the tingling in his fingers and numbness in his toes and he wants the cocoon of his apartment and safety.
Kirby turns right.
Son of a bitch.
Well, no one learns the lesson right off, but still, I’m disappointed. Guess I’ll be here awhile.
Kirby spots something moving on the side of the road and he slows. Whatever it is creeps from a strip of grass and onto the shoulder, just within reach of the headlights. It’s a rabbit, drab brown and scrawny, with a white snout. An eastern cottontail, with wisdom in its eyes. It looks at Kirby, then the passenger seat.
Yes, the rabbit can see me. Sort of. We aren’t separate, that’s the confusing thing. We are the rabbit, and we are the crow, and we are each other. We are one mind, one intelligence, inside and around and within everything. I know that doesn’t make sense to you but trust me, it works. It has since the beginning of time.
Kirby waits for the rabbit to cross, but then a car comes up behind him and honks. Asshole! So he steps on the gas and that’s when the rabbit leaps into his lane. It’s killed instantly with a barely discernible bump. Kirby holds tight to the steering wheel, whimpering softly, a tear glistening in his eye.
He keeps driving, tallying up the lives he’s taken.
The rabbit makes two.
No, three.
I don’t get sexually attracted to you people, but I know a smoking body when I see one. And Kirby, well—he looks like Michelangelo’s David, and he’s wearing about the same amount of clothes.
Oh, stop. This isn’t pervy. You’re the pervy one, which is why I’m not letting you look. To us, the naked human body just exists; you’re the ones who assign so much meaning to it. I wonder—are you so disturbed because I invaded Kirby’s “privacy” by watching him shower, or because you realize now you, too, have been watched doing the same, and probably worse? Well, get over it.
It’s 7:30 a.m. and this is Kirby’s routine: he’s already spent two hours grunting at the gym and is now taking his temperature, blood pressure, blood sugar, and oxygen levels, weighing and measuring himself, and putting the numbers down in a little notebook. Okay, now he’s dressed. Primping is next and it’s a lengthy process. For Pete’s sake, he’s practically eye-fucking himself! You know what’s ironic? He’s not vain, he just knows he’s handsome and that people like looking at him, and this is all he has to offer the world. But he hates himself as automatically as he breathes.
Kirby’s “breakfast” is a liquid comprised of fruits and powders and what literally looks like grass. He’s slurping it when someone knocks at the door. Can you guess who it is?
“Open up, damn you.” Ryan’s voice is calm but trembling. Kirby doesn’t move and I’m going to lose my temper. I swear if he doesn’t open the door and face what he did… “I know you’re there, man, I saw your car out front.”
Kirby pales, puts down the smoothie, and crosses the room, and as soon as the door cracks a hair the man on the other side shoves it fully open and bursts into the apartment.
“You’re a psychopath, you know that? Do you have any idea what I came home to yesterday?”
Ryan is humble, country-boy handsome, a firefighter, and an Eagle Scout—a real bleeding heart. I hated to do this to him, but keep in mind, I could’ve done worse. I have done worse, but there’s no time to tell those stories.
“Stella is so malnourished, she’s hooked to a goddamn IV.” Ryan chokes on his tears. “The vet says she might not make it.”
Stella is a pit bull and a senior dog at that. I know, right? Can you get any sweeter? Ryan loves her—like a lot. And yes, I fudged circumstances so he’d have to rely on Kirby to watch Stella, Gus the turtle and Rosalie the snake, for a whole week while Ryan was out of town, knowing Kirby might forget, knowing also Gus had shell rot and needed his medicine, every day, and without it, he’d die. So, yeah—that’s what happened.
“I thought you were my friend, man.”
Kirby studies his feet like the coward he is. “I was sick, Ryan. I had a flare-up I thought was…”
Oh… he hesitated. Interesting. I know what he was about to say—for twenty-four hours he was convinced he had lupus (side note: Kirby loves, loves, loves diseases with symptoms that could be ten other things).
Ryan’s not buying it. “You know who’s actually sick? Stella. Stella, who’s twelve, and has arthritis and Cushing’s Disease.” His throat bulges with tears he doesn’t want to shed. “Gus was sick, too, and you knew that. He suffered in his last moments, Kirby. Because of you.”
Kirby’s ears are blood red and his usual excuse spills out, “My health, it’s—”
“I’m not fucking talking about you!” Ryan yells, then reels in the volume. He’s a quiet nuclear bomb, with pinpoint precision. He stabs his finger against Kirby’s chest, right over his heart, and whispers, “Is that really how you’re going to react to what you did?”
Confess, Kirby! You didn’t forget his pets! You had a panic attack over one teensy change in your routine and just didn’t go. Oh, pardon me—you have high blood pressure or a sluggish liver, or…what was it again? Oh yeah, lupus. Why is it harder for you to admit you’re having a rough time, like, emotionally, than it is to tell a stranger about your diarrhea? That’s fucked up!
Kirby isn’t going to speak or look Ryan in the eye. Of course.
“I know I should be patient with people like you, who don’t know any better. But I can’t be patient.” Ryan pictures the gray around Stella’s snout and her trusting blue eyes and there’s no room for kindness. “You’re a shell, Kirby. Nothing but a shell.”
Oooo, damn. That hurts.
Ryan moves to the door and Kirby blurts out his name. “Will you let me know if Stella is okay? Pl—”
The door slams, clipping the word. Kirby doesn’t move for a long time; his mind is like a pinball machine. Let’s see if I can pick out some useful stuff…
Hmm…
Oh, Jesus…
So what I get from all that mess: no one has ever talked to Kirby like that and he’s, well, having a hard time with it. His mask is very well-constructed—that of an amiable, charming, accomplished, and handsome man, something to admire and desire. But Ryan saw the real Kirby beneath it—the selfish coward. What else does he see? Does he see what Kirby did? Will he find out—
Come on, my friend, now that’s very irrational. How on earth could he—
Never mind, the panic attack has started: rapid breathing and heart rate, lots of sweating. He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt (oh come on, that is not supposed to be sexy. You really are a perv). A memory comes, of feeling helpless and terrified, and the chest pains start. He can’t take deep breaths. He thinks he’s going to vomit.
“Oh my God.” Kirby puts his head between his knees. I’m dying. I’m going to die…
You are not, Kirby! Man, I wish he could hear me. Think, will you? This is a warning bell from your mind. Lean in and listen! What is your panic trying to remind you of? I know you’re scared of what’s happening to your body right now, but it’s not your body, it’s the memories. Don’t fight them! Oh! A picture is crystallizing from the swarm of his thoughts, of Kirby crouching low, hiding, and staring at the barrel of a gun.
Look, goddamn you! I don’t give a shit how painful it is.
He’s on his feet. Fuck! Don’t you dare go i—
Too late. Kirby races to the bathroom and the comfort of his miniature makeshift hospital, where the diagnostics will begin. He does it quickly, like an ER doc racing through a hallway on a TV show.
Pulse.
Oxygen levels.
Temperature.
Blood sugar.
Blood pressure.
This is what Kirby’s mind looks like to me: there’s the truth, the buried thing, on one side, then this autopilot Kirby on the other. And in the middle is a brick wall twenty feet thick and a hundred feet tall and ten miles long. In case you don’t understand metaphors, that wall is the lupus and the colitis and the COPD… “Illness” is a distraction, a way Kirby can experience his pain without facing it, and he’s quite comfortable carrying on like this, gripping the bathroom counter, hyperventilating and dry-heaving.
Christ, he’s going to give himself an actual heart attack.
Oh. There’s an idea… Yes! This could work! I need Kirby to distinguish reality from delusion, and sickness, well, it tends to clarify things for you people. I’ll need something painful and nasty that doesn’t cause permanent damage—
Oh, you don’t like this? What makes you think I care?
Alright, Kirby. Let’s make you so sick you can’t do anything but think. Let’s narrow your inner world down to a pinhole. Let’s knock down that fucking wall. Shut up, I said! This is what he asked for when he called me. I’m not to blame here, I’m just doing my job.
You people should be careful what you wish for.
I’m going to hit Kirby while he sleeps.
Just look at the guy—so calm and peaceful in sleep, like an innocent, untroubled child. I slide into bed next to him, leaning over his prone body, wishing I could touch it. I have to admit—sometimes, you people are quite beautiful. This one just about breaks my heart. So much potential…
Once this gets started, try to remember, please—I don’t want to do this. You’re going to think me cruel and awful, but I do this out of love. Not the kind of love you people show each other. That’s nothing. Think of a mother’s love for her child when that child’s life is in danger. Multiply that by a thousand and you might get close to understanding the love we feel for you idiots.
Remember, also, that this pain is necessary. The worst pain of his life, yes, but pain that’ll make him too weak to fight the truth. Pain that will lead to clarity.
Eyelash mites should do the trick. They’re microscopic arachnids that live all over your face—don’t think about it—and they’re usually harmless. An infestation is another matter. This pain is going to feel like a cross between burning, scraping, and chewing. Imagine millions of tiny legs and pincers crawling all over your eyeballs…
I can see you’re grossed out, so if you don’t like it, leave. You don’t have to stay.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Let’s begin.
Kirby sits up in bed as if electrocuted. Awareness is instant, complete, and petrified. He senses danger and tries to open his eyes and—
You know what? I’ll let you in there with him. What the hell. I want you to understand why I’m doing this, and why extreme methods are necessary.
I want you to see Kirby how I see him.
Kirby’s first hunch upon waking: his eyelids ripped tissue off his eyeballs. That’s how it feels.
Pain jolts him—it burns, stings, chews, on his eyes, inside his eyes, maybe through them and into his skull, intense and all-consuming.
He writhes in bed, kicking, flailing his arms, clawing at his face, screaming, and moaning. Then he’s on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow, his world shrunk down to one piercing molecule.
Kirby has three kinds of eye drops in the bathroom. He can picture the drawer and where in the drawer, and he tries but can’t navigate the room blind, so stays in bed, in limbo, with no fix or remedy, eyes streaming what he believes is blood. What is this? Severe and sudden dry eye? An allergic reaction? A scratched cornea? He analyzes and dismisses each because an impossible answer tugs at him.
It’s bugs.
He imagines a million tiny legs scurrying across the blackness behind his eyes. He feels a million pincers digging tunnels through his eyeballs’ tender, translucent skin, until the bugs reach the jelly at the center and swim with his eye floaties. A microscopic needle pricks his irises, rattling his brain with a high-pitched ring, like cicadas in the summer heat. Kirby wails and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. This might blind him. Or maybe this is what it feels like to go blind?
Kirby pushes so hard on his eyeballs that they could pop out the back of his head, but it’s the only thing that makes the pain diminish, from excruciating to agonizing. He catches his breath and sanity slides in to tell him his imagination has run wild. To keep sane, he focuses on his breathing, counting the ins and outs to ten, then returning to one.
In and out. In and out.
One, two. Three, four. Five, six…
A flame singes his eyeballs and he starts to shriek and tells himself to breathe instead…
In and out. In and out.
Seven, eight. Nine, ten. One, two…
Slowly, Kirby dissociates from his suffering body. Without flesh to weigh him down, his mind is alone and floating, comfortable. Barriers come down. Images, words, and sensations appear, scattershot and abrupt and out of his control, so Kirby surrenders to them, not on purpose, but because here, floating and half-dreaming, there is no pain and he doesn’t want to go back into his body. So he lets it all come, watching from far away.
For a long time, Kirby just sees himself on the treadmill at the gym, wearing different workout clothes, with different mornings dawning beyond the windows. Then he hears the noise of his mind, a busy, buzzing, bothered noise. The noise takes shape. Thoughts appear. He listens as if the thoughts aren’t his…
About how he’s been so tired lately. It’s more than just fatigue, because he has a rash, too. He watches himself write down breakfast—egg white omelet, fresh veggies, whole grain toast—and his vitals, searching for patterns, explanations, causes, answers. He blames the broccoli for his bloating, but the diarrhea? Changes in bowel habits could be a sign of colon cancer… Pills are piled neatly in his palm—probiotics and magnesium and vitamin B12 and slippery elm—and he swallows them, one by one, but they don’t help. His arm is weak. And the headache? He tries to describe it—dull, pounding, or sharp? That could be hypothyroidism or low potassium. Stroke? Brain aneurysm? Suddenly his headache is a migraine. He writes down lunch and the afternoon’s vitals. Maybe the data can explain his night sweats and palpitations. Is it tachycardia? Atrial fibrillation? He goes back to the gym; it’s fuller after work, which makes him uneasy, so he sticks to the machines closest to the exits. His chest is tight— always so tight—and the walls close in. Can you have a heart attack off and on for weeks? And the eye twitch—that could be MS or Parkinson’s. Before bed, he puts more data in the notebook but the data doesn’t add up. Nothing adds up. He’s a thirty-year-old man! Everything should work, but not if he has a testosterone deficiency. Maybe it’s stress? How can he be stressed? He has everything he could ever want! He had her, in his bed, and she was beautiful, but he didn’t feel anything. He never does…
The cashier with the copper hair appears and she was prettier in the store when her eyes touched his body. If she used her fingers it still wouldn’t have been enough, nor the nudity or friction, because he’s just a toy, really, an arousing object. No one looks deeper, not even his mother. Liam is the genius, Gabe has the personality, and Kirby is fuckable. End of sentence. But he’s not just gorgeous, he has something to say. Doesn’t he? Yes—his stomach hurts, his joints ache, and his head is pounding. No one listens, not to his real words or the fake ones. Everything is so fake. He is fake— a toy, an object, a prize for a girl in a closet at a party on a dare. Shallow, douche bag pretty boy with a hot bod and an empty head and lots of money and fancy clothes and expensive shit and a penthouse apartment.
A shell. Kirby knew that before Ryan told him. He’s been empty for years. Since that night he crouched on the floor, looking up at— NO!
Why doesn’t anything make him feel better? Not the healthy diet and plenty of exercise, not the abstinence from alcohol and marijuana and dessert, not the data, not the elderberry or potassium or turmeric. Everything still hurts, he’s constipated, he can’t get hard, he has a rash and headaches and night sweats…
A pair of eyes stare at him. The eyes of the rabbit he ran over, the eyes of Stella and Gus, and… her. He can’t look at her, but she’s always looking at him, just beyond what he can see. He can always hear the man, too, screaming in rage. He’s screaming and he has a gun and his voice is so loud in the tiny space Kirby can’t breathe. The walls are closing in and he can’t see the exit and the woman behind the counter is his mother’s age.
She’s still looking at him, her eye sockets filled with blood. Save me, the eyes plead.
“No!”
Kirby returns to his body, howling, as millions of bugs harvest his eyes whole, then crack through bone and crawl into his brain. Her face is still there and he’d do anything to make it go away. Kirby springs into the fetal position and pummels his head with his fists, begging the bugs to eat the memories of her, along with everything else.
No, the mites haven’t eaten away his eyeballs. Did you seriously believe that? I’m not a monster—and no, I will not tell you what your name for me is; names have connotations which I do not appreciate—which I explained and I also said I care about Kirby, and all of you, moronic as you are. I guess you weren’t listening.
I might have gone too far—yes, yes, again—but distressing as all that was, it probably wasn’t enough. You only got a taste of Kirby’s torment and the horrific thing at its core.
That’s enough for tonight, though. We’re both too exhausted for more torture. Exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover it, actually. I wish I could comfort Kirby with touch and kind words, rather than obstacles and suffering, but it’s in my job description. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, and everything that resulted, and he doesn’t deserve the mites. Deserve is not the right idea, though; “deserve” is a human idea. The universe doesn’t grant or punish, it guides, and sometimes, it’s powerless. I’m so sick of being powerless.
Fuck your free will.
I let Kirby’s pain melt away and he moans in sweet relief, hands falling from his eyes to lay next to his face on the pillow. Sleep finds him immediately and he slumbers like a child.
Damn, he’s beautiful. He breaks my heart. You all do.
If I squint, like really hard, I think I see progress.
First off, Kirby went to work, which made me proud until it dawned on me why: to drag compassion out of his co-workers. Poor bastards didn’t even ask why he called out the day before, or why his eyes were bloodshot, but he went on and on about a “flare-up” anyway. He got the (fake) pity he craved, but it didn’t give him the thrill it used to. His workout this morning was half-hearted. He had a nice little pause when writing down that fucking data in his fucking notebook.
The point is, I sense a crack in his delusions, and now’s the time to spread it wide op—
I beg your pardon? I have not “changed my tune.” Yes, maybe I got all sentimental last night, but I can have conflicted emotions about this, okay? It’s complicated. He’s on the brink of revelation and if I don’t give him a swift kick in the ass, he’s going to backslide, and I don’t think I can hand—
What the fuck are you looking at? What I’m getting at is, like every other “horrible” thing I’ve done to Kirby, this is necessary for actual, lasting progress. Table your judgment until it’s over.
He’s at the gym, again, which is annoying, but he’s actually noticing that he only uses the machines nearest the exit, and he’s wondering why. Do you know why, my opinionated co-conspirator? I mean, it’s blatantly obvious that he’s agoraphobic, but he suppressed the thing that caused it and created some other, fruity neuroses. And I think I’ve finally figured out how to unravel it all. Kirby assumes the mites will only come for him at night. Big mistake. And this twisted habit of using pity to get attention has to stop. So, let’s give him what he wants, shall we? That’ll teach him.
Are you uncomfortable? You should be.
Gyms are embarrassing places. Lots of grunting, groaning, huffing, puffing, unflattering facial expressions, semi-sexual positions, unpleasant smells, and half-naked bodies. I don’t understand why people do this. Go outside! Take a walk! Anyway, it’s in this intimate, yet sterile and eerily quiet environment, that Kirby howls and drops a dumbbell with a sphincter-clenching clang. Everyone jumps.
It was only one howl and a bang. No one cares. Everyone gets in two more reps and then Kirby howls again, dropping to the floor stomach-first, head down, ass up.
“Are you alright?” This comes from a woman on the machine next to him and she’s wearing what is basically her underwear in a public place; it’s just a difference of fabric. Standing over him, she kindly asks, “Did you pull something?”
Kirby shakes his head and groans and a fresh sting from the mites turns the groan into a scream, which slams against the cinder block walls. Most people stop this time, some stand, and others just crane their heads toward the sound. No one speaks. Kirby flips onto his back, palms slapped over his eyes, wailing like he’s being disemboweled. He isn’t being dramatic— I’ve made it worse this time, for maximum effect. An audience gathers to watch; among them is a man glistening with sweat like a gladiator, who kneels beside Kirby.
“Hey there, buddy. What’s going on?” he asks calmly. “Are you in pain? Is it in your head?”
“Not my head,” Kirby manages to squeak out. “It’s my eyes.”
He takes Kirby by the forearm. “What’s wrong with your eyes, buddy?”
A million sharp bites make Kirby yell, “Bugs!”
“Bugs?” the gladiator repeats. “There are bugs in your eyes?’
“Yes! I can feel them—” he wheezes, “chewing! Oh, God, it hurts!”
The gladiator calculates the possibility of this, concluding that Kirby believes he has bugs in his eyes, but he probably doesn’t.
“Let me see, okay, and then I can figure out how to help you.”
Okay, now that everyone’s engrossed, let’s dial-up Kirby’s pain to something ten times more intense than your strongest orgasm. It’s deep inside his skull and his entire body goes stiff; he shoots off a primal scream. Some bystanders start to cry.
“I have to look, alright?” the gladiator intones softly in Kirby’s ear. “My name is Max, and I’m an EMT, and I’ll know how to help you when I can see what’s going on with your eyes.”
Kirby’s arm muscles relax, so he’s slack enough for Max to peel his hands away. He finds Kirby’s face saturated with tears and his closed lids looking totally normal.
“I’m going to look at your eyes now, okay?”
Max peeks for three seconds and Kirby’s eyes burn like acid has been poured on them; he kicks, hands springing to his face, shrieking, “I’m blind! I’m blind!”
Seeing nothing, Max concludes this hysterical stranger has a screw loose. “I don’t see anything,” he announces to the crowd, as if they care. “Someone call 911.”
One person takes action—one, which is yet another example of how your species is on the decline. No time for a rant about selfishness. Besides, I think that’s enough embarrassment for one afternoon. I take the pain away.
Let’s continue the orgasm metaphor. Again, remember the strongest one you’ve ever had and afterward, the dazed, melting feeling in your limbs, and the surprise as you come to. This is what Kirby feels when his eyes flutter open and find the audience, watching him.
He’s still on the floor, soaked through with tears and sweat, stunned, disoriented, and ashamed as if he actually did have an orgasm in front of strangers.
Ta-da!
You did it, Kirby! It’s a room full of your favorite drug! All of these strangers have abandoned their routines to concern themselves with you. Look at Max, who’s raced to your rescue. He cares! Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t this what you wanted, for everyone to see how sick you are? So, what do you want to say, now that you have their attention?
Kirby stands quickly; ebbing adrenaline makes him pale and nauseous and he stumbles. Max takes his arm to hold him steady.
“You alright, buddy? What happened?”
He speaks softly, coddling Kirby. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. He pulls his arm from Max’s grip and shies away from the group stare; a red flush spreads across his neck.
Max presses on, bless him. “What’s your name?”
Kirby is…squirmy? Is that a word? He lowers his head, scrunches up his shoulders, and looks up at twenty pairs of scrutinizing eyes, feeling small and ridiculous. As the man of authority, Max has set the tone for the room, and Max thinks Kirby is crazy because he can’t see anything wrong with him. What’s wrong with Kirby can’t be seen.
Hmmm… interesting.
Huh? Oh, just shut up and wait a second, will you? I’m still reading Kirby’s mind. It’s just a whisper, for now, a prequel to a thought.
Now that’s something…
Oh, sorry. Kirby has noticed the crowd looking at Max with reverence and respect. And he’s jealous. He wants that.
The gym doors burst open, followed by a flurry of dutiful activity, directed at Kirby. He doesn’t like the fuss, that the EMTs were brought out here with all that equipment just for him. He doesn’t like their grim duty or their questions. He’s not answering any of them, or reacting in any way, and boy does he look unhinged now, vacant-eyed as he’s loaded onto the gurney and rolled outside. The ambulance and its swirling lights have lured rubberneckers.
Kirby’s thoughts fade to a white noise hum. He’s dissociating, unlinking, unaware.
Maybe this was too much.
Is this rock bottom?
A mental break?
Did I break him?
Before they slide the gurney into the back of the ambulance, Kirby seems to notice a pair of masked eyes, glinting at him from the shadow made by a car parked close to the building. The creature doesn’t understand what’s happening, of course, because it’s a raccoon, and one of mine, ours—whatever. A reminder that something is watching and concerned, even though you’ve paved over it.
Look into those wise eyes, Kirby. I’m in there, too. Can you see me? Are you okay?
I’m here.
Always.
Well, I guess I had it all wrong. He’s not going to change. How stupid am I? Don’t answer that.
And no, I don’t want to hear about how hard “working on yourself” is. Yeah, I agree, but so what? Do you just give up when things are hard? Existence is hard. Suck it up! What do you think is better? A few hours ruminating on your fears or a lifetime of repressed, self-sabotaging trauma—
I can’t believe you’re arguing with me. You. A mortal, ignorant human. I am literally eternal and all-knowing. What are you? A mote of dust floating in the incomprehensible magnitude of the universe. Now shut the fuck up and look at this moron, back in his goddamn cock-sucking grocery store, buying some useless fucking shit he does not need. He’s shopping for a seven-day detox to clear his body of “toxins,” after the ER doc told him yes, he might very well have an infestation of eyelash mites, but otherwise, he’s “healthy as a horse.”
Maybe it was the doctor pushing anxiety pills on Kirby that did it, but he snapped out of that little break and right back into his cozy, ludicrous delusions. Fuck salvation, apparently! I can’t fucking stand it, watching him tumble back into this crutch, squandering his potential. To know what he—and all of you—need to be healthy and happy, to live full, enriching lives on this beautiful Earth. Do you have any idea what a gift this planet, and your life, is? You’re wasting it! Yes, I’m fucking talking to you! You’re no different than Kirby, nestled in your little cocoon of bull shit, avoiding your problems, then wondering why you’re miserable. Yes, of course, I can read your mind, you fucking idiot, and averting your eyes doesn’t stop me, obviously.
I want to punch him, and you. What? You think because I’m a “god” that I’m all-powerful? That’s not how this shit works! Free will means your redemption and ruin are both in your own hands. You listen or you don’t. It’s your choice. But you’ll keep asking, asking, asking and I’ll give and give and give, more than you even notice and without thanks or reciprocity! So I’m done. Fuck all of you. You’re irreversibly ruined. I’m going to argue for an apocalyptic do-over. You’re due.
Seeing as I have all this time to bide, how about I fuck with you instead? Why not? You deserve it. You love misery. You love blaming us for everything, even when it’s your fault. So here’s something you can blame me for. See that posh woman in the white pants? Oh, no! She just dropped an entire jar of overpriced pasta sauce! What a mother fucking shame! And now she’s crying! That’s like frosting on the cake! Delic—
What’s this?
Someone has stopped to comfort her. Well, what a way to ruin a thrill. Never mind it, I won’t be fooled! That’s just one act of kindness and it doesn’t prove anything or redeem anyone. I’m still done with y— Wait, he’s what?
Oh, Kirby. Goddamn you.
Yes, I see that he’s cleaning up the pasta sauce and sweeping up the glass shards. And he’s doing it so the staff won’t have to stay after their shift. What the hell! One minute I think he’s irredeemable and I’m all ready to focus on myself and mayhem, and the next, he’s yanking me back into giving a shit? The women are getting all gooey, thinking Kirby is a bright spot in a dark, cruel world. Really? Just this little act of kindness did that? He doesn’t even notice their gratitude and admiration—
Crap.
I have an idea. Sonofabitch. It’s a really good, really, really bad idea.
We’ve come a long way since I made him kill a turtle and almost kill a dog (yes, Stella is fine. Sorry, I forgot to tell you). Kirby closed the door on the memories I almost made him face, but the door isn’t locked yet. I don’t think just facing that memory is going to help him, though. No… Reliving and changing it might. Might. Do I want to gamble on might?
What the hell.
Kirby wants to be the hero. I believe in him, even if he doesn’t… Oooo! I can feel you cringe as you imagine what I mean. Brace yourself.
A couple blocks away, there’s a junkie with a gun. Cities are such cesspools. Anyway, you know whenever you have a sudden urge to do something? Yeah, that’s me, or one of my colleagues. Here, junkie, junkie, junkie. Pure Foods, Plaza Drive… Lots of upper-class people with thick wallets here. You know you want to—
Okay, okay… I understand your concern, but the point isn’t to let this criminal kill someone. The point is to let Kirby save everybody. Get it? And are you really surprised I’m going this far? Do you understand what’s on the line? I will eventually go insane and turn into a “demon.” Kirby will live a long, miserable life. Is that what you want for us?
Got nothing to say? Good.
Here’s the cast of characters: a shift supervisor, sitting in the back office; one cashier, an eighteen-year-old boy (his name is Hudson; yeah, stupid name) in one aisle and Kirby in another, two aisles over.
I’ll give you a front-row seat. Come on, Kirby, don’t let me down.
I mean them. Don’t let them down…
When he first hears a man shout, Kirby’s stomach pinches right above the navel. He’s heard a voice like that before. It means trouble.
The man who owns the voice is close and, he thinks, young. Feet shuffle across the tiled floor, then something is knocked over. Another shout.
It’s nearly 10 p.m. Only one cashier is usually on this late, but he doesn’t know how many customers are here. Plus, he’s near the deli, farthest from the exit and escape. How could he let that happen?
“Hey, manager! Get your ass out here! I want to talk to you!”
“Just take my wallet, okay?” a young, male voice whimpers.
“Shut up!”
Unbidden, Kirby thinks about how the voice—the scared one, not the angry one— sounds as young as he was when… After the thought comes the old terror, and Kirby can sense the memory behind it. His feet start moving toward the voices, one or two aisles over. He tip-toes carefully, peering around the end cap before darting across; the first aisle is empty. A door opens somewhere toward the front of the store and then shoes squeak across the tile, coming toward him. Kirby makes it to the second aisle, peering around again, and finds the people who belong to the voices.
The gunman’s back is to him. A man in a button-up shirt stands at the other end of the aisle, peeking covertly at Kirby. He’s forty-ish with a small round belly (his name is Steve). Kirby notes a garish tattoo on the back of the gunman’s neck, ripped pants covered in stains, and a t-shirt two sizes too big. He looks like he stinks. His scrawny arm is extended out and bent at the elbow, the hand holding a gun at the temple of a skinny boy a head shorter than he is.
As I said, the boy’s name is Hudson. He’s eighteen, but he looks much younger when he smiles. In a couple of months, he’ll enlist in the Air Force. He has four little sisters. He’s never gotten so much as detention.
Steve puts his hands up. “There’s no need to hurt anyone. Let’s talk about what you want. Calmly.”
“I want you to open the safe, mother fucker.”
Steve’s mouth and jaw tighten and when he answers, his voice is trembling. “I can only deposit money into the safe, I can’t take it out.”
“Liar!”
Steve shows his palms. “I don’t have the combination!”
“You the manager!”
He presses the gun into Hudson’s temple and the boy starts to cry. Steve shouts, “I’m a shift supervisor. I can’t—just don’t hurt him!”
“Then call the real fucking man in charge and get me that mother, fucking, combination! I ain’t leaving without everything in that safe, man!”
The gunman’s shouts make tiny explosions against the wall. Kirby knows what Steve is thinking— that he’s about to see something he’ll never get out of his head—while Kirby’s own memories surface too quickly to stop. Suddenly, he’s looking at Mrs. Kaliuzhny ten years ago, when she stood behind the counter in front of a wall of scratch tickets, hands up, palms facing out, starting at someone he couldn’t see. The man was just a voice demanding the money in the till.
Mrs. Kaliuzhny was always cheerful and nice; she spoke to Kirby half in English, half in Belarusian and often slipped him free protein bars because she said he was too skinny. “Chvaravity,” she called him: “sickly.” It was the one word in her language he knew. And while the man shouted, she remained calm, facing a gun as if she’d faced a hundred before.
She glanced at Kirby from the corner of her eye, protecting him with her subtlety, and begging him to do something. But as soon as he’d heard the man shout, Kirby thought of his parents and sisters and cowered between the Fruit Loops and switch plate covers until there was a deafening blast and she flew back against the scratch tickets and crumpled to the floor and out of his sight. After that, his mind buzzed. He flew far, far away.
Sometime later, a hand fell on Kirby’s shoulder that scared the life out of him, and he looked into the scowling face of a police officer, speaking in a voice reserved for emergencies like these, and Kirby couldn’t help it—he threw himself into the officer’s arms, which were warm and safe, and cried until he passed out.
I did not want this to happen.
Kirby was supposed to face his past and connect it to this, almost the same situation, and be emboldened to act differently. Instead, he’s either about to vomit, shit his pants, cry, or all three. It stands to reason since I’ve given him a traumatic flashback. He looks so young and helpless.
Mother of God, Kirby hasn’t moved in… well, any amount of time is too much with a loaded gun in the room. Steve is half-watching him, aware of his presence as a blurred thing behind the gunman, and he’s waiting, doing rapid-fire Math, and concluding that if Kirby doesn’t tackle the gunman from behind, everyone in this store could be dead in minutes.
Kirby is drowning in memories and vicious self-hatred. Why didn’t I think it would be this bad? The gunman is getting angrier and Hudson has wet his pants. Kirby isn’t even paying attention. Steve, here—his wife just had a baby. They’ve only been married three years. She’s too young to be a widow.
Holy fuck, what have I done?
Come on, Kirby—prove to them and yourself that you can be a hero! I know you can! Move, goddamn it! It’s been too long. Oh my God, he’s lost his mind. This can’t be—
Oh! I have an idea! He can’t hear me, but he might be able to hear you. Tell him! Tell him he was only eighteen and he’d only been in the city three months, and that even if he remembers being in that store for hours and he had plenty of time to react, it was only a minute and he didn’t. Sixty seconds! From the time that man walked into the store to the moment he shot Mrs. Kaliuzhny. One minute. Tell him that! He was just a kid!
So you’re that kind of person. Here just to observe and not intervene. You listened to my speech about free will, didn’t you? You piece of shit! Steve’s kid is going to grow up without a father! Hudson’s parents are going to have to bury their son!
I fucked up so bad this time.
Don’t tell me to calm down. Yes, I know the higher-ups picked him, but what if they were wrong? No, it’s never happened before, but there’s a first time for everything—and this is it. What? How dare you say that! I pushed him this far to save him, not to prove anything to myself! Fuck you! Why the hell are you bothering me right now? I don’t need or want your help! Well yeah, sure, I’ve been a bit down in the dumps lately, watching humanity self-destruct, and I’m a failure at doing what I was created to do, but so what? I don’t matter. I am an omniscient, objective, dispassionate being, here to do an ordained job and far superior to you than you can even comprehend. Hey! I do not love Kirby, or you, or anyone for that matter, you presumptuous little shit! Don’t throw that in my face! I said that in a moment of weakness, when I was vulnerable and emotional. Besides, this story isn’t about me, it’s about Kirby, you moron. And I don’t give a shit what you think!
What—? You really mean that?
Stop looking me! Jesus, you’re annoying.
I don’t know what to say. Except it’s nice to be appreciated. It’s about fucking time.
Okay, okay. Thank you for saying that… I mean, it is hard not to lose hope. All I want is for you people to try, that’s all. I never wanted to hurt you. Well… maybe a smidgen—
I want to be brave.
What’s that?
Yes, thank you, I’ve noticed Kirby has gotten his shit together. And yes, I’m aware only seconds have passed since Hudson wet his pants. You think I don’t know time doesn’t exist in my world? Geez, suddenly you think you’re an expert or something. What’s that pinging sound? It’s pulled everyone’s attention upward. Except Kirby’s. He’s watching the gunman and his eyes are clear, his breathing steady.
High above our heads, a bat is caught under the metal ceiling, its leathery wings pattering against metal, then the light, making the store flutter between fluorescence and shadow. Well, that’s odd. Yeah, you’re right—I didn’t send it here…
Well, well. We are the rabbit and the crow and the raccoon, and this bat, too, and we are each other. We are one mind, one intelligence, inside and around and within everything. We are many things.
And I’m not the only one.
Yes, yes, I see the lesson. I’m not as daft as you are, remember? The bat isn’t just for Kirby, it’s for me, too. A message, maybe, that I need to have more faith. I need to let things go. I just get so involved, you know?
Ahem, well—I don’t know about you, but I hate sentimental, melodramatic epiphanies, so let’s just skip over all that “I’ve learned a lesson and I’m changed forever” nonse—
Oh, shit.
Kirby is running.
He’s grabbed the junkie’s skinny wrist—the one that’s been holding the gun to Hudson’s temple. With the other hand, Kirby takes the scumbag by the neck, squeezing until the man hacks, then picks him up and hurls him onto the tile.
Where’s the gun?
“Run!” Kirby yells to Hudson and Steve and both of them sprint toward the door.
Kirby and the gunman are on the floor, both of them squirming and grunting, both of them trying to get to the gun, which I am not happy to see reappear.
Ouch!
The junkie just kicked Kirby right in the jewels. Wincing, he holds himself—
The gun explodes in a violent percussion against every hard surface, deafening me, certainly deafening Kirby, and he lays there, frozen.
No.
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no…
The echo of the gunshot dies away and still, no one has moved. Silence falls, heavier and thicker than any silence I have ever heard, and I’ve lived a long, damn, time.
Come on, Kirby.
Please, get up!
This is how the world is meant to be.
Birds are singing. Trees stretch upwards to touch the clouds, their roots digging deep into the soil to entwine with fungus. This is a place of connection, peace, stillness, harmony.
And at night, you can see every star in the sky.
This is Kirby’s home. It’s a wild place. Eons ago, mountains burst up from the earth and climbed to the heavens, sharp and jagged and cold, but they’ve been rubbed to soft humps by ice and wind and carpeted in green. I watched these mountains form. I will see them crumble to dust.
It has taken Kirby all morning to hike to his favorite waterfall. His backpack holds only water, some (normal) food, and a first-aid kit, but no medicine cabinet. You probably don’t recognize him. He quit his job and hasn’t primped in weeks or worked out. His body is a bit softer, which I like, and the bushier beard suits him. I think he bought those clothes at a thrift store. He looks disheveled and happy.
A break in the trees reveals the waterfall, thunderous and unbroken, hemmed in on three sides by a sheer rock face glistening with moisture. Everything smells clean, like minerals and the earth. Cool spray floats in the air, misting Kirby’s skin. The waterfall flows into a circular pool, cold and deep, and the color of an emerald. He sits on a rock on its edge, not thinking or worrying. He just is—listening to the water, smelling the air, breathing, perfectly still.
After a while, something lumbers along the cliff edge, high above him, and it catches Kirby’s eye. A black bear, which, in the Adirondacks, is usually elusive. The bear sees Kirby, too, and the two beings stare at each other for a while, each wondering about the other. Kirby reaches out to the bear, and the bear to him, and they join somewhere in the middle, in the life force they both share, and Kirby smiles. The bear lumbers from the edge and is gone.
He closes his eyes, worrying faintly about his heart rate, but doesn’t follow the loop. He remains in the present, with his waterfall.
I suppose I can leave him now. He’s learned what he’s needed to and he came up with it all on his own. Life is symbiotic—if we help, we are helped; if we care, we are cared for. The minute he stopped obsessing about himself, he began to heal.
You should all listen to that lesson. Less selfishness and more empathy—that’s what the world needs—and not just for your fellow man, but everything that lives. And everything does live.
Kirby’s done well. He’s starting his life over, and he’s going to help a lot of people. I’m so pr—
What? Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. Yes, I’m pleased. Yes, I did good, and so did he, and yes, maybe—just maybe—I can learn to trust you people and blah, blah, blah. Stop being so damn sentimental.
Now get the fuck out of my face.
S.H. Livernois lives in Northern New York with her husband and dog. She writes in multiple genres, but everything she writes scares both herself and her loved ones.