This Hallowed Orange

By Michael F. Mercurio



Trevor Malthow hated going to the supermarket.  The refrigerator sitting at home in his studio apartment which consisted of little more than a box of baking soda and an ice cube tray was a testament to that fact.  His complete lack of even the most basic sundry items was the only event that ever prompted him to go.

It was something about being in crowded buildings.  Then again, open spaces bothered him too.  Either scenario was apt to trigger an episode which his logical mind simply had no explanation for.  He would become dizzy.  He would feel short of breath.  His heart would race.

He had seen numerous doctors about the condition, and the majority of them offered him the same diagnosis – that he had an anxiety disorder.  There was that one other “specialist” who said otherwise, but he came off as a total quack to Trevor.  He had sounded more like some kind of new age guru rather than a practitioner of medicine.  So, by rule of numbers and probability, Trevor was resigned to start taking medication.  It had been a month, but his condition hadn’t changed.

And thus, here he was, in a supermarket, inspecting various grapefruit as he desperately tried to ignore the spinning sensation he exhibited in the produce section.  A woman bagging oranges next to him smiled at him, which only made him more nervous - which of course made him dizzier.  He vaguely remembered one of the doctors mentioning social angst to be a possible trigger.  Then he wondered if he would still have been affected by the smiling girl had the doctor not mentioned it.

Actually, he probably would have.  Dating had never been much of an option in his life.  He was barely making it as a sculptor as he hadn’t had many orders lately.  His tiny, box-like apartment in the upper west side of Boston, cluttered with newspaper, bits of unused clay, and an ancient kiln that most likely violated his building’s health code – would that his building followed such codes anyway - was sure to drive away any potential prospects.  His sanctuary from the world definitely lacked a woman’s touch, and would surely remain that way if the roaches had any say in the matter.

And yet the woman bagging oranges continued to smile at him.  Said smile turned into a furrowed show of concern however, when Trevor appeared he was having some difficulty standing.  Rather than silently excusing herself and quickly walking away like most pretty girls would have when a random stranger standing a few feet next to them begins to exhibit signs of potential drug use, she addressed him by putting a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Embarrassed, he stammered in reply.  “Y-yes, I’ll be okay.  Sorry.  I um…I know I must sound pretty silly, but I just sort of get like this in super markets sometimes.”

She arched her eyebrows in question.

“It’s um…well, I don’t really know.  Maybe it’s the lighting or something, but I get sort of dizzy.  My doctors say it’s an anxiety thing.”  Before he even finished the sentence, he mentally chastised himself for that.  Why the hell would he mention doctors to a random stranger in a supermarket?  As if he wasn’t weird enough in public.  Now he had to list his mental deficiencies to a woman shopping for oranges.  In mid abasement, he also wondered if he should add that the oranges she was bagging was also freaking him out for no particular reason.  Something about the oranges was setting him off more than the supermarket itself.  Should he have mentioned that as well?  And why the oranges in particular?  Why not his own grapefruit that he himself was bagging?  Perhaps he should have interrogated her about it.  That was sure to go over well – a stranger you just met ranting about your oranges.

The logical part of his brain screamed at him to stop.  It also yelled, “Stop staring at her, you basket-cased freak,” which in turn led him to look at his feet instead.

And yet she still didn’t run away in fear for her life.  Her hand was still on his shoulder, and she nodded almost in understanding.  That freaked him out too, but in more of an embarrassing way, laced with a touch of unwanted and unwarranted heart-flutter.

“It’s okay,” she reassured him.  “I think I get it.”

Huh?  He blinked in confusion.  “You…you do?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Well, um…that certainly makes one of us then,” he forcibly chuckled, which somehow lightened the atmosphere a little.

But then she inquired, “It was the oranges, wasn’t it?”

His atmosphere did a complete 180 and was now in the negatives, with the surrealism of the question now threatening to invade what little sanity his fragile mind clung to.

“W-what did you say?”

“The oranges I was bagging.  They made you nervous, right?”

She asked it innocently enough.  She took her hand away and inspected one in her bag.  How does a person answer a question like that?  How do you tell a random girl you just met that you’re scared of oranges?  How do you explain to her the oranges remind you of something no sane person should be terrified of?  And how long would it be until that fear spreads to your grapefruit?  Or your apples?  Or any and all remaining produce you once favored?

She held an orange in her hand, looking down at it, pondering.  “You…mentioned something about doctors?”

Trevor shifted uncomfortably, desperately wanting to leave the store.  He was glad that, at least, there was no one else shopping for produce at that particular table.  Although he did jump nearly an inch off the ground when another woman came up and loudly tore a plastic bag from its stand.  Why the hell couldn’t she use the bags at her own table?  Were they out?  He looked at the adjacent produce stands, confirming that every one of them had a full roll of plastic.  What in blazes did that woman need with “their” roll then?  Was she eavesdropping?  Was she judging whether or not she should call the cops on this strange man who was clearly harassing the pretty girl who was bagging oranges - shaking her down for money so he could get his next high?

Cut it out…his brain warned him again, raising an imaginary hand to strike him with should the need arise.  He cowered in fear of it and behaved.

“Um…what?  Oh yes.  Doctors.  Like I said, um…they seem to think I have anxiety.  I don’t do so well in public settings.  Which…uh…is why I kind of come off like a weirdo right now.”  He rapidly added “Which I’m really sorry about by the way!  Normally by now someone like you would have run away in terror.  I know I would!”  He then began to laugh.  He was laughing way too loud.

Tone it down, his brain with the raised hand firmly told him through gritted teeth.  He then pictured a brain with teeth, and that image frightened him as well.

She responded with an uncertainty not pertaining to his aberrant social behavior.  “But…the oranges in particular?”

He laughed nervously again, but at a more calculated and controlled volume than before.  “Y-yes…I know it’s completely ridiculous.  You must think I’m a total nutter.”

“Well…no.  Not exactly.  I mean I get why it should be a little strange, but…” she trailed off, looking at the orange in her hand.

After a few silent moments, with Trevor shifting uncomfortably, she finally continued.  “Listen.  I want to show you something.  I know what I’m going to do is weird, but I’d like you to tell me if it means anything to you.”

Something in the back of his mind was pounding in fear – fear that he was losing his grip on reality.  There was absolutely no possible way she could do what he thought she was about to do.  The odds were insurmountable – too coincidental.  They-

She reached into her purse in the seat of her shopping cart, and took out a nail file.  Then, discretely, she began to cut away a piece of the skin, leaving a large, uncovered patch in the middle of the fruit.  She then held the damaged sphere up to him.

“Do you…recognize this?”

The room began to spin frantically.  For a moment, he had no idea where he was.  Panic was crashing against his chest and he had a great deal of difficulty breathing.  His mind flashed back to the quack - the one doctor out of the five that he had been to.

The one that told him he wasn’t crazy.

 

“It’s very common, Trevor.  More common than they would like you to believe.”

“’They’ doctor?  Um…no offense, but that sort of sounds like something someone like me would say.”

“Trevor, what you need to understand, first and foremost, is that there is nothing wrong with you – not chemically, and not mentally.  What you are experiencing is…well…people like us call it a ‘sensitivity.’  What you are feeling is actually perfectly normal, and should in fact, be expected.  But the social norms of today demand that the status quo should be kept forcefully intact at all times.  Thus, we are given labels that write us off as being neurologically unbalanced.  What you are exhibiting however, is not an imbalance of any kind.  In this case, it is quite literally the rest of the world that is unbalanced.”

Trevor retained only a segment of that.  “Wait…so…you’re saying there’s nothing wrong with me?  Because the other doctors…they-“

“Trevor,” he interrupted, “most doctors do not hold the sensitivity that you and I do.  Unfortunately, they are unwittingly part of a system that maintains business as usual.  As someone who knows what it is you’re actually sensing, I’m telling you, no – it’s not you.  You are fine.”

He continued, “I’m going to show you something.”  He reached into his desk drawer, and took from his bagged lunch an orange.  Holding it up to Trevor, he continued.  “Okay.  Let us say this orange represents our planet.”

“O-…okay…”  Why was this therapist talking about planets and equating them to fruit?  Should Trevor have also equated his therapist to a fruit?

“Now.  As you no doubt already know, the planet is always spinning.”  He turned the orange around and around in his hand to demonstrate the obvious.  “The gravitational force of the sun, combined with that of our  system’s other planets and moons,” he said with the orange revolving around his fist as though his fist was the center of the solar system, ”can be expressed in a mathematical formula.  This formula is a constant.  Never changing.  Are you with me so far?”

Trevor stammered.  “Y-yes…but um…doctor?  What does this have to do with psychiatry?”

“It has nothing to do with psychiatry.  That’s what I’m trying to get at, if you’ll let me.”  He put the orange down on his desk.  He then reached back into his drawer and took out a paring knife.  Trevor vaguely wondered if he was going to stab him with it for interrupting his lecture.  Instead, he began to make an incision, and cut a small section from the skin of the orange.  After a chunk had been removed, he put the knife down, and held the fruit up to Trevor once again.

“Okay.  What do you suppose happens now?”

“P-pardon?”

“Well, that mathematical formula that I mentioned?  I said it was a constant, remember?  But look at the orange.  Something’s changed.”

“You mean where you cut it?”

“Yes.  What do you think happens to the math behind it though?”

“I’m not sure what you-“

He placed the fruit on his desk, and made it spin.  Within moments, it spun off the desk, rolling onto the floor.

Both of them remained quiet for awhile.  Trevor was baffled at what any of this had to do with anything, as intriguing as the therapist’s demonstration was.  He stared at the orange on the floor as the doctor continued.

“What I am trying to impress upon you is that what you are feeling is a direct result of that.”  He pointed to the orange.  He went on.  “We have had some very serious, man-made environmental issues over the last few years.  A lot of it has to do with global warming emissions, but there’s another aspect many people have failed to consider.” 

He paused, then continued.

“We have been drilling.  For a long time.  Very long.  We poke holes in the ground, trying to get at those precious fossil fuels.  But it’s more than just the fuels themselves that are dangerous.  Sure, a bit of carving here and there wouldn’t be nearly enough to affect the gravity formula.  But massive drilling?  For almost two hundred years?”  He lowered his voice, looking directly at Trevor.  “What do you suppose happens to the mathematical equation when just one of those numbers is changed?”

“Um…what number?”

“In this case, it’s the mass of the earth itself.  Our mass is lower now.”

“So…that changes the equation or whatever?”

“If the equation defines our planet’s orbit, and the equation is changed…what do you suppose happens then?”

“I guess our orbit would change too then, right?”

The doctor motioned to the stray orange on the floor.

“Wait, are you saying we’re spinning out of control?”

“I am.  And what’s more, you’re actually feeling it.  That is why you’re scared all the time.  And why you have your dizzy spells.  You - and a large percentage of others who either don’t come forward about their symptoms to anyone, or are ‘treated’ and swept under the carpet of ‘disorder’ – are feeling the physical prelude to our planet’s eventual destruction.”

Trevor couldn’t believe his ears.  He was dumfounded.  Clearly, this guy had had one too many nut jobs in his office, and they finally started to rub off onto him.  Maybe his last weirdo was an ex-physics professor who went on a mass shooting spree after discovering life on Earth was pointless and mathematically redundant.

“Um…okay.  Doctor.  No offense, but uh…I came here because of anxiety.  The pills I’m taking haven’t been working, and I was hoping you would write me a different prescription or something.  But…instead you’re talking about the world ending and stuff.  That’s not helping me!  It’s making it worse!”

He stood up abruptly, visibly shaking with anger.  On his hand, he began ticking off his issues on each finger as he paced.

“Going outside my house scares the crap out of me, and when I do stay home, I’m afraid the ceiling is going to cave in for no reason!  I can’t sleep!  I can’t socialize, because I think people are looking at me funny every time I feel like I’m about to faint - as though somehow my falling over would threaten them…them!  I feel like they’re judging me, silently calling me a freak!  I can’t connect to anyone or anything - not even my art anymore!  It’s interfering with my life, and I want it fixed!  But here you are, instead, telling me the world is literally spinning out of control?  What the hell kind of a doctor are you?”

The doctor took a breath and tried to respond.  “Trevor, I know it’s difficult to accept, but-“

Trevor stood up abruptly.  “Sir.  No offense.  But I think YOU need help.”  And with that, he stormed out of the office.

Back in the supermarket, the girl was still holding up the orange.  The store was still spinning.  So too was the fruit, allegedly - albeit erratically.

Trevor tried to catch his breath as he responded.  “D-did…you have the same nut job doctor or something?”

“You recognize this then?”

“The…the planet, right?”

“Yeah.  I didn’t have a doctor tell me about it, but it was something I read online.  I was having dizzy spells.  Kinda like you, only not as bad.” 

She laughed as she lowered the orange to her hip, casually running her thumb across it.  “I can’t tell you how many diseases the self-diagnosing sites convinced me I had.  And that only made it worse!”

Her light-hearted manner helped to calm him down a little, as well as the familiarity of her experience.

“Yeah…I um…kinda learned the hard way not to read too many of those.”

“I know, right?  At the end of the day, you think you’re dying of prostate cancer or something.  Which is kinda hard to do if you’re a girl.”  She gasped but laughed at her own joke.  “I can’t believe I just said that!”

For the first time in a very long time, Trevor let out a genuine chuckle.  It felt good.  The damaged orange in her hand still made him nervous though.

“So…you…believe in that stuff?  About the planet being like an orange and whatnot?”

“Well sure.  I mean…it makes sense, right?  I was getting scared and everything like you were, and I had no idea why.  But then I read that, and it all clicked.  I think…maybe deep down we all know what’s happening.  Like on a subconscious level, you know?  I think we try so hard to ignore it that it keeps coming back to haunt us and make us crazy.”

Trevor blinked.  “So there really are other people out there who agree with this…this thing?”

“Oh yeah!” she exclaimed.  “Lots of people!  It’s actually pretty funny.  The whole orange thing has kinda become this big internet meme now.  There’s this entire community out there that shares pictures of carved oranges.  Some of them are incredibly artistic!  I saw one that this one girl made, where she carved a picture of what looked like a bustling city into the orange.  I laughed out loud when I saw it, but at the same time I was really moved by it.  It’s almost like she was saying, ‘even though the planet is dying, there’s still so much life here.’  Ever since I saw that one orange carving, I haven’t really been scared anymore.  It was so beautiful, and it made me feel so much better.”

And then she added, “…or maybe it was another orange that had a picture of a Satanic cat carved into it.  Either or.  I know at least ONE of them made me feel better!”

Both of them started laughing.  Trevor had tears streaming down his face from the sheer relief of it.  Other people in the store began looking at them funny, and for the first time in his life, Trevor didn’t notice them looking.  Judging.  Spinning.

He bought oranges instead of clay.




Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio

Good Punishment

By Michael F. Mercurio



“So?  Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to actually drink it?”

Tom looked down at his larger, sighed, and lifted the glass to his lips.

“Atta boy,” his friend of fifteen years told him.  Jack was his only friend, in fact.

“You’ve been spending way too much time at home, you know.  Hell, I hardly see you anymore.  And it’s not like you’re working or anything.”

“Yeah…I know,” Tom replied meekly.

“So are you gonna tell me why you haven’t returned any of my calls?  Or do we need to get you liquored up some more first?”

“It’s…like I said in the car.  I’ve just been kinda…I don’t know.  Not myself lately.  Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been worried about you ya know.  The least you could have done was drop me a line or something.”

“What are you, my fucking wife?”

“Man, if you had a wife who looked half as good as me, then I could forgive you for never leaving the house.”

“Funny,” Tom said, taking another sip.  Jack chucked the rest of his beer, then grabbed the pitcher to pour himself another mug.

“Seriously though, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  I just haven’t been feeling well.”
“Yeah, right.  Come on Tom, I’ve known you almost your whole damn adult life.  Stop insulting my intelligence and spill your guts already.”

Jack was always pushy like that.  He meant well, but sometimes he could really get under your skin.  Tom often wondered if it was that very tenacity that was the only thing that kept him around.  Anyone else would have gotten sick of Tom a long time ago – and in fact had.  But whenever Tom got into his depressing, reclusive moods, Jack was the only one who just rode with it.

“Look, I honestly...don’t know.  I’ve just been having one of those weeks, you know?  I guess I don’t really have a reason for it.”

“Yeah, well, if there’s no reason for it, then you should probably just quit your whining and drink your drink with me when I get my days off.  Right?”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sure, after I twisted your arm.”

The two men sat in silence for awhile, with Jack taking more enthusiastic swigs from his mug.  Finally, he piped in again.

“So.  You wanna talk about it?”

Tom shrugged.  “Like I said, I don’t really know what to talk about.  I don’t know why I get like this.  It just…you know, happens.”

“Ever think about going to a doctor for it?”

“What good would that do me?  He’ll ask me to talk, then I’ll say the same damn things I say to him that I say to you.  He’ll say ‘So!  Why do you think you feel this way?’  Then I’ll say ‘Gee doc, I really don’t know.  It just happens.’  Then he’ll ask me about my mother and father, and when we still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me, he’ll give me some pills that turn me into a zombie.  So yeah.  No thanks.”

“I see,” Jack said while stroking his goatee.  “Very interesting.  And how does that make you feel?”

“Oh, shut up,” Tom sighed.

“Heh.  I could totally be a shrink, you know.”

“Yeah, right.  I can just see you offering ‘advice’ to underage teen girls telling them how they should dump their thirty-year-old boyfriends while you stick your business card down their bra.”

“Hey hey!  Why all the hostility?  Besides, it’s not my fault they were damaged.  It’s kinda like when you go food shopping and you get the dented cans, you know?  Discounts man, discounts!”

“You’re a sick man, Jack.”

“To each his own, my friend,” he replied, lifting his glass in toast, then downing the rest.

“What’s even sicker is sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”

“Hey man, that’s just normal.  Everyone wants to be me.”

“At least if I had your delusions, I’d be happier.”

“Huh.  Well if it’s delusions you want Tommy boy, I can totally help you with that.”

“What do you mean?”

And with that, Jack was gone.

 

In his place, sitting in the chair directly across the small table from Tom, was a creature the likes of which he had never seen.  Its skin was crimson red, and had festering boils.  It was bald, with small lumps and pronounced ridges on each side of its skull.  And it had wings that were folded in, presumably because it was sitting in a chair.

Tom blinked several times.  He shut his eyes tight, rubbed them, kept them closed, and took a long swift drink of his larger.  When he finally opened them, the creature was still there.  He looked around the bar at the other patrons, but no one else seemed to notice the thing sitting in Jack’s chair.  In fact, the waitress even came by to refill their chip bowl, said nothing, and walked away.

“What-…what the…HUH?!”

In a rasping voice that sounded somewhat like Jack’s, the creature spoke after a small fit of laughter.

“Woa woa now, calm down there Tommy boy.  Heh heh just calm right the fuck down.  Ain’t gonna do you no good to get bent out of shame just now.  Besides, it’s not like you’re gonna remember any of this anyway.”

“What the fuck is going on?!” Tom demanded.  A few customers turned to look at him, but then returned to their patronage.

“Relax Tom, just relax.  It’s still me.  It’s always been me.”

Tom looked at the creature in disbelieve.  “….J-…Jack?!”

“In the flesh!  Well…so to speak.”

“What the…how…”

“Look, just shut up for a bit, will you?  God, your whining is so annoying sometimes.  You wanted to know why you always feel like crap all the time, didn’t you?”

“I…”

“Yeah, well, I figured what the hell.  I may as well tell you again.  It’s been awhile since I had any real fun with you anyway.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t, Tom.  You’re not supposed to.  That’s part of how it goes.  But we’ll get to that.”

“This…this can’t be happening.”  He bolted up and rubbed his eyes fiercely.

“Will you sit the fuck down?  You’re making a scene here, and I don’t want to get yelled at by the others for having a little fun.”

Dumfounded, and completely drained mentally, Tom slumped back into his seat.

“Okay then.  Where were we?  You wanted to know why you always feel like crap, right?  Why even the most mundane things in your life never seem to go your way?”

“Um…uh…yeah…?”

“Well Tom, let me start by asking you a question.  You’ve always tried to do the ‘right thing’, right?  Hell, you’re a regular boyscout.  Ain’t that right?”

“Um…I…guess?”

“Sure you are, sure.  You help old ladies cross the street, you don’t cheat on your taxes, hell, you even go to church once in awhile,” the creature sneered.

“Well…yeah…I guess I do...”

“Okay then Tommy boy….all kidding aside, let me ask you a really serious question.”  The Jack-creature looked him squarely in the eye.  Tom shuddered when he saw its eyes were a solid black.  “What do you know about Hell?”

Tom gasped.  “Are you a demon?!”

“Give the man another drink for figuring out the obvious.  Of course I’m a demon, you ninny.  I thought the wings were a freaking giveaway.  But answer the question already.”

Tom studdered.  “Um…uh…well…I was always taught that Hell is where you go to be punished for doing bad things.  Uh…that’s what everyone’s taught, really.  But…wait…why are you…you know…’here’?  And not…’there’”?

The Jack-creature ignored his question.  “Okay Tommy boy…let me ask you another million-dollar question.  Let’s say someone did something wrong.  Something really bad.  What would the best way be to punish them?”

“Um…send them to Hell?”

The Jack-creature sighed.  “Of course send them to Hell, you idiot.  What I’m asking is, how would they be punished in Hell?”

“Uh…well…everyone usually says it’s all about fire and torture and stuff.”

Jack-creature grinned at that.  “That’s where you’re dead-wrong, Tommy boy.  And now…we get to the fun part.”

The creature held out his hand, and in his palm, appeared what looked like a small action figure.  It stood in silent demand of further explanation.

“I’m gonna show you this little guy as an example.  We’ll call this one Little Ricky.  Now then.  Ricky here is an axe murderer.  He raped and killed…oh, I don’t know.  Let’s say one hundred children and fifty small puppies.”  At that, the face on the action figure turned into an evil grin.  Blood dripped from the palm of Jack-creature’s hand and trickled onto the table.

“Now.  The best way to punish someone like this isn’t with eternal hellfire and all that nonsense.  No, see, guys like this thrive on pain.  That’s just no good.  Not much of a punishment if they’re twisted enough to get off on it.  So!  What we do is…this!”

Suddenly, Little Ricky transformed into a small doll of a nun.

“Um…are you saying that nuns are actually axe murderers?  Er…rehabilitated, I mean,” he quickly corrected.

“No you idiot.  You’re not getting it.  See, everyone has their own separate hell.  You follow me so far?”

“O…kay?”

“Like I said, the best way to punish someone isn’t with fire.  What you do is, you wipe their memory completely.  Think about it!  They would never even know that they’re in Hell!  Then…oh!  Here’s the best part!”  Jack-creature began to laugh uncontrollably.  “Oho, it’s so rich.  Then!  You make them think…are you ready?  You make them think they’re……a good person!”  He began screeching with laughter, pounding his hand on the table.  The nun-doll shattered in his palm as he struck, emitting a blood-curdling shriek of agony.

Tom was a bit slow on the uptake.  He was too distracted by the screaming nun-doll.

“Come on Tommy, keep up with me here!  Don’t you see?  Part of the punishment of being in Hell is not even knowing that you’re already there!  What better way to punish someone than to turn them into someone who is constantly punishing themselves, convinced that they actually still have a shot of getting into Heaven?  They try so damn hard to be ‘good’, when it’s already too late!  It’s pure genius!  Only the Master Himself could have designed it!”

The demon continued.  “As the fool tries his whole ‘life’ to be all good and proper, we keep sending more shit his way.  The better a person he tries to be, the more we knock him around.  And because they’re constantly programmed - by us - to do ‘good’, they keep coming back for more.  Finally, they snap, go crazy, maybe kill themselves.  Then we start the whole thing all over again!  Now THAT is eternal damnation, my friend!”

Tom’s mouth was open as the reality slowly dawned on him.

“You wanted to know why things are always turning to shit on you, Tommy boy?  Well, that’s an easy one!  We turned you into ‘Tom.’  Before you came to us…your name was ‘Rick.’  Is your memory starting to come back to you yet Little Ricky?  No?  Of course not.  It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it did, now would it?”  The demon cackled.

Tom bolted out of his chair, screaming.  “Shut up!  Shut the fuck up!  You lying piece of shit!  I’m a good person!  I’m good!  I’m good!”  He strangled the demon, and the other patrons looked over in alarm.  Even as some of the more burley customers ran to him trying to pry his hands loose, Tom refused to let go.  Finally, he heard a loud snap, as the demon gurgled its last breath.  They pulled him off, but the creature was dead.

Tom looked around at the customers who held him tightly, looking at him with disgust and disbelieve.  “I’m a good person,” he ranted.  “I’m a good person.”

Then, he looked across the table, and saw the lifeless body of Jack – his only friend.

“I’m a good person…” he sobbed.

 

Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio 

Bye Daddy

By Michael F. Mercurio



He was completely frozen – full on, total lockdown mode.  And the more he thought about getting up and going out, the worse his panic became.  It was impossible for him to even accomplish anything around the house when he was like this.

His wife, per usual, berated him for it.

“Will you at least take care of the dishes?  They’ve been sitting in the sink since yesterday.”

“I will.  Later,” Stan replied.

“You said that yesterday,” she stated with exasperation.  “I have to get to work, and then pick up Liddy from school.  I expect them to be washed by the time I get home.”

“Yeah.  Fine.”  The forty-one year old tried desperately to continue staring at the television, refusing to look at her.

He hated himself.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she mumbled, and headed out the door with her keys in hand.  Stan cringed when she slammed the door.  Then, he continued to stare numbly at the television, not really watching it.

Rarely did he ever really watch it.  It was simply an action to convince his mind that it was preoccupied, so it wouldn’t wander to other things.  Things like what he was, what he should be doing, and what he wasn’t doing.  When he thought about things like that, the tighter he locked up.

Yesterday, while his wife was at work, his mother had come over.  At her behest, he had made it as far as the door.  He even opened it on his own.  That was as far as he had gotten, however.

Per usual, she pushed her way past him, and nagged him about how he needed to get out of the house more.

“I hardly ever even get to see you, you know.  And it’s getting harder for me to come around these days.  But look at me!  Even at my age, I still manage to get out of the house!”

“Yeah Mom, I know.”

“You can’t stay locked up in here forever you know.  Even at my age, I go out every day.  The key is to stay active!”

“Yes Mom.  I know.”

“When was the last time you washed up a little?  You look like a mess.”

“I just…haven’t been feeling well.”

She rushed over to him and put her hand on his forehead.  “You don’t feel like you have a fever or anything.  Is it about Janet?  Are you depressed?”

“No Mom, it has nothing to do with Janet.”

“Well then, what is it?”

“It’s nothing Mom.  I just don’t feel well.”

“Well lie back down then.  I’ll make you something to eat.”

“Mom, don’t do that.  Janet will be home soon with Liddy.”

“So?  They can eat too.  Or how about you cook for them?  It’s not like you’re working.”

Stan winced at that.  She was getting under his skin, no matter how tightly he tried to close everything off.

“Mom!  Look, I said don’t worry about it, okay?  I can cook my own goddamn dinner in my own goddamn house.  You don’t have to come by every day to take care of me, or my marriage!”

He regretted saying it even as he started it, but it was like a floodgate that he just couldn’t hold back.  As a result, it came out much louder than he intended.  The look of hurt on her face was immediate.

Saying nothing, she turned and walked out the front door, slamming it behind her.  He winced at that, too – just like today.  It seemed wincing was becoming a permanent facial expression lately.

Later that day, spurred on by white anger at himself, he gave it an honest attempt.  Like always, he made it as far as the door.  He had it open, and managed to move one foot outside his sanctuary.  Almost immediately, the openness of the world outside flooded him, and he began to shake all over.  He felt as though he were on the edge of a cliff, with one foot hovering mid-step to his death.

He quickly closed the door, hyperventilating.  He made his way to the couch, sat down, stared at nothing for a few minutes, and finally broke down, sobbing at the empty house.

Today wasn’t like yesterday, fortunately.  Sure, in the back of his mind, both his wife and his mother hated him.  They screamed inside his brain, insulting him – calling him names like “loser” and “bum.”  But, he was able to numb it today.  He found that it was getting slightly easier to disassociate himself from reality, so that he wouldn’t have to think, and he wouldn’t hear the disparaging voices.  Any sudden movement on his part however, and something would break through – contracting his insides even further. 

Alone, sitting on his couch, he felt like a prisoner in his own home, with invisible guardsmen watching him from the shadows.

He jumped up, closed all the curtains, and made sure all the lights were on.  The openness of the place wouldn’t bother him if he could see every contour of the walls.  Then, he returned to the couch, and closed his eyes while he waited for his wife to return home with their twelve-year-old daughter.

Then he quickly popped them open, because the nothingness behind his own eye-lids scared the crap out of him.  He wasn’t getting much sleep these days.

Hours passed.  Where was she, anyway?  School would have been let out for awhile now, and she’s never late picking up Liddy.  No one had called.  Maybe she finally got fed up with him and took Liddy away to a hotel.  He would get a Dear John letter in the mail tomorrow and it would say something like “You’ll never even get this letter you idiot, because you never leave the fucking house to check the mail!  I’m leaving you!”  Thoughts like this ran in circles in his mind as he rocked back and forth slightly on the couch.  At the same time – as most thoughts often occurred to him, and he had trouble figuring out which one to look at when there were more than five of them together – he wondered if such an event would really bother him.  As he disconnected himself further from everything, he wasn’t sure if he would even feel anything if she did try to leave.  Or if his own mother walked off a cliff.  And he hated himself for that.  And then the thought of a “cliff” got mixed in there somehow, scared him, and the whole cycle repeated itself as he began to rock faster on the couch.

And then the door finally opened.  Janet poked her head into the living room.  “Honey?”

He looked up in surprise, awkwardly trying to compose himself, mainly for the sake of expecting his daughter – the one person he had left who his brain hadn’t yet written off as a lost cause.

He cleared his throat and stuttered nervously.  “H-hey.  Welcome home.  Late getting out?”

“Well, not exactly.  Listen, can we talk for a second?  I have Liddy waiting out in the car.”

This was it.  He just knew this was the part where she would say “I’m taking her and leaving you because you’re a fucking forty-one-year-old loser who can’t even leave the house without freaking out.”

“Um….yeah.  Okay.  What’s up?”

She closed the door behind her, and came over to him, sitting down on the couch next to her husband.  She gently patted his knee and began.

“I…I don’t want you to be mad.  But, I think you need this.  It’s been going on a long time, and we’re all worried about you.  I…I got you some help.”

Some help?  He blinked, confused.  He was still fixated on the “I don’t want you to be mad” part, and just assumed that she was telling him that she was leaving.  Then, as the disassociation settled in, he processed the rest of what she had said.

“What do you-…?”

“I…spoke to a therapist today.  It was kind of a last minute thing.  I was on my way to work, but at the last minute I decided to call out.  I was surprised, because I was able to get ahold of someone right away.”

“Wait, a therapist?  What, for me?  Janet, you know I hate that kind of-“

“I know, I know.  But, honey…you’ve been getting worse.  A lot worse.  He’s waiting in the car right now with Liddy and your mother.”

“My mother?!  Did she put you up to this?!”

“No Stan, she didn’t.  In fact she said, and I quote, ‘My son doesn’t need his head shrinked by some quack.  He needs to grow up and get off his ass.’”

That sounded like his mom alright.

“Janet, I-“

“Stan,” she interrupted him.  “We’re worried about you.  All of us.  Your agoraphobia is costing you everything.  Don’t you want to live your life?  To see your daughter grow up?  She had a soccer game a week ago, and you couldn’t stand the thought of sitting on the bleachers under an open sky.”

It was true.  The very prospect scared the crap out of him.  In his completely illogical mind, there was nothing to stop him from being sucked up into the sky, never to be seen again.  Especially from the top bleacher.

He put his head in his hands, and quietly cried – utterly humiliated, doing it in front of his wife.

She held him and rocked him.  “Shhh…shhh….it’s okay.”

After a few minutes had passed and he calmed down, she said “Stay right here,” and walked out the door.

Shortly after, there was a knock at the door, and a large, balding man poked his head through it.  “Stan Larson?”

Embarrassed, Stan responded, looking up.  “Um…yeah.  Come on in, I guess.”

The man entered, closing the door behind him.  Shaking Stan’s hand from behind the couch, he introduced himself.  “My name is Brian Callen.  I’m a licensed doctor.  ‘Head Shrinker’, if you prefer.  That’s what your mother called me, anyway.  Charming woman,” he said as he smiled.

“Um…yeah.  Sorry about that.  She can be a little…”

“Ah, no need.  We actually had a very nice chat.  She’s refreshingly down to earth.  Loves you to pieces too, you know.  Mind if I sit down?”

Stan gestured, and he sat on the opposite side of the couch next to him.

Crossing his legs, he continued.  “They all do, actually.  You’ve got an incredible support system.”

“Are they…?”

“They’re all in your wife’s car.  I told them I wanted to talk to you first before they come and see you.”

“Listen…um…Doctor.  I have to tell you, all of this is more than a little embarrassing for me.”

“Oh pashaw.  Would you be embarrassed if you had a cold and had to take some cough medicine for it?”

“Well no, but this is a bit different.  And it’s not just you being here that embarrasses me.  It’s everything.”

“You mean like being forty-one years old and not being able to work because you can’t leave the house?”

Irritated, Stan replied “Yeah.  Something like that.”

“Look, Stan- can I call you Stan?”  He continued before he could respond.  “Stan, it may surprise you to know that your condition is pretty common.  Forget the age thing, forget the job thing, forget the pride thing.  It happens to some people, and sometimes there’s just nothing you can do about it.  So stop blaming yourself for everything.  It isn’t your fault that you’re agoraphobic.  Just like it wouldn’t be your fault if you caught the flue.”

Stan blinked at him, confused.  “Aren’t you a shrink?  Aren’t you supposed to say things like ‘Well that’s interesting.  How does that make you feel?’ and not really say anything at all?”

“Hmm.  Interesting.  And how does that make you feel, Stan?” he joked.

Stan chuckled, despite himself.  Even as a complete, introverted basket-case, the infectious eccentricity of the unorthodox man somehow managed to get a smile out of him.

“Okay.  So I’m agoraphobic.  Now what?”

“Now, we call the rest of your family in here, they each tell you how much they love you, and then together we push your ass out of the house.”

“Wait, what?!  Um…!  That’s all a little fast, isn’t it?  I mean…I thought therapy sessions were supposed to take months!

“Well Stan, normally it would.  But your wife’s insurance policy isn’t covering this, and she doesn’t have a lot to work with.  SO…we’re going to get you back to ‘normal’ as quickly as we can.”

Was this guy serious?  It sounded insane.  No real therapist would try to rush something along like this.  My god, Stan thought.  He really is a quack!  And both his wife and his mother were on board with this!

“Okay Stan, just wait right there.  I’ll go tell your kin that they can come inside.  That is unless, you want to go on out there and tell them yourself,” he joked in poor taste.

Stan was beginning to like this man a lot less.

As “Doctor” Callen shut the door behind him, Stan panicked.  He couldn’t believe what was happening.  Somewhere in his mind, he knew that none of this was really a big deal.  All he had to do was step outside.  It’s not like it would kill him.  What was he panicking about?  But they were practically shoving him out there.  And his mind was screaming at him not to let them.  Outside:  Bad.  Inside:  Good.  Maybe they were all against him.  Maybe they were all secretly plotting his demise.  Even his daughter Liddy, who gave him hugs every day and told him she loved him.  Maybe all of them were out to get him.

He forced himself to make the room stop spinning, and got a grip – reminding himself that he wasn’t always like this.  There was a time in his life when he used to always go outside.  The trees and sky were welcoming, and other people he walked past were not all turning their heads toward him, grinning mischievously like they wanted him to die.

My god, he thought yet again.  I really do need help.  And so, he figured the best thing he should do is just shut up and trust his family.  After all, by right, his wife should have gotten fed up and left him by now.  Instead, he broke down in front of her like a simpering pussy, and she comforted him.  Obviously, she loved him and wasn’t trying to kill him.  She didn’t think of him as a pathetic freak like he did.  Maybe if his agoraphobia wasn’t making him such an insomniac, he wouldn’t be as paranoid and self-loathing as he was now.  As he analyzed it further, he couldn’t help but be amused by the “chain” of things wrong with his brain, one thing causing another, causing another.  What was that song about the woman who swallowed a fly?  “And then she diiiied...” he nearly sang out loud.  He stopped himself because the ending scared him, and suddenly the relevancy was lost in the myriad of thought.

His train was interrupted by his wife finally walking in, followed by sweet Liddy, followed by their mother, and finally followed by the unorthodox doctor.  For some reason, his mind decided to focus on the doctor bringing his portly frame through the door, rather than the sudden, unexpected family gathering.  He had to keep himself from laughing out loud at the large man.  That would have been embarrassingly rude.

He looked sheepishly at his loved ones, and then Liddy came up to him and hugged him.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Hi Kiddo.  How was school?”

“It was okay.  How are you feeling?”

“I’m much better now, sweetheart.  But um…there sure are a lot of people here now.”

She giggled.  “Yeah.  Mom wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, she sure did.”

“Well then,” started the doctor.  “Now that that’s out of the way, shall we get to work?”

Janet looked at her husband, and then at Doctor Callen.  “Um…Doctor?  Isn’t it a little soon for that?  He’ll s-…I mean, he’s a bit fragile.”

“I agree with Brian, Janet,” his mother stated flatly.  “I think it’s high time we straighten him out right this second.  It will do him a world of good.”

“But...!” Stan protested.

“Now now, Stan,” said the doctor.  “Your family here loves you, and they only want what’s best for you.  And remember, I am a licensed doctor.  So trust me when I tell you that no medical harm will come to you by stepping outside your house.  What you have is completely in your mind.  It’s not your fault by any means, but you do have the ability to overcome it.  Think of your daughter.”

Liddy, standing in front of Stan on the couch, looked at him.  “Please Daddy?  I want to be able to go out and do things with you…just like we used to!”

That broke the camel, or whatever it was that Stan’s brain was riding.  “O-okay honey.  I’ll…I’ll try.”

His wife smiled at him, helped him to his feet, and hugged him.  “I know you can do it, honey.  I believe in you.  All of us do.”

His mother chimed in, “We’re proud of you, Kid.  We’re proud of you, and we love you.”  The forty-one year old winced at that, but forced a smile.

Taking a deep breath, he conceded.  “Okay Doctor.  Just…do me a favor and…I don’t know.  Hang onto me or something?”

“I can only open the door for you, Neo.  It is you who must step through it,” replied the obese doctor, lamely trying to quote The Matrix.

“Doctor…where did you say you got your medical degree again?”

“Night school.  Don’t worry about it.  Out.”

Stan sighed.  The “doctor’s” bad humor notwithstanding, did put him at ease somewhat.

He took another breath.  He opened the door himself, despite Callen’s movie quote.

The sun was setting, and it would be dark soon.  The open air from the door hit Stan in the face, and made him shiver.  It wasn’t cold, but he shivered nonetheless.  He closed his eyes.  Bad idea.  He opened them.  Not much better idea.  Okay, don’t look up.  Whatever you do, don’t look at the open sky.  He looked down at his feet.  He took a tentative step forward.  And then another.  He held onto the guard rail of the short steps leading down to the pavement.  His shaking hand made the metal rail rattle.

“You’re doing it, honey!” his wife exclaimed.

“Go Daddy!” his daughter joked.

He reached the bottom step, gritted his teeth, and forcibly wrenched his own hand away from the railing.  Finally, he took another step toward the open street, a full foot away from the four concrete stairs.

He breathed.  Then forced himself to look forward, then turned his head back toward his family.  He was visibly shaking, but he did it.  He was outside.  “O-okay,” he stuttered.  “I’m out…side now.  Um…Can I come back in?”

“You’re doing great, Stan,” the doctor boomed.

“Good job, Kid!” exclaimed his mother.

Sighing, Stan took another step forward, and then faltered.  He began to shake uncontrollably.  “Okay, um…that’s enough I think.  I’d like to go back inside for a bit.”

He looked behind him and his family was standing outside with him, smiling.

“Just a little further, Daddy.  You can do it!”

Emboldened by his daughter, he took two more tentative steps forward, then three, then four.  Finally he was across the street.  “I did it!” he shouted.  He looked back and saw his family on the other side.  They were all smiling at him with joyous approval.

At least…he thought it was joyous approval.  It was a little hard to tell from across the street.  He thought he saw…no, that can’t be right.  It was probably the setting sun shining in his face.

He began to walk back toward them, and then stopped.  What the-….huh?!

His left foot wouldn’t touch the ground for some reason.  His wife grinned, and the fat doctor put his meaty arm around her.  His right foot failed to touch ground as well.

“H-hey!  HEY!!” Stan shouted in confusion and fear.  He began to rise off the ground.  He watched in horror as the doctor kissed his wife’s cheek and she grinned maliciously.  His mother grinned.  Even Liddy, his little girl, had a sickeningly evil smile pasted on her face.  They were laughing at him.  He began to rise further.

“Bye Daddy!” Liddy called out to her father, and waved to him as he was sucked into the sky.

He screamed.

And then he was gone.

Copyright 2013
Michael F. Mercurio