spit_it_out | OOM: Cells II

He’s never been one for dreaming. He’s always preferred the constancy of numbers, the purity of an equation. No matter how tangled they seem at the start, they always yield under scrutiny, and leave him with the satisfaction of a quantifiable result. Problems with solutions – or at least the hope of them – were what sustained him through childhood; as an adult, imagination has come in the form of expanding the boundaries of understanding. He dreams in a lab, in front of a computer, with a pencil in his hand. And after the accident, not at all.

Now he’s in a cell, and wakes from a dream of flying. A lake somewhere below. A forest. Rocks on the shore. For a sleep-addled moment, he can hear the whistle of wind in his ears, and the perfect warmth of yellow sun on his face; the weightlessness of flight, where a man can soar to freedom, and hang in the air as the tethers of life drop away. His body reaches for it, arches off the bed. But then he remembers it was a dream. His eyes open to darkness.

He’s hungry. He eats. He’s desperate for a proper shower. He’s put some sweat pants on, but keeps the hoodie Molly left him. His pulse monitor is gone, so he counts for a while. The walls close in, and he sits on the cot and presses his back against the wall, holding it away and trying to breathe. It’s warm in here, too warm. He can’t keep the dream out, and in the recesses of his mind, hears laughter. He knows it’s only his imagination, but tells it to shut up anyway.

Sometimes he imagines a conversation with the Other Guy. It would go something like, who are you, really? He knows the answer is pure fantasy, because the creature can’t think, as far as he knows. I’m the honest part of you. I’m the bit that hates what life gave you, and isn’t afraid to show it. And then he feels selfish, and small, because life gave him a lot of things that other people don’t get, so who is he to be angry, really?

The beast just laughs at that one.

I was a normal guy, he says, and knows it’s only half true. The selfishness, and arrogance; yes, that’s normal. The way he fell for Betty, and ate pizza, and worked, and went to the gym; all normal. But behind his eyes, he felt different. Had grown up, being different. Yes, says the Other Guy. And now you got what you want. You be normal, and I’ll do the bits you can’t admit you want.

It makes him cry, that one. It has to be just adrenaline, and the fleeting remembrances of recent green in his skin, because he doesn’t want those things. He doesn’t want to break the world, and he doesn’t want to hurt people. He says it in his head, in case the thing’s listening; he says it out loud, to himself. But the monster doesn’t bother to reply, and he’s forced to remember the time Betty asked him what it felt like – and he had to tell her the truth, because it was her. That he likes it. Not what happens after. But the moment of change; even when it’s agony, it’s like a full-body climax. His last thought is always one of exaltation, and relief. Responsibility drops away, and he no longer has to care.

It makes him cry, yes. Because he knows it’s true, and so, he’s no better than the thing he hates. Nothing in the world feels better than being able to break free.

It’s still dark. He can’t get Baby to put the light on. Everything feels too small.

I was trying to kill you, he says, in a voice from far away. Not myself.

The answer comes back, in a tone more amused than he’s used to. There’s no difference. And, you’re lying.

He’s punching the wall, and he doesn’t know if it’s to force the thing away, or force him to come out and end this torment. Neither works.

There is a difference. And I’m going to kill you. You won’t win in the end.

He twists his fingers into his hair, and tries not to hear the way it laughs. It would be easier if the laughter were real; then he’d simply be mad. Is it less crazy to have a conversation with yourself, and not know if you’re listening?

I’m better than this. I’m better than you.

In the end, there is an answer. He knows it’s not really him, because hadn’t he just decided the thing can’t think?

Prove it.

He wakes a third time, and thinks yes, Baby has shrunk the cell. He stretches out for the walls, and can’t understand why his fingers don’t reach. His brain catches up, and informs him, you’re not him.

Splinters of the night puncture through, and he finds himself pinioned to the bed. But was I him? He remembers the last part of the conversation, and cannot answer the question.

He’s up two minutes later, and begging to be let out. The room is too small, and he can’t bear it. He needs space.

He thought security came from locking himself away. But for the moment, the horrors out there are less than the ones in here.