What Looks Back Read online



  What Looks Back

  By Zachary Adams

  Copyright © 2014 Zachary Adams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law unless document receives visible attribution and author/s notified beforehand. For permission requests, write to the publisher, adDr.essed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email adDr.ess below.

  [email protected]

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the adDr.ess above.

  Published in the United States of America

  ISBN: 9781452300023

  Zachary Adams, author of The Harbinger Break

  Amazon: https://amzn.com/B00K0SB4QG

  Table of Contents

  More Please!

  Pulse

  Skeptical Orangutans

  The Infinite Man

  The Keepers

  The Simulator

  What If Your Hand is Empty?

  You Might Not Like What Looks Back at You

  Good Night, Noises Everywhere

  Chirping Chirping HellDr.awn Horror

  Bonus: Prologue and Part 1 of The Harbinger Break

  About Zachary Adams

  More Please!

  There are five tastes, or is it six? Salty, sweet, spicy, bitter—mint? Is mint a taste? No. But what about that Asian taste? The cheese taste, meat taste—the taste of blood. Not quite salty, but full and bold.

  Whatever it is, it’s a good taste, and he looked forward to it now.

  Donald sat alone and rubbed the black tablecloth between his thumbs and middle fingers. His napkin sat as a triangle on his lap. Condensation on his water glass Dr.ipped similar to the saliva on the roof of his mouth as he watched waiters in tuxedo shirts and black pants carry large husks of meat and carving knives. They marched from table to table, cutting slices of broiled beef for hungry customers.

  Donald liked the way they kept their knives pointed downwards. That’s how his mother taught him to carry knives back when he was young. That way, his mother had said, if you trip while carrying the knife, you wouldn’t accidentally stab yourself in the heart.

  Umami! Donald grinned and clapped his hands. The fifth taste is umami! A woman sitting at the table across from him, wearing a pearl gown, glanced over and narrowed her eyes, disturbed by Donald’s abrupt and startling clap. Donald avoided eye-contact. He looked at the table and noticed his cardboard Brazilian Steakhouse calling card. On one side it said, “More Please!” and on the other side it said, “No Thanks!”

  Donald’s card was flipped to the “More Please!” side, and he rubbed his hands together and waited for the servers to approach.

  “Filet, sir?”

  Donald turned to his right. The waiter avoided eye-contact, staring at the knife already wedged an inch into the husk of his short loin.

  “Yes please. Rare.”

  Carving began. When the waiter had cut halfway down the husk, he motioned to Donald—and the time had come for action. Donald reciprocated with his tongs, grabbing the slice as the waiter finished the cut. Arranging the slice neatly on his plate, Donald stared at it, knife and fork in hand. The center was moist and the color was a gradient spreading outwards, changing from red to pink to finally brown on the outside edges. Thin red juices with oil pupils clung to the beef, and Donald licked his lips.

  He placed his knife into the cut like a surgeon and in one swift motion split it in two. Forgoing all pretenses of class and manners, Donald plunged his fork into the flesh, jumping in ravenously. His mother would’ve been disappointed.

  The beef dangled from his fork. The red juices sparkled in the overhead lights. The smell overtook him. Umami, that was the smell—salty, a hint of spice, stewed in its own beef Dr.ippings, oak charred on the outside, warm and tender.

  He brought his fork to his lips. So playful—he could feel heat emanating from the tiny bite. The first bite—the first step into a Jacuzzi—he closed his eyes, opened his mouth. His tongue reclined on his lower lip. From the left and right inside corners of his mouth he felt warmth—a tingle, a numb, a cascade, and his saliva became a mountain spring, ready to greet the beefy guest with open arms—

  “Flank, sir?”

  It took Donald a moment to recognize the interruption. He transformed from a tongue and mouth into an entire human being once more, and, opening his eyes, he saw his fork and the slice of beef dangling from it, wavering an inch from his face, teasing him coyly.

  “Sir. Flank?” the server repeated.

  Donald turned his head. A different server now held a husk of flank steak.

  “Yes, please. Rare.”

  The server began cutting a strip with his large carving knife. When he’d cut halfway, Donald used his tongs to support the slice and took it from the whole.

  “Thank you,” Donald said. The server walked away.

  He placed the slice of flank on his plate. His fork, the beef still skewered, reclined lazily. He lifted the fork and began a slow descent into the sunny tropical island of beef.

  “Tenderloin?”

  Donald swerved as if asleep at the wheel, narrowly avoiding the watchtower, honking, lights blaring, tearing the bliss of his one-track mind. He swallowed to prevent an overflow of Dr.ool. He looked at his fork. The beef dangled, begging for permission to land. Donald replied negatively, and turned to his left towards the server who’d distracted him.

  “Let me eat,” Donald said.

  “What?”

  “Rare. Sorry. Yes please.”

  The server began cutting—the same routine.

  When Donald was finally alone once more, he had three different cuts of beef on his plate. Filet mignon, tenderloin, and flank. The thick smells wafted—a slow, dancing cyclone, ascending towards his face, and he basked in the heat, glow, and smell.

  He flipped his card over. Finally, time to indulge.

  He began. The beef rode the fork to his lips. He didn’t hesitate. As it crashed into his tongue, a crossroads contract was signed and his tongue would never be deceived by lesser cuts again. It was delightful, rugged, salty, exploding with fat and salt, Dr.ipping with sting and flavor. He took another bite and then another, and soon the cut of filet was gone.

  He next moved on to the tenderloin. He cut a slice and held it up with his fork—

  “Top round?”

  Donald and the meat broke eye-contact. A server stood next to him with a Dr.ipping husk of meat and, not hesitating, began cutting into the slice.

  “No thanks,” Donald said quickly.

  “Too late, I’ve already started cutting,” the server replied. “Just flip over your card if you aren’t ready for more.”

  Donald sighed, lifted his tongs and took the meat from the server. As he placed it onto his plate he thought back to earlier. He could’ve sworn he’d flipped over his card to the “No Thanks” side. But on the table, clear as day, his card read: “More Please!”

  He flipped the card over and returned to his tenderloin. The flame-tinged steak emanated with a buttery glow. A hint of spice, paprika maybe, with herbs, basted with a light garlic cream.

  “Pork loin?”

  Donald sighed loudly. “Can’t you see my card is—”

  But it wasn’t. His card still read: “More Please!”

  He was certain this time that he’d he flipped it. The server cleared his throat
loudly with disdain. Donald brought the slice of pork loin over to his plate.

  The pork had a sweeter smell than the beef. He smelled a hint of a caramel glaze, or was that molasses? The charred edges had a sting to them, reminiscent of the tickling from the oak charcoal grill’s flame.

  Donald returned to the tenderloin. Within seconds, that slice was descending his esophagus. He began on the flank. This cut was less tender than the tenderloin and filet, but far tastier. Soaking in fat, bathed in salt and juices, the butter, herbs, and garlic basted flank challenged his pallet with a dazzling array of flavors. He brought slice after slice into his mouth, relishing the magnifying pain of his working jaw.

  His stomach cramped, and disappointment cloaked his joy. He checked his card to ensure it was flipped to the “No Thanks!” side, but discovered it wasn’t. He could have sworn he flipped it over.

  He flipped it and returned to the last cut on his plate, the pork. As he began, stomach aching, he heard metal jangling—the unmistakable sound of an approaching server. The jangling stopped at his table.

  “This is ridiculous,” Donald said as the server placed the hunk of bacon wrapped mignon filets down on his table. “Can’t you see my card?”

  “That’s why I’m over here,” the server said. “Your card is not on the correct side if you don’t want more meat.”

  The server slid a bacon wrapped mignon onto Donald’s plate and left. Donald looked at the food in front of him. The slice of pork and now the bacon wrapped mignon glared at him, angry. “You better not be wasting food,” the cuts seemed to yell. They grew mouths. How could he eat something with mouths attached?

  He returned to the pork. His stomach tapped out, but there was no backup. Donald cut, stabbed, lifted, and forced slice after heavy slice into his Dr.y mouth. He chugged some water, allowing over-pour to Dr.ip from his lips onto his shirt. His mouth hung slightly ajar, too tired to close fully.

  The pork smelled heavy, and tasted sticky. The texture was reminiscent of a dog’s tongue.

  Jingling. Footsteps. And then, “Rib eye?”

  “No.” Donald shook his head in disbelief. “No, this can’t be happening.”

  The server began cutting into the beef. “Tongs,” he commanded reproachfully.

  Tears welled in Donald’s eyes. “Please.”

  “Tongs,” the server repeated, his tone Dr.ipping with disdain.

  Donald lifted the tongs as his stomach throbbed. He grabbed the slice of rib eye and placed it onto his stuffed, bloody plate. The cut collapsed onto the bacon wrapped mignon with a blubbery slap. It shivered like gelatin, and blood seeped from its pores like sweat on a baby forgotten in a sweltering car. The pork was a panting dog’s tongue moments before puking. Donald cut another slice of meat, and as he cut his knife scraped across the glass plate, screeching a hole in his head. His stomach begged for mercy.

  He impaled the slice and held it to his lips. The stench caused his nose hairs to shrivel and retreat towards his eyes.

  “Beef ribs?”

  No. No no no. He looked over at his card, and it read innocently, “More Please!”

  “You’re lying!” Donald screeched at the card. “I flipped you! I flipped you over!”

  He glanced up. The restaurant had gone silent. The woman in the pearl gown stared daggers at Donald, who cringed in his chair.

  “Beef ribs?” the server asked again.

  “Do I have a choice?” Donald asked.

  The server laughed. “Beef ribs are my favorite too. I never have a choice!”

  He cut an extra large slice and slid it onto the stuffed plate. Donald stared at the flesh and wanted to cry. He looked at his card and carefully flipped it over. Yet it still read “More Please!”

  He flipped it again. But again, “More Please!”

  He flipped it again. And again. And again. But no matter what, “More Please!” still blazed innocently on the card.

  “Server,” he cried out. “Server!”

  A black-haired waitress approached. “More water, sir?”

  “Well, yes—but also, my card is double sided! It only says, ‘More Please’.”

  He handed her the card. She rotated it in her hand. She stared at it for a moment, grinned, and handed it back to him.

  “Sir, make sure you flip it just once.” She showed him the card, which clearly read “No Thanks.” He couldn’t understand. She handed it back to him, ignoring his disbelief.

  He placed the side she’d shown him on the table and returned to the pile of meat on his plate. By this time, the meat had grown cold. The stench was raw and acidic, as if the meat had been regurgitated by an opossum for its young. The food in his overstuffed stomach stabbed his other organs, clawing to escape. He rubbed his gut—the food baby inside was well into its third trimester.

  He cut a slice of bacon wrapped mignon. The weight of it on his fork strained his wrist. The cut was red square-shaped gummy candy, stale and dirty. It looked like it would squeak when he chewed it.

  The woman in the pearl gown walked by, having finished her meal, but before she exited she stopped at Donald’s table. She stared at him, her nose crumpled and her brow furrowed, his pathetic smell evidently disgusting her.

  “Are you going to waste all of that?” she asked, spitting out each word like a llama.

  “N-no,” Donald replied. His stomach began to rip, and fleshy fibers clung together in a desperate attempt to resist the onslaught of pressure.

  She stared at him a moment longer, her face scrunched like an angry bulldog.

  “You disgust me,” she spat. “Flip over your card, you wasteful slime.”

  He looked down at his card. It shouted boastfully, “More Please!”

  “Why is this happening?” he cried. He lifted the card and attempted to rip it in half, straining, veins Dr.awn and pulsing on his red scalp and bursting behind his eyes. But it wouldn’t rip. He just wanted to finish, so he could go home and sleep this nightmare off.

  He Dr.opped the card and lifted the entire chunk of beef wrapped mignon with his fork. He placed the whole rotten thing in his mouth. His body attempted puking to expel it, but he fought the urge. The beef, however, blended with the hints of regurgitated stomach acid, somehow improving its sweaty taste.

  He swallowed, and his stomach screeched like a rat in the talons of a hawk. If this had been an interrogation, his stomach would have admitted to countless brutal murders it’d never committed, just to free itself from the agony. It’d have taken the blame for the assassination of JFK over digesting the beef Donald had just ingested.

  He couldn’t feel his face. His ears were ringing. His toes curled up, cramping, and a cold sweat enveloped him.

  “Top sirloin?”

  Donald didn’t respond normally. He screamed.

  “Someone really loves their steak!” the server said over Donald’s crying, chortling to himself and sliding a slice onto Donald’s meat mound. As the cut settled on top of the meat pile the plate cracked.

  Tears ran down Donald’s cheeks and became a steak marinade.

  “Check please,” he croaked.

  The black-haired waitress walked by. “You can’t have your check until you’re done eating. Just flip over your card when you’re finished.”

  She strutted away as Donald stammered incoherently. The pain became anger, and he looked around his table vehemently. He spotted the card, the reason for his pain and anguish, and his anger swelled. It still said “More Please!”

  It would always say “More Please!”

  Lifting the card like a shot put Olympian, he chucked it as far as he could. It glided across the restaurant and landed in the soup.

  As if watching all of this from the kitchen, the chef burst from double doors in the back of the restaurant. A big, heavily-mustached man in a white chef outfit with a white hat, the chef stormed furiously into the dining area.

  “Who threw that?” he bellowed.

  He scanned the restaurant and locked eyes with Donald. r />
  “You!”

  Donald tried looking away, but looked back, and looked away again. He looked down and noticed that at some point he’d forgone his continence. The chef stormed over, face red and mustache quivering with anger.

  “Because of you,” the chef said, spitting. “I now have to throw away that entire pot of soup. Is wasting food funny to you? Are starving African chilDr.en a joke, sir?”

  His spit Dr.enched Donald and his plate.

  “N-no,” Donald whispered.

  “Look at your plate!” the chef cried. “You will finish your food, and then you will never return to my restaurant!”

  He pulled out a chair beside Donald and sat in it. “I’ll wait...” he said, staring daggers.

  He rested his giant head in his fat hands. Donald lifted his trembling fork and knife and forced his hand steady to cut a slice of the sirloin. Thick, clumping blood plopped from the husk of fishy meat. It smelled like a landfill and looked like chewed bubblegum covered in eczema, seasoned with athlete’s foot fungus. As the cut approached Donald’s lips he felt the back of his throat rapid-fire Dr.y gags, and the only liquid available to coat his arid mouth was stomach acid.

  The fork trembled, then fell from his shaking fingers. Lights magnified from around the room and blurred. He heard the mechanics in his brain start screaming as he toppled from his chair. “Shut it down!,” the brain mechanics shouted over the emergency sirens’ blaring. “Were calling this one early. Shut it all down!”

  The lights faded and black encroached the edges of his vision. He saw the blurry chef enter his line of sight, standing over him and, for some curious reason, smiling.

  Sections of Donald’s brain shut down one after the other with a heavy shutters. Was he Dr.eaming? It seemed like a Dr.eam. He saw the chef’s lips move. Then he heard a far-off voice.

  “I’m thinking a light garlic butter baste and a fennel seasoning in the oak charcoal grill. Maybe a red wine marinade first? What do you think?”

  The black-haired waitress walked over and knelt above Donald. She pinched his gut and his thighs.

  “Go with the marinade.”

  END

  Pulse

  There's a universal truth in the medical field that is never adDr.essed publicly. I'll get to that in a minute. First, the basics: The nervous system is by far the most complex system in your body (compared to your circulatory, musculoskeletal, etc.) You have your brain and spinal cord, your somatic (which you control) and autonomic (which you don't) systems.

  Now, nerves send signals to your brain, and vice versa, through neurons and synapses. In the average person's brain, there is a slight amount of electricity that shocks and excites neurons through your nerve network, which makes your body do what it does best—keeping you alive. The somatic you control, the autonomic you don't. Or, that's what you're taught.

  The fact is that you do have some control over your autonomic nervous system. You can choose to watch a horror flick. When you watch, you begin to sweat and aDr.enaline gets pumping—both responses being autonomic. When you eat a sandwich, you begin digesting, which is another autonomic function. But you couldn't just stop digesting on a whim. You couldn’t just stop sweating on whim. This slight manipulation from exterior stimuli exists through a rarely mentioned phenomenon called neurotic synchronicity.

  When a person goes into cardiac arrest, they are unconscious, yet question a survivor afterwards and they'll tell you about glimpses into consciousness they experienced during. It's common knowledge in EMS that music greatly improves a person's chances of surviving a heart attack. But this fact is kept hidden from the public. Why? Well, how would you feel knowing that grandma died because her medic refused to listen to Bon Jovi?

  Neurotic synchronicity is amplified by electric signals in your brainstem. These electric signals are called pulse, but ask any physician or medical personnel what they're called and you'll likely get a few shots in the dark and a blank stare. Pulse is a heavily guarded secret.

  You experience the phenomenon everyday. One of my favorite examples is when two people begin talking at the exact same time. Then they both stop, and wait, and wait for the other to talk, but the other person is waiting too. And then they both give in at the exact same moment and interrupt each other again. They laugh. “Wasn't that unlucky?” they might say. No, it wasn't luck. It's called neurotic synchronistic static. And it's a fallout of pulse from one person that the other person's neurons pick up.

  The universal truth I’d mentioned earlier is that people can control other people.

  Now, the average person couldn't choose to do this. Every now and then it happens subconsciously—you'll touch your hair and they'll touch theirs, finger tapping—simple stuff. The average person has an average amount of pulse, which is just enough for themselves. Then there are some people who have slightly higher levels of pulse. These people don't understand it, or even comprehend that there's something to be understood, but they get what they want, and they rarely deserve it. You've seen these people prowling around bars and casinos and you hate them.

  Then there are people who have goliath levels of pulse. And these are the ones that should frighten you, because they know.

  The word impulse, late Middle English, roots from the Latin impuls- 'Dr.iven on', first used in the early 17th century as a verb in the sense 'give an impulse to'. Look it up in the Oxford Dictionary of Word Histories. Since the early 17th century, not only has this, for lack of a better term, “power” been utilized—it has been named.

  They use it to compel others. They send a pulse to another person to get them to do what they want. That person experiences an impulse, a recognizably yet apathetically disregarded thought or idea that manifests itself into forced action. “He (or she) acted on impulse” is a throwaway everyday phrase, more often than not confused with subconscious whim. But every now and then, when an Average Joe acts on impulse, his actions are not of his own devising, but are manipulations of a far more sinister nature.

  At some point during the 17th century, those blessed with abnormally high levels of pulse decided that it'd be best to keep their gift a secret, and buried all evidence. But a history of people with abnormally high levels of pulse are remarkably easy to trace.

  To this day, they call themselves “compellers”, and I just brought the most powerful of them all back to life.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  They tried to kill her. The other compellers. The first thing I noticed about her were her dazzlingly cerulean eyes. She told me that she thought the world should know—that people had a right to know about this global manipulation. She sat up in my ambulance, and I took her blood pressure and heart rate. Both were normal. After a cardiac arrest, her heart rate should have been rapid, and blood pressure high, but neither was the case. A clear cut example of the power compellers have.

  She asked me about myself.

  “Well, I do this for now, but I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” I said.

  She laughed, and I couldn’t help smiling with her. She had one of those contagious laughs people with expressive eyes always have.

  “Well you chose the perfect job if you want to get ideas,” she said. “You must have a lot of crazy stories.”

  I grinned. “None as crazy as this.”

  “Well, if you want to be a writer—have you ever read ‘Elements of Style’?”

  I shook my head. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s great! I had to read it for English. Super helpful.”

  “Is it long?”

  “No. It’s really short. It’s a small book—you could probably finish the whole thing in a night.”

  I nodded and returned to my computer. This report was proving difficult to write. I’d never heard of a patient recovering so completely after a cardiac arrest. It was easy to believe that she was, as she told me, the most powerful compeller.

  “So what happened, exactly?” I asked.

  “It’s a long story.”

&nbsp
; “We have time.”

  She laughed. “Alright. Well they’d been pursuing me for a while.”

  “The compellers?”

  “Yeah. They wanted to initiate me into their little club. Tell me their ‘rules’. Kind of pretentious, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”

  “They found me as I was leaving class and brought me into their car. I think they underestimated me. I could feel them trying to compel me, but obviously I was able to resist them. But my curiosity was aroused, so I entered their car anyway.”

  “That’s kind of dangerous, right? Entering a car filled with strangers?”

  She shook her head. “I knew I’d be fine. None of them were a match for me. If I’d wanted to, I could have made them all stop breathing without breaking a sweat.”

  She laughed, and I laughed with her. She had one of those contagious laughs—she was stunning, like sunshine on a cloudy day. I’m not even a poetic guy or anything, but she makes me poetic and I can think of stuff like that when I think of her.

  She continued. “So they started telling me the history of their little club and the rules. Honestly, I knew it was bullshit from the start. People like that just want to control other people. They knew they couldn’t compel me, so they tried the old-fashioned way. With rules.”

  “What were the rules?”

  “Like, ‘keep our ability a secret’. Stuff like that.”

  “Why? Why keep it a secret?”

  “Probably so they could keep controlling people. They said the ability would cause panic, but you and I both know that that was only an excuse so they could keep manipulating people and getting what they want. They picked me up in a Cadillac Escalade. They were obviously doing pretty well for themselves for people who claimed another rule was ’don’t abuse your power’.”

  I laughed. “Yeah that’s really hypocritical of them.”

  She smiled. “Exactly!”

  She kept smiling at me, and I felt nervous, like my stomach was turning to gelatin. Actually, that’s what it felt like! That’s an analogy, and a pretty good one at that.

  “So then what?” I asked.

  “Obviously I called them out on their bullshit,” she said. “And they freaked out. So I compelled the Dr.iver to pull over, and ran from the car. I thought that would be the end of it, but I guess I underestimated what those ants could do in large numbers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, after I left the car, I decided that I’d reveal our secret to the world. I couldn’t figure out a good way to do that, until just a few minutes ago, but I thought it would be fair for the world to know about compellers, and obviously let them know that I’m the most powerful of them all. But those guys wanted me to lie and pretend that we don’t exist.”

  “Yeah you’re definitely right,” I said. “Lying is never the way to go. Honesty is the best policy.”

  “Exactly! Sorry for wanting to be honest!” she said, rolling her eyes and laughing.

  I think it was around this time that I really started falling heavily for this girl. How often do you meet a beautiful girl on a quest for justice?

  “So how’d you end up here?” I asked.

  “Right! So I returned to my apartment after class, where you guys picked me up, and inside were about thirty of them, wearing black robes with their faces concealed. I barely had time to protect myself. As soon as I walked in I was blasted with pulse. I think at first they were just trying to reason with me, but I easily resisted that and started compelling all of them to stop breathing. I got a few to Dr.op too, but it was too much. They had practice or whatever, and I let my guard down or got too cocky, but next thing I knew my vision was swimming and my chest hurt. That’s all I remember, until I woke up here, with you.”

  I was floored. It took me a moment to think of a way to respond. “That’s crazy,” I said.

  “Psht. Yeah.”

  Unfortunately, we arrived at the hospital a few minutes later. We Dr.opped her off in the ER and I begged my partner to finish the report so I could keep talking to her. She told me more about her power and the society and stuff, and directed me to a few websites I could refer to for more information. I gave her my number before I left. Unprofessional, I know, but I had to. Even now I’m almost certain that she’s the one.

  So yeah, I finished my day, blah blah blah, and ran a few more calls that I barely paid attention to. I just wanted to get home as soon as possible so I could start on this story.

  It was really all I could think about. Getting that book she recommended and writing this story. I kept envisioning it in my mind—I knew her story would be the one that carried me to my Dr.eam of being published.

  I purchased the book, ‘Elements of Style,’ and as soon as I returned home I read the thing cover to cover. I put it on the shelf, between my EMS course book and my firefighter curriculum. It’s not the most impressive bookshelf, but I’ve never been a big reader. At a first glance, you would never think that this was the home of a writer. I mean, I had to brush dust off my laptop!

  I sat down with a cup of coffee and installed a word processor, thinking about her the whole time. I kept my cellphone on the table, hoping that she’d call while I wrote. I kept imagining her sounding so excited that I’d already begun writing her story.

  I’d never been so excited about writing a story in my life. I sat down and began typing.

  I began with, “There’s a universal truth in the medical field that’s never adDr.essed publicly.” Then I went on a few of the websites she recommended and did some research. I had to give a background before I jumped into the juicy bits. At first I’d written about how I had to shock her three times, how I thought it was over, how I pushed everything I was legally allowed to from my Dr.ug box, but all of that seemed so boring, so I took it out. I honestly only wanted to write about her.

  Now I’m nearing the end, and I’m imagining her reading this. This is weird, though. My head kind of hurts. It’s always been my Dr.eam to get published, so why does my life seem to have so many holes? Nothing seems to fit—something doesn’t add up. I’m typing this and as I write I can’t help questioning myself. I mean, it’s always been my Dr.eam, hasn’t it?

  Skeptical Orangutans

  “Did you switch my room? Something looks different.”

  The butcher’s son scratched his thumbs’ cuticles with his pointer fingers, alternating one stroke at a time. The cuticles were red and raw and hints of Dr.y blood were shadows of dead, peeled back skin. He rested two fingers against his lips every once in a while—a habit reminiscent of his time as a smoker. His fingers felt yellow, like the old glow from a night spent binge smoking until four in the morning—except his smoking had never been from going out with friends or frolicking. No, he would spend hours of night staring at a certain spot—a coffee shop, a park, his own home even—wondering what looked different. Nothing felt different—but that was the problem. Nothing ever felt different.

  “Not only did we not switch your room, but every room here is exactly the same,” said the orderly. “So even if we had switched you to a new room, still nothing would look different.”

  The orderly wore white. He had pale brass skin and his forearm muscles twitched as they braided down his arms. The hair on his forearms was thick and blond and looked like a strange memory of a rye field in the torrential fluorescent light. He had peculiarly dark eye-lashes, and a heavy nose that seemed to melt from his face. The orderly’s baggy white pants looked comfortable—it seemed a shame that wearing them out in a social setting would be abnormal. The orangutans are skeptical of changes in their cages. That’s what the butcher’s son thought. Did the orderly ever wear different pants? He also thought that.

  “When I was eight or so, while at school,” said the butcher’s son, “my parents switched my bed for a bunk bed and moved all my younger brother’s things into my room. And my brother had a lot of things. Clothes and furniture, but also posters, like that Ca
ptain Marvel poster, the one where he looked like he was about to dive back down to earth from the clouds. He had a lot of stuffed animals and action figures as well. Mostly Captain Marvel stuff. He had a few Wonder Woman toys but he kept those hidden. I used to tease him and call them Barbies. He was embarrassed so he wouldn't play with them around me. He’d grown out of his little kid room, and my father wanted to turn it into a butcher’s office. Who knows why a butcher needed an office? I think he stored his own private meat selection on the side, but maybe I'll never know. Either way, I didn't notice. My parents were shocked that I didn't say anything about how suddenly my brother lived and slept in my room. When they asked, I said I hadn't noticed, so they thought I was retarded. Naturally, I guess. They weren't wrong.”

  “You’re not retarded.”

  “That’s kind of you to say. So anyway, my parents took me to see psychologists and stuff. My dad would look at me with that look of disappointment, pity, and a hint of curiosity and say, ‘even the orangutans are skeptical of changes in their cages.’ But I wasn't then. Now I am. Am I the only skeptical orangutan around here?”

  “Yes. There has been no changes in your cages. Not that a change would be difficult to notice.”

  The butcher’s son wiggled his toes. He was barefoot. He liked walking the hallways barefoot because the tile felt cool on his feet. There was something relaxing in walking barefoot down white hallways. He shifted his weight and began picking at his eyebrows as he looked around the room. The walls were beige with a horizontal line of blue. The tile of the floor was peach and tan.

  “I felt like a caged orangutan that didn't move. The kind that if you had to describe it, you’d think it was depressed. That’s how my father looked at me—like I was a depressed, confined orangutan... Oh yeah, so when can I get out of here anyway?”

  “You can leave anytime you like. You admitted yourself.”

  “No I mean, when will I be fixed and all that? I keep having the feeling you guys are going to test me by making a change in my room and seeing if I notice.”

  “We don’t do that. It’s all in your head. You realize that, don’t you?”

  The butcher’s son tapped his forehead. Whenever anybody said ‘head’, he inadvertently touched his head. The word, whenever he heard it, always sounded like the beginning of that chilDr.en’s song that went ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.’

  He lowered his hand, imagining a conversation where the orderly told him to take control. Unshakable habits beget unfavorable function. Something like that. He scratched his cuticles and looked at the orderly’s pants. “Are those Dickies?”

  “My pants?”

  “Yeah. They look comfortable. Is that an elastic waistband?”

  “You have the same pants we have except yours are blue.”

  The butcher’s son felt his waist. He hadn't given his pants a thought. If someone had blindfolded him and tied his hands behind his back, he wouldn't have been able to tell what he wore.

  “Is that normal?”

  “Yeah, everyone here wears the same pants.”

  “Sorry, not that. I was thinking that its strange that I have no idea what I’m wearing. Isn't that odd?”

  “You have bad habits. You just need to break them. You should be out in the world, seeing a therapist regularly, not hiding in here.”

  “I’m scared out there. I’d like to be able to notice change.”

  “You’re a clam,” said the orderly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s all the same to a clam. Shel Silverstein. Would you call a clam stupid because it doesn't freak out when prodded by a fish or stepped on by a human?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The clam functions well enough.”

  “But I’m not a clam.”

  “The doctor has diagnosed you with cainotophobia. Do you know what that is?”

  “A fear of change.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I’m not afraid of change. I just wish I’d notice it naturally.”

  The orderly shook his head as he left the room. “Just make more of a conscious effort to observe your surroundings. It’s not your fault you never noticed your mother’s absence, I mean— her body was never even found.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “Try to pinpoint a change that happened in your childhood. You recognized your brother. Good. Continue.”

  “Is this a new couch?”

  “No. Same couch as always.”

  “New jacket?”

  “Same as always.”

  “New glasses?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Are you the same doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  The psychologist scratched his head and sighed. It wasn't a tired sigh, it was a disappointed, pitying sigh. His parents sighed the same way often. The psychologist opened his desk Dr.awer and pulled out a small rectangular bottle of Jim Bean. He raised the bottle to his lips, avoiding eye-contact with the butcher’s son, and took a sip. He let the liquid sit in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed. Holding the bottle out, he offered it to his patient.

  “Take a swig.”

  “What?”

  “For the first time in my life, I’m refusing to see a patient for more sessions and diagnosing you with a big who cares?”

  The butcher’s son took the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.

  “This isn't whiskey?” he said after swallowing.

  “You’re right. It’s brandy. You noticed that. You’re fine. You overreact. Who cares if you’re the most unobservant person on the planet? Make a habit to take note of things. Walk around with a notepad if it matters that much to you. If you want someone to fix your brain, see a hypnotist—there’s nothing more I can do for you. My job depresses me, and you depress me further. A young guy such as yourself hiding in a hospital because he’s afraid to face the world...”

  The butcher’s son shook his head. He’d been guessing. He had no idea that what the psychologist offered him wasn't whiskey. He sighed, thinking that the psychologist must have realized this. “You don’t think my problem is a problem?”

  “It’s not. It’s a peculiarity. Nothing more. Your mother’s body was never found. The fact that you didn't notice is a peculiarity—and nothing more.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  A lawyer looked at the butcher’s son with a mixture of pity, confusion, and, for some reason, disgust. “So you never noticed your mother’s death?” he said.

  The butcher’s son shook his head. “I mean, I noticed she wasn't around anymore, but my father never mentioned her passing.”

  The courtroom didn't look like a courtroom. It looked like a room. Yes, the judge sat on a raised platform, but everyone else sat on folding chairs. Yes, the jury sat behind a wooden bar, but the room was carpeted, and there were, like, three people in the audience, none of whom the butcher’s son recognized.

  The lawyer turned to the jury. “His father never mentioned her passing.”

  “Are you the same lawyer as last time?” said the butcher’s son.

  The lawyer raised an eyebrow and turned back to the butcher’s son. “We've never met. I’m not your lawyer. I work for the DA.”

  Another lawyer stood from his chair and looked at the jury. “Clearly he’s unreliable as a witness.”

  The butcher's son didn't recognize this man either. “Why am I here?” he asked.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  The orderly leaned against the frame of the doorway, looking relaxed. “Tough day in court?”

  “I’m just glad to be back,” said the butcher’s son. “It’s comforting here. I don’t like it out there—I can never shake the feeling that everyone’s playing a big trick on me, moving things around and laughing because I don’t notice.”

  The orderly had pale brass skin and thick blond hair on his arms. He had a heavy nose and dark eyelashes. His forearms were thick like an ape’s. He looked familiar, but the butcher’s son could never be
too certain—everyone looked somewhat familiar.

  “Are you the—”

  “—yes. Same as always. Always me. Same room, don’t bother asking—you haven’t missed anything.”

  “You get me like my father. After he figured out my problem he gave me steak every night for dinner. I hate change because I don’t notice it. But my father understood. He’d tell me all day that we’d be having steak for dinner, than we’d have steak for dinner, and I knew nothing had changed. The orangutans have nothing of which to be skeptical. I knew I’d be having steak for dinner. I wouldn't have noticed if one day I didn't have steak for dinner, but it was more comforting not having to worry about not noticing a change. He got the steak for free from work anyway, seeing as how he was a butcher. I think he kept it in my brother’s old room.”

  “Steak every night for dinner? I envy you man. I love steak.”

  “Well, after a while he switched to hamburgers. Probably because it was too expensive to give me steak every night. Also the steak began to make me sick.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “The burgers made me sick as well. That’s why I came here.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. My mother had been dead for six years and I never noticed. That’s what I was thinking. That’s crazy. I loved my mom. That’s why I admitted myself here. When I found out she’d been dead for six years and I never noticed.”

  The butcher’s son scratched his cuticles with his pointer fingers. Wherever he was, he had always been there. Whomever he met he’d always known. Whatever he ate he’d always eaten, whatever he’d think he’d always thought. Not noticing change meant never getting excited, never pleasantly surprised, never owning, never having, just seeing—never observing. He recognized this, but unless he made a conscious effort to observe, everything passed by unnoticed.

  “That’s crazy,” said the orderly, “But that doesn’t make you crazy. That just makes you wildly unobservant. I've gone months at a time without speaking to my family. Not everyone speaks to their family daily or weekly. You just went far longer.”

  “That’s kind of you to say. I’m allergic to beef now anyway I think.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “Imagine two boxes of chocolates, if you will. One is uncovered, one is covered. Both are yours. You would notice immediately if the uncovered had missing chocolate. Missing chocolates from the covered, however, could only be noticed once the cover was removed. This is how the butcher's son lives his life. Every uncovered box in his world is covered. While you or I would notice missing chocolates immediately by just glancing at the box, he wouldn’t notice unless he actively wanted a piece of chocolate. His favorite sofa, his only piece of furniture in his otherwise empty home, would only be noticed missing once he intended to sit on it, and not a moment before. The rest of us would notice the second we set foot inside the home.”

  “So he continued eating the steak.”

  “Exactly. It was always steak to him.”

  At this, a pale jury member swooned and fainted. The others grumbled with looks of disgust. Even the judge looked perturbed and disgusted. The butcher's son didn't understand why.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “Same couch?”

  The psychologist, with pity and slight disgust in his eyes, looked at the butcher's son, yet didn't reply to his question. It was the same look his father always gave him. Minutes earlier, after he’d gotten back from court, the orderly looked at him in the same disconcerting manner. They felt sorry for him, the butcher’s son thought. But that was common. People always felt sorry for him because of his condition. The orangutans are skeptical of changes in their cages. They’re especially skeptical of the unaffected orangutan.

  “Yes, this is the same couch,” the psychologist said, sighing. He took a swig from his bottle of Jim Bean. “We've decided to keep you here after all. Do you understand what happened in court today?”

  “Yes. Apparently my father was convicted of murdering my mother. I wasn't much help, I don't think. I still can't believe it.”

  The psychologist shook his head and looked at the floor. “This is beyond me,” he said. “This is beyond me. This is beyond me.”

  “Is something the matter? What happened?”

  The psychologist stood from his chair and walked over to his window. He stared at the parking-lot down below, where to the left he could see two EMTs rolling an old woman in a stretcher to the parked ambulance. He watched them walk, and the butcher's son watched the psychologist, wondering what he'd missed. That's why he hated change—he'd obviously missed something, but he had no idea what.

  “I missed something.”

  The psychologist turned. His complexion had become slightly pale, but also a tinge green, as if suffering slight food poisoning.

  “This is beyond me. The orderly will take you to your room. I need to sit on this.”

  “Sit on what? Please, what did I miss? Is it crazy that I never realized my father murdered my mother? I mean, he'd go out of his way to hide that from me, wouldn't he?”

  “Yes. He would. We'll talk more in a few days. Right now, I need to think.”

  He coughed heavily, and his cough turned into a gag. He withDr.ew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped spit from his lips.

  “Kal!” he yelled at the door.

  The brass colored orderly with the thick blond arm-hair entered the room. The orderly looked past his heavy nose, first at the psychologist, then at the butcher's son. He looked at the butcher's son with pity and disgust. The butcher's son noted that his look was the same look his father had always given him. He’d missed something. He scratched his cuticles with his pointer fingers. Something big.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  His room had padded white walls and a floor reminiscent of a yoga mat. He had a white bed and there was a toilet in the corner.

  The orderly stood in the doorframe. “Aren't you going to ask me your usual questions?”

  The butcher's son scratched his cuticles and fresh blood stained his fingernails. This was why he hated change. Because he didn't notice it. He hated that, he hated the feeling that he'd missed something.

  “Are you not the same orderly?”

  “No. I'm the same orderly. Look around. Come on man.”

  “Is this not the same room?”

  “No. Yes. No it's not the same room. Look around. You used to have peach and tan tile. Now you have a white padded floor. You used to have beige walls with a blue horizontal stripe. Now your walls are white and padded. This is different. How can you not notice that?”

  The butcher’s son shook his head. His mother and father had asked him that very same question countless times.

  “I just don’t,” he said. “That's why I hate change. Why did you move me? Why couldn't I stay where I was?”

  “The psychologist ordered you moved. You're going to see him tomorrow.” The orderly sighed, and gave the butcher's son a look of pity and disgust. A look the butcher's son recognized—the same look his father gave him.

  “Look, man,” the orderly continued. “I'm sorry. Listen, Jesus, man, I mean, I can't say anything other than I'm sorry. The psychologist thinks it’s for the best that you know the truth.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “The evidence is clear,” said the lawyer to the jury. “The reason her body has never been found and never will be found has been brought to light. Please, members of the jury, the crime isn't just murder. It's worse, it's far worse. Don't only think of the butcher while you deliberate—think of his son.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  The moment the butcher's son entered the small office the psychologist stood from his chair and grabbed his keys from his desk and coat from the hook by the door. “Come with me,” he said. “This might be your last time leaving this facility for a while. We're going out for lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  The psychologist held the door open for him. “Yes. Let's go.”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

/>   “He tore out the IV's now,” a nurse said one week later. “It's clear liquid. He’s refusing even that. He's starving himself.”

  The butcher's son shook with fear. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, his complexion pale. His cuticles Dr.ipped blood, yet he continued to scratch incessantly. The doctor entered the room.

  He had a look of pity and disgust on his face. “If you don't let us feed you intravenously,” he said, “we're going to have to restrain you and insert a feeding tube directly into your stomach.”

  The butcher's son looked at the doctor, irrational and inexplicable horror in his eyes. “It's my mother! Can't you see it's my mother? You think I'm the crazy one? It's my mother!”

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  A week prior he was in a booth at Outback Steak House, and he rapped his fingernails on the table. Why did the psychologist take him to lunch? And why had two orderlies joined them?

  The waiter approached. “What will we be having today?”

  “Two steaks,” said the psychologist. “One for me, one for the young man across from me. Kal, Frank—you guys can order whatever you want. It's on me.”

  The two orderlies, their mouths shut so tightly that their lips were almost white, just shook their heads and kept their eyes plastered on the table.

  “I'm allergic to steak,” the butcher's son said.

  The psychologist shook his head and eyed him with pity and disgust. “No you're not.” He turned back to the waiter. “That's all for us then.”

  The waiter nodded and left. The butcher's son looked around the restaurant. A giant boomerang hung from the wall, and the butcher's son wondered if Australians actually used that.

  The psychologist cleared his throat. “Do you understand what happened in court?”

  The butcher’s son nodded as the orderlies looked at their hands.

  “My father was sentenced to life in prison. I'm not an idiot, I can understand what people say. I heard the jury.”

  “You haven't heard everything. You don't notice change. Do you understand the gravity of that concerning your father?”

  “No. I mean, I never noticed my mother's absence. I guess that's weird.”

  The psychologist spoke slowly. “Your father, the butcher, cooked you steak for dinner every night.”

  “Yes. He understood how I didn't like change. I don't notice it, and it makes me nervous and uncomfortable. He'd tell me we'd have steak for dinner and that I'd always be having steak for dinner, and I always did. If he never repeated himself, then one day gave me fish or something, I'd never notice. I know it doesn't sound like a big deal, but I hate not realizing that something is different. I'm smart enough to realize how brain dead that makes me. I wish so badly I could notice change, because then I'd be completely normal. But I can't, and I hate that so much. Most messed-up people like me can't imagine what they're missing. I can. I can imagine it. I see normal and know I'll never be that. But I've accepted that I guess.”

  The waiter returned with two plates and placed one in front of psychologist and the other in front of the butcher's son.

  “I can't eat this,” the butcher's son said. “I told you—I'm allergic.”

  The psychologist shook his head. “The reason your father's steak made you sick wasn't because you developed an allergy towards it. Try the steak.”

  The butcher's son stabbed the beef with his fork, cut off a chunk, and placed it in his mouth.

  “Notice anything?” the psychologist asked as the butcher's son chewed.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So I'll just tell you exactly what someone without your condition would notice. They'd notice that the steak they're eating now tastes far different from the steak their father fed them.”

  “They would?”

  “You never liked your father's steak.”

  “That's true.”

  “But you like this steak?”

  The butcher's son chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  The brass-skinned orderly with the thick blond arm-hair named Kal stood from the booth and walked quickly away, his complexion far paler than normal. The other orderly groaned as he paled by the second.

  “I don't understand,” said the butcher's son. “What's going on?”

  “Your mother's body was never found.”

  “That's true, but what's that have to do with anything?”

  The psychologist sighed. He took a hip flask from his pocket and took a long swig. “Son,” he said. “You never had steak for dinner.”

  “I didn't?”

  The psychologist shook his head. “No. You didn't. You never had steak for dinner because you wouldn't know the difference. Your father pulled a fast one. The orangutans are skeptical of changes in their cages. The pigs, however, couldn't care less. Your father killed your mother. Your mother disappeared. You had meat for dinner, but it wasn't beef. No, it wasn't beef at all. Your father had a room, your brother’s old room. That room became your mothers. Your father prepared dinner every night, but it was never steak. No, Jesus Christ, it wasn't steak. You never had steak. You had your mother.”

  The Infinite Man

  Subtraction isn't an option when constructing an indestructible statue. There is no carving. There is no chipping.

  The only method of creation is to build.

  “The Infinite Man”, created by an artist only known as Baker, never received much recognition or praise, and spent centuries in the corner of an obscure museum, unappreciated by hunDr.eds of thousands.

  That is, until the Silent Plague.

  Previously known as Sudden Infant Death SynDr.ome, or SIDS, the Silent Plague struck like an avalanche.

  There existed no cure, no immunity, and deaths occurred so rapidly that humanity had no more than a few months before extinction.

  There wasn't much to do. While some futilely searched for a non-existent cure, other scoured for a way to mark the universe, infinite proof that Man had once existed.

  Unfortunately, all evidence of humanity would crumble as the sands of the hourglass slipped by.

  All evidence, aside for “The Infinite Man”.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “The Infinite Man”, had it been destructible, would have been ravaged. Failed attempts at carving, painting, writing, chipping—marking in any way—came to pass as each human being attempted to prove, as oblivion bore down upon them, that they had once existed. A desperate race against death.

  The artistic merit of the statue was fairly unremarkable. It was just an upright man with one hand outstretched, as if reaching out to catch a firefly. Critics claimed the pose stagnant, the flare dim, and the inspiration obscure.

  None of which mattered as humanity failed to make an impression upon the statue.

  When “The Infinite Man” was universally deemed irrelevant, those centuries prior, humanity never expected the polar opposite to come to pass.

  But the number of surviving humans Dr.opped from billions to hunDr.ed millions, to a couple thousand, to less than a hunDr.ed, to just a single human being left.

  This last man racked his brain desperately for the last endless phrase that would encapsulate mankind's existence. He thought back to movies, books, television shows, presidential speeches, and anything else that struck his scrambling brain. Countless inspirational words enveloped him to convolution.

  He felt his breath become short, and a heavy sweat pulse from his skin. He stuttered. The words wouldn't come. He glanced at “The Infinite Man.”

  “Dang,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. Then he died.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Vines and weeds crawled over streets and climbed up buildings. Oceans spread, cement cracked, buildings crumbled—a fleck of dust at a time.

  Still, the universe rolled on.

  As “The Infinite Man” waited a few hunDr.ed feet underground, the Sun expanded to a red giant.

  A few millennia afterwards, a meteor shattered the Earth.

  By this time,
most of the stars in the universe had expanded to red giants as well, and the various intelligent lifeforms from countless galaxies scattered, scouring for an inhabitable solar system with a star still in its main sequence.

  “The Infinite Man” survived the end of the planet. It left the shattered remains and Dr.ifted steadily through space, in time leaving the Milky Way.

  Eventually an intelligent alien race, on the verge of annihilation, discovered the statue. The unexplainable phenomenon—the only object in existence immune to entropy—became a supernatural figure to the alien species, and until the day of their extinction they worshipped the statue.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Billions of years after the extinction of humanity, all life in the universe died as stars fizzled and became dust. “The Infinite Man” Dr.ifted on, completely alone aside for crumbling planets and expiring stars.

  As galaxies imploded, “The Infinite Man” Dr.ifted on.

  Relatively soon, nothing existed in the universe aside for dust spiraling towards a singular, gravitational point. “The Infinite Man” Dr.ifted towards this point as well.

  The dust condensed to a intensely powerful maelstrom of energy. Billions of years passed, and this point became an almost infinite mass.

  But “The Infinite Man” approached.

  The maelstrom of energy magnified to the point of expansion—it was moments from becoming a second Big Bang.

  But “The Infinite Man”, with its outstretched hand, grasped the swirling, infinitely dense point of energy as if it were a firefly.

  The point fizzled against the statue's indestructible grasp. It tried desperately to expand, but it was restrained inside the statue's palm.

  Then it fizzled, and became nothing.

  “The Infinite Man” let go and continued Dr.ifting, alone in the void.

  The Keepers