Fish Salad (1)
He was running. He was always running. Away from his chance at victory, away from
his chance at love, away from everything, everything, he didn’t care, he didn’t
want it. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one that decided to run in the first
place; rather, it was his other self.
Emile. She was there.
Always there, watching him, taking care of him—or so she said—but in reality
she was not; she hated herself for that and pretended not to care that
Johnathan knew at all what was happening. She hated herself too much to care
about herself anymore—she hated herself.
Hated herself! What was she going to do about it, then? Was she going to
try harder to win Jonathan’s love? Was
she going to know things, to find things, to look up at the stars and ask them
for help?
Jonathan thought not.
Not at all was she going to change to love herself at any time in the
near future, the far future, the near-far gap of a hole that he had gotten
himself into. The middle future was his place. It was where he belonged.
In the city of Diafoneus Macs he would run down the
alleyways and look at all the paintings on the walls—the graffiti, other people
called it graffiti but he saw it as it really was. Art. Art he liked to call by
its name, which was something only he knew, for he was a sorcerer of
information. A sorcerer who dealt with the magical art of inflation—that
beautiful infinite complex from which his love grew. His love, his love for her
would grow and grow until he saw it as beautiful, and then she would kill him
just as he killed her for loving him too much.
In the end they both died a little bit when she passed—he was now alone
in the world without a love to love him anymore than she had loved him.
He wanted her back. He really, really, really wanted her
back. His heart raced every time he thought of her. His thoughts raced, faster
than his heart, and his legs raced fastest of them all. He wanted them to
race--:what, then did he want to really do? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to
know. All he wanted to do was bring her back. Bring her back into the living
plane of existence where everything would be right once she awoke from her
sleep.
Her long sleep. That
sleep which only he knew the true cause of.
It was him. It was him that
killed her, he killed her when he meant to love her. And as such the cops were
after him. Of course they were after
him. Not for his murder but for what god had given him—a gift, the gift of
information sorcery applied to the universe where people would see him and bow
down to him. But they did not bow down out of subservience; they bowed down
because they were afraid of him.
They did not exist. Schizophrenia. That was what the doctors
called it when they diagnosed him. Paranoid schizophrenia. What was he going to
do about it? He didn’t know. At all. None. No where did he or could he find a
place to worship in peace. Who did he worship? He didn’t know. Did he care? No,
not really. He didn’t care at all what happened to him.
Rain. The rain fell on his shoulders and sloughed off his
back where it puddled into pools against the wall at his feet while he leaked
his life blood onto the ground. Piss mixed with blood both of which he drew
shapes in on the walls as he died slowly in a corner of the Diafonous block one
hundred kilometers exactly from where he had killed her. A nice coincidence.
One that he did not understand, wished to understand, but could not. What was
it besides a string of coincidences that brought him here? He didn’t
understand—again! He didn’t understand! Why was it that he couldn’t? Where did
his understanding go? What was it even before he knew it, before he found it
and lost it?
Where was he? Why—why did he have to die?
Please, God! He
thought. Please, let me live! Let me see her another time—I want to wait before
she has a chance to kill me again! End thought he. Of course it was the
end, the end where he died. Why did he have to die? He didn’t—he didn’t want
to! No way—no way!!!!!!! NO! Please, God.
Don’t let me die. He gripped his handle—the handle that he placed himself on
within the building with which he was now sharing his life. All of his life, he
shared. All of it. It hurt. A lot. A whole lot. It, it hurts.
Where was he shot? Was he even shot at all? Where was the
blood coming from—no, it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t his. Then why—why was it there?
No—it couldn’t be. It wasn’t his but it was his—he was dead. He looked at his
dead body from above. Now what? He thought. Now what do I do with myself?
And then she came. Emile. With a smile on her face and with
her both arms, extended out to hug him or to perhaps squeeze the life out of
him. To squeeze the life out of his death just as she had squeezed the life
death out of his death life, in which he had mumbled his way about for the past
fifteen years and some odd months. Some odd months meaning the time he had
spent in jail before he had been released on parole. Fat lot of good that had
done him. If only he had stayed. If only he had remained on parole. Without the
thought of revenge.
Because it was revenge that motivated him—and then she
touched him and lifted up his chin.
“Hello.”
She said. And then Johnathan looked into her eyes and saw
kindness. Where was the kindness coming
from? Where? How did it work? Where was he, where was she, when they were both
dead? They had to be somewhere special.
The Astral plane. Socrates. Were they the same? In his head
Johnathan knew it was right. He was dead. He had been dead for a long time.
Hours, maybe. Even a day was possible to explain his love for her in terms of
dead logic. I mean, what is dead logic? That was the thought that bothered him
as it ran through his head.
That was it. That was what he was supposed to know. Who was
she? Was she someone he had met before? Was it her? That thing that he saw,
that non-human presence? Was she dead too?
Of course she was dead. She had to be dead. Otherwise he
would have never been able to see her.
“Come,” she said. “Let us be friends.”
Johnathan laughed. He laughed out loud. Loud enough to catch
the attention of a passerby—two of them—but they did not know what they heard
and only looked away after a second or two or perhaps three. Where were they,
even? The Diatronubicedefs had not told him of this. Legion upon legion of men
like him were trained for this exact moment. Should he kill her? It all came
back. His training. The people he had killed, men, women, children, the unborn
fetuses of the woman he had killed while they were pregnant with the children
he had inseminated in them. All of them dead. One after the other.
Just desserts. What he deserved.
Fuck it. I don’t want to do this anymore.
He dropped to the floor. Then he took out his gun. It
worked. Where was it? In his hand. His right hand where he kept his suicide
tablets—under the skin of the left wrist. Where he had hidden them a long time
ago. He had never thought of using them like this before. Perhaps it was for
the best.
He bit into his hand and swallowed them along with a chunk
of his own flesh and the blood that squirted out of his wrist’s artery.
Stupefied, Emile watched in horror. No. No. No. That is what she thought. This
can’t be real because it’s not! Hello there. You have entered
the diaphonius zone.
Gah! Thought Johnathan. Gah! Gah! I’m not dead—but I am out!
OUT!
Fist pump for glory. That is what he thought. He did not
move his physical body because he could not. No legs. They were gone. When had
he lost them? And yet he did move, eventually. And then he died. Not because he
was wet with blood but because he had no blood. Out of the frying pan and into
the fire—he went there because he had to. He swallowed the tablets. The tablets
were gone. Not in his hand. No longer in his hand. They had never--:they had
never been there. Where was he? In a dream?
In a dream, answer. It must have been. That was it. That was
what he felt. Where was he then? In bed? In his birthday suit? In his—in his
own mind? Dead? Not dead? Where was Emile? Was she still there—she was, she was
not. She was not where she was supposed to be. Where was she?
“Where are you?” he said. He shouted it again. “Where are
you?!” He tore at his hair. “Where—“
Someone cut him off. A voice. In his head? No, at the door. Who
was at the door? Nobody. It had to be nobody. It wasn’t anybody. Not anybody
you know.
Not anybody you know?
“Are you okay in there?”
A voice he recognized. Emile? Was it really her? Was she—did
she come back to life? Aahh!? Big—butts—I—cannot—lie—help—me! Help me!? Who
needs the help? Me, I’m not me! I’m her! I’m Emile! Ha! You can’t trick me,
reality! There she goes. She’s gone. The door is shut. No one may enter. No one
may enter Mordor without a free chicken pass. Shicken path. Stricken
path-monster. Shikano. Sai-kano. Sai. I like Sai. Is he a real person? Hello—
“Hey!”
“No! Shut up! Shut up!”
He tore at his hair.
“Shut up!”
No. He couldn’t answer the door. He could not. He would not.
What would happen to him if he did?
“He’s crazy.”
“He’s just a schizophrenic.”
Shut up. Shut up. Grab at the ears. Now. Shake the head.
Back. Forth. You calm now?
Shut it. I’ll go answer the fucking door. Shut the fuck up.
Get out of my head.
Ha-ha-ha. Very funny. As if you were one to decide when I
leave.
He got up and went to the door. Opened it. There she was,
Emile. His wife.
“Hello there?” he put on a brave face. Not brave enough. She
noticed it.
“Did you take your meds this morning?”
No. You didn’t. You forgot, didn’t you, you fool? You’re a
fool. A fool. A fool. Fool-stool-pool-mool-phool-pool. Ha look at that I
embedded a torus. Embedded.
“Johnathan. Speak to me. Johnathan, stop staring like that.
You’re creeping me out.”
Look at you. She think’s you’re so creepy. Why is she
married to her? You can read her thoughts, right? Stop reading her thoughts.
She’s thinking about you.
She slapped him.
“Johnathan! Will I have to take you to the hospital again?”
No. No. Not that. Not that place that evil place the place
where they gave me electroshock therapy cerapy merapy derapy derp. He laughed a
little on the outside and a lot on the inside. Derp.
Emile sighed. “Look, honey. We gotta take you somewhere
safe. It’s another episode. Just, follow me.”
She’s going to kill you. She’s going to take you into a
forest and kill you. But there are no forests around here. She’s going to make
one. She’ll use her superpowers she has them to, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she? Then
why doesn’t she use them?
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
Johnathan shook his head. “Your mom.” He laughed.
Emile frowned. She picked up her Iphone and dialed a
number—the hospital number, right? That hospital!? That one? Why—no, why? Stop!
Johnathan grabbed at the phone. Emile jerked back her hand.
The phone fell. Twisting. Twisting shmisting dissing pissing cracked. Cracked
all to hell you did that didn’t you. Cracked. You idiot. She hates you now. Get
down and apologize. Apologize shmologize poligist poltergeist. A ghost. Is she
a ghost? She’s a ghost. None of this is real. It’s all a dream.
She slapped him.
“Out! I say out! Shit, I can’t take this anymore! Johnathan.
Johnathan, you know what?”
Johnathan shivered. He looked aside and then at the ground
and finally made eye contact and then looked away and then a tear appeared in
his left eye.
“Please.”
Emile snarled. She looked away. She brought up her hand.
“You take it off.”
“Take . . . what . . .” Johnathan swallowed. He blinked. The
world went fuzzy.
Just a dream. Just a dream. Please don’t leave me. “Please
don’t leave me.”
Another slap. The sharp edge of the diamond cut a slash
across Johnathan’s face. Johnathan puked. Onto her blouse, then coughed up a
goblet of phlegm. It landed on her nose.
Emile grimaced and took the ring off herself. She threw it
on the ground. Then she stomped on it. She turned around and waved her hand.
“You take care of the mortgage payments for me, won’t you,
dear?”
She walked away and out of his life for good. For good.
Shmood. Shood. Would. Could. Would stop it if you would. You will, won’t you?
Bring her back. Bring back your superpowers you can do it
can’t you? Where is she? She’s—she’s over there I can’t see her anymore. Where
is she? Where did she go? She’s not real,--not real,--not—she’s real, no, isn’t
she, no, isn’t she not, no, she’s—she’s—blood. Shumud. Gud. Where is she now?
Stupid. Stupid idiot.
Ring. Ground. Shiny. Gold. I pick it up. He picked it up. Ha
look it’s not even real gold is it. You never got her real gold. She knew. Not
real gold. Shumuld. Where. Is. It., it’s here. Your superpowers. Bring her
back. Control her mind. Kill her with your mind. So she doesn’t escape. She.
Escape. No. She, escape. Don’t let her. No. Let her. No. Don’t let her shut up
my voices you are still there shut up.
No.
He sat down. It was raining. And cold. The weatherman said
low thirties. Celcius? No, this is America. Am I—he turned around. The house.
It’s locked. She took the key. She took the shumiki. Ki. Tree. Butts and I
cannot lie. Where. Where am I. Who. Who am I. Where is my superpowers. I can’t
kill her. No. Don’t kill her. Kill her. Don’t kill her. Die first. You pig.
Pig. Shumig. Grig. Blib. Baby bibs on a treetop spiral tree three yi ki. Yi ki.
Yi ki. Ki. Ki.
I am so stupid. Shumupid. Where. Where am I. Outside. So my
voices say. My voices. That’s all they are.
He hung his head. Low. To the ground.
“That’s all they are.”
He looked down the street. Could he see? No, because his
glasses were wet. Where is she. She. He. Emili. Emile. Where are you. Emile.
Why. No that’s not the real you the real you is inside or at work or is dead
she is dead are you dead I am dead help. Me. I love you. Please don’t go.
Please don’t go. Please don’t shumo. Go. The game of go. I can beat you. I can
beat you you know at the game of go I am a grand master go player shumayer I
have never played go before in my life shut up. Shut up. But I am. I can play
go. I can beat you at go. My voices they say so. Go. It’s all a game of go. The
universe is a game of go.
The rain continued to fall. Wetting his shoulders. His
glasses. He shivered. Locked out of the house. Locked out. House. Shumouse.
Mouse. Computer mouse. PC Apple Microsoft I am a windows 7 man who likes windows
eight shumaight where is she why can’t I see her I can’t see her because my
glasses are wet they are very wet wet het wet het my bet is that they are wet
“Het bet wet quet my name is Quet” side to side, rotate the
hips. “Quet ny name is Quet.”
Back and forth he rotated. As the rain fell he rotated back
and forth. A car drove past. The passengers looked out the rain-streaked window
and saw a man lying on the ground in front of his own house. Who was he? They
wondered. Probably a homeless squatter, they decided. They drove down the
street and disappeared.
Forever shurever Denver Colorado. Where I am living. Is this
Denver? I want to get to CERN so they can hear my life’s work life’s smuwork it
is my life’s work in CERN shumerm white hole black hole big hole little hole
white black chessboard shumessboard. Physicist in training. I am a physicist in
training with superpowers supershumowers showers are hot and cold at the same
time they are superimposed! Superimpositionary! Expeditionary! Shumary! Canary!
Where is my
“Canary! Shumary!
Hello there, canary!” He looked at the yellow figure in front of him. It was a
Canary. A canary, right? “Canary! Shumary! You will listen to me will you not?”
He cried. Out of the rain and into the frying pan. No key. Left the key in the
house with my wallet and my pants. Locked the door. The door autolock. Ed.
Autolocked. Why did she put that there? Emile—she’s out—no she isn’t—it’s
Emile! Secret service Emile! “Wheee!” he thought to himself. And said to
himself. “Whee! Whee! Whee!” He said. “Wheel of fire! Fire shumyer!”
He moved his hands in motion with the rain as if he were
both conducting a symphony and directing airplane traffic. Perhaps he was
directing an airplane. A real airplane. This was an airport. He was at an airport.
Lots of planes. Shumanes. Bang drang pang planegorious glorious shyumorious
laborious men in the coal mines in Japan during world war two. Two. The number
two is “Pretty! Pretty funny shumuny! Get me to CERN! Right now, get me to
CWERN! SHUMERM!” Me, me, me! Superpowers! Ha! Yes, superpowers! I can fly! Fly!
Higher than planes! “Fly high! Fly high in the sky where my key—no, key . . .
no, no key . . .”
I’m cold. It’s cold out here.
He shivered.
The weatherman. He said low thirties.
He hugged on his jacket. It was cold so he hugged it
tighter.
Emile, Emile, where
are you Emile I would like to marry you Emile you are my love I love you you
can’t be gone can you.
You can’t be gone you
aren’t gone.
Ahah.
Caught you.
Caught you with my
mind. Come back. Shumack. Hit me again shumack.
Because I love you, Emile.
“Where are you, Emile?”
The rain did not answer.