Vantage Point
Vantage Point Fall 2022
Exec Team
Elke Coenders- Editor-in-chief
Shelby Cundiff- Editor-in-chief Mary Gonzalez- Editor-in-chief Lyric Hyde- Treasurer
Editors
Morgan Dawson Peyton French Sasha Haunz Amanda Houston Sarah Kirtland Sarah Matthews Claire Melvin Abigail Rollins
Contributors
Elke Coenders
Samuel Cotthoff
Morgan Dawson Mary Gonzalez Lyric Hyde Abigail Rollins Ethan Tarpley Cindy Zamarripa
Table of Contents
reality and pizza rolls... Morgan Dawson
Winter... Mary Gonzalez Snowflake... Mary Gonzalez
Haikus... Abigail Rollins hollow bones... Claire Melvin Nostalgia.... Cindy Zamarripa emotions... Claire Melvin
A Tour of New Orleans in the Night... Elke Coenders
Tears... Abigail Rollins
Candle Flame on a Blue Night Sky... Abigail Rollins fragility... Samuel Cotthoff
The Busking Saint Falls From Grace... Lyric Hyde distilled vinegar... Claire Melvin
Supernova... Morgan Dawson wrap me in your arms... Samuel Cotthoff perception... Claire Melvin
Table of Contents
Mine... Mary Gonzalez
An Authentic Persian Rug... Elke Coenders
IT LINGERS... Samuel Cotthoff
Dedication to the Changeling... Lyric Hyde allostasis... Claire Melvin
late night thoughts... Samuel Cotthoff
emotion regulation... Claire Melvin
"Never Been Happier"... Ethan Tarpley
Artifact... Lyric Hyde
The garden... Mary Gonzalez
reality and pizza rolls
Morgan Dawson
When Max stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen at two o’clock in the morning, he didn’t expect to see Cate sitting cross-legged on the countertop, in what looked like a faded band t-shirt (probably his) and a pair of old, worn pajama pants (probably Dakota’s).
He didn’t expect the pizza rolls, either, but there was an entire baking sheet of them sitting on the countertop next to Cate. Well, half of an entire sheet. There were a couple sitting on the plate in her hands. He assumed they weren’t her first serving.
(To be fair, it’s hard to expect anything from someone you’ve only known for a handful of days after you found them huddled in an alley a few blocks from your house, then brought them back with you to stay in said house. God, this was going to be so difficult to explain when Max’s mom got back from Michigan.)
There was a brief moment of silence. Cate was the first to break it.
“Hello, Max.” Her odd accent made everything she said sound a little ominous –especially when she kept talking all low and quiet like that – but the way it was rounded out by the pizza roll halfway to her mouth lessened the impact.
“Hey, Cate,” he said, opting for neutral and casual, trying not to let confusion slip into his voice, worried that it would come across as accusation. He was glad she felt comfortable, honestly – he’d been worried, when he’d first brought her home, that she’d curl up in a corner like a skittish cat without a word.
If something in his voice bothered Cate, it certainly didn’t show on her face. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest – he might as well have not said anything at all.
(That was something she was unnervingly good at – hiding what she felt, perfectly crafted masks that she flipped through like playing cards. He’d only known her for a few days, but he could already tell that this was a skill of hers. He doesn’t really mind, to each their own and whatnot, but she couldn’t be older than he was – probably younger, if he had to hedge a bet, maybe 15 or 16 – yet she put on such an aloof and collected act that she almost seemed like an adult.)
Cate didn’t seem to feel any need to explain… whatever this was, at all, and simply settled back into her midnight snack (if you could still call it midnight this late, or call it a snack when it was an entire bag of pizza rolls). Max opened his mouth to say something else, shuffling around in his brain for any spare words, but came up short.
After that slightly awkward silence had stretched on for a little longer, Max – breaking through his haze of exhaustion and general feeling of what the hell – remembered what he’d gotten up for: a glass of water.
Thankfully, the cabinet Cate was leaning against wasn’t where the glassware was kept, because he didn’t know if she’d actually move if he asked; it was close, though, his hand brushing against her shoulder as he reached for a cup. If she noticed the contact, she didn’t make it known.
The echo of the faucet being shut off ushered in a new batch of quiet, one that Max was just as uncomfortable with. It itched below his skin, jumpy and restless like adrenaline – and he’d always countered adrenaline-fueled anxiety with impulsiveness, so he jumped into starting a conversation without any sort of plan.
“What’s with the whole…” He gestured vaguely towards Cate and the pizza rolls. He had intended to call the situation… well, something, but he really had no words for it, and the sentence trailed off lamely.
Cate just quirked an eyebrow, as if she didn’t understand when, by all means, she definitely understood. She had to. What else, besides her early-morning scrounging in the pantry could he possibly be referring to? Which meant, of course, that she was just fucking with him. At half-past two in the morning. Great. He sighed, scrapped the whole thing, and started over. “Why are you up this late?”
She hummed through chewing on a pizza roll. The plate was full again. He hadn’t seen her place more on there, but there they were, and there were the empty spaces on the baking sheet where pizza rolls had once been. He’d been watching her the whole time.
“Couldn’t sleep,” was all Cate said, for a moment. Max should have been content with that – she clearly was being vague about it, and the polite thing to do would be to shut up and leave her be. But Max was nothing if not nosy and ignorant of social niceties.
“What’s keeping you up?” he asked, trying not to sound too terribly interested, but not indifferent, because there’s a fine line between casual and creepy, and another between casual and callous.
She shrugged, the movement heavy and purposeful, and it felt like the visual equivalent of a period at the end of a sentence. Even Max could point out a losing battle when he saw one, and he was ready to abandon his curiosity and go back to bed, a wish goodnight on the tip of his tongue.
But then, as casually as if discussing the weather, Cate said: “Reality is very loud, two hours after midnight. Very busy.”
Max blinked. He blinked again. “Excuse me?”
Cate was looking somewhere over his shoulder, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She wasn’t entirely… there. She’d had the same look that first night, shaking and numb, barely able to lean on him as he guided her to collapse in the guest room bed. But that had been from cold and exhaustion, too many nights spent on hard pavement in the late-autumn chill.
This seemed more like… distance. He didn’t know what it was distance from, nor where she’d gone, but it seemed like the right word.
“It buzzes,” Cate said, breaking his focus, bringing it back to her. “Reality. Like a… living wire.” Live wire, piped up a voice in the back of his head, wholly unimportant, but close enough. “Like a current, or static, or a crowd’s murmur, or…”
Without re-focusing, her eyes shifted to him, fixing him with a vacant stare that sent a chill crawling down his spine. “You know when you sit on your hand for a long time, and it feels like there’s a bunch of bees in there?”
Max blinked. Uh. Maybe? He opened his mouth, but she moved on before he could choke a single word out. “Reality is like that. All the threads of it, all the planes of it, shifting and moving. I can just barely feel them, and sometimes they are louder than others. Like right now.”
She blinked a couple times, and her eyes were back to normal. For a second, there, he’d thought that there was a streak of purple in the hazel-green. He knew for sure, though, that violet had started to wreathe around her fingers, curling down her wrist, flashing intangible alongside the metallic glint of rings and bracelets.
“So. Reality is too loud.” Another pizza roll from another impossibly refilled plate. The girl is gonna get a stomachache, he thought, stupidly, because thinking about anything else in this situation would have made his head hurt. “What about you, bird boy? Why are you awake?”
You whistle back at birds once, and suddenly you’re the bird boy. He would have told her off for the nickname if it had been literally any other hour of the day, or literally any other circumstance. Instead, he just said, “Couldn’t sleep, either.”
She smiled, but it was a quick flash of a thing – just a flicker at the corners, slipping away as soon as it’d started.
Then, multiple things were floating – a plate, meandering out of an open cabinet, which hadn’t been open before, and a few pizza rolls, tumbling through the air to drop onto the plate – all outlined in a hazy sheen of violet. The ensemble drifted over to hover in front of him, bobbing up and down just slightly.
“Pizza roll?” Max glanced over to look at Cate as she spoke, and he saw that the smile was back, but different than before. It was a bit less sharp or mischievous, like hers tended to be. This one was a bit more genuine, and almost… shy. As if she didn’t know the protocol for offering someone a pizza roll at two in the morning – then again, Max didn’t really know, either. He certainly didn’t know the protocol for accepting floating food.
And… maybe she didn’t know.
Max realized, in that moment, just how little he knew about Cate. Yeah, she was a stranger, so of course he wouldn’t know much about her, but this went beyond that. He assumed that every stranger he met had at least gone to school, or something like that. That they’d had friends at some point, sleepovers and birthday parties and normal kid things.
Cate made things float. She had weird purple energy that crawled around her like snakes. She either summoned pizza rolls, or teleported them so fast he couldn't see it. She listened to reality, for Pete’s sake, when other people listened to, you know, music.
Max didn’t know a damn thing about her. But, well. Here she was. And despite every mask she might put up, Max knew a lonely kid when he saw one. He knew where to look.
So, he smiled back, and took the plate. That seemed like a good place to start – if there was no protocol for accepting floating food, then he’d just have to write it himself. And from the way Cate smiled just a touch wider, it worked just fine.
They ate their pizza rolls together, neither saying a word, and the silence wasn’t all that bad.
And there was a moment, just a little blip, where he thought something shifted. He’d tuned out the sounds in the kitchen –crumbs falling onto plates, the grandfather clock ticking just a room away – and in that haze of habituation, Max swore he could hear that reality-buzzing Cate was going on about.
But it was probably just the single fluorescent light that was flipped on under the stovetop. (When did that turn on, anyway?)
Winter Mary Gonzalez
Snow falling, no promises to keep
I see the wind blow and swirl the small flakes that flow down They have no promises to keep
The wind also stirs my memories
The days where I didn’t have a care in the world besides the snowballs that my siblings would launch and the ice on the steps if you weren’t careful I had no promises to keep The way the cold numbed my fingers and toes, despite my many layers and scarves
And the way my face became a collection of red hues that were soft and cold save for my brown eyes that scoured my next target
The shout of my mother that sent us barreling to the small trailer, blue and worn but still quite warm.
The stomping of shoes and hands, the shaking of coats and hair, We peeled the layers off as we began to thaw and raced to the small table decorated with an array of mismatched mugs from different times and places.
The plate in the center that housed the fresh baked bread. I had no promises then
It is still snowing and I have my own cup now, no racing, or anyone to target. No layers that are wet with snow or thawing from the cold. Simply a window to the world that was yesterday where I had no promises to keep.
Snowflake Mary Gonzalez
In the distance a figure wanders alone Dark hair that sways in the cold breeze as snow settles Atop the head like a crown
There are no happily ever afters for her There are no more worlds of princesses being rescued From dragons or evil witches
No
There is only a disillusioned girl That stands outside in the snow Waiting to catch a cold.
Haikus Abigail Rollins
The warm wind whispers Sunlight dances on treetops Blue serenity
Terror in the woods Light escapes from young doe’s eyes The echo of man She sits there alone Watching the wind in the waves No need of a friend
hollow bones
Claire Melvindepression belongs in the opening credit sequence as executive producer, starring role, and director. the orchestrator, the liar, and the one in charge. I try to pull myself out of the movie, as sometimes I can see it is only heading in one, dangerous direction. but it is easier to choose to let it overpower me. like a skydiver who forgot to pull their pilot chute, or more like a bird. there are outstretched hands trying to catch me. but I'm covered in tree sap that itches like hydrochloric acid. and I never learned how to fly. the nest, mother bird, and the other fletchlings get harder and harder to make out as I fall. then right before I hit the ground and my hollow bones get turned to jelly, I hear the word: CUT! and my limp body is carried back up to the nest. the other birds get notes on their performance and the set is reset. I'm told this time to scream a little louder, so the audience believes my pain. and over the edge I slip again.
Nostalgia. Cindy ZamarripaI used to know nostalgia. A former tenant in my strenuous brain. Every once in a while, they would come and visit. Being with them in the same space; More often than not, left me yearning for a place. A place in which I should have never stayed.
I asked them to leave after one final visit. With a flushed face, told them good wishes. Years later, I heard a knock on my door. A Nicely wrapped present, a written statement. I can not disclose what was said.
I simply wrote this–“Visits only, no overnight stays.”
emotions
Claire Melvinsome are like drops on a sink which fall off your lip after you rinsed the toothpaste from your mouth
others are like baths which you sink into pressing in what matters and letting what doesn't slip down the drain
some are like pools which you share with your friends swimming in the piss and shit of strangers or in man-made chemicals changing the pH of your skin
others are like oceans which seem forever lasting and all consuming dragging you around in currents drowning you but also keeping you afloat or giving you the fish to feed your life
all take the shape of what they're inside they're pushed through their cycle washing you, leaving you you pour them into the cup of your mind when you need to quench the thirst to feel again
A Tour of New Orleans in the Night Elke Coenders
The day was burnt out heavy from holding up the stiff sky and so was I, as we escaped into the night disappeared there, where everything on the street was swinging
The women who posed in the galleries wrapped only in their revealing revelry, draped over the wrought iron, swinging
laissez les bon temps roulez
The men whose leather belts itched to be removed, who laughed at their own jokes, jokes no one heard over echoes of trumpets and drunks, swinging
The children who sat on upturned buckets banging with their little hands sticks upon plastic pails, swinging
laissez les bon temps roulez
I walked those streets, unsure of whether I loved them or hated them I felt the whole place, one heavy heartbeat after another, pounding as one I sank into its syncopated sand and breathed through brass lungs my bones formed their own band improvised step by step by step My feet swung as they carried me over wet bricks wet with what, I wasn’t sure
laissez les bon temps roulez
All I knew was that my body was no longer my own, instead carried by a violet flood of euphoria, liquor, and music—music pouring from every door each door eclipsing the next so I could hear all but could not listen
In the darkness, all that mattered were those sounds, those keys bouncing, riffs roaring, laughs decadent My eyes closed, I trusted my feet and the crowd to take me where I needed to go
laissez les bon temps roulez
When I opened my eyes, the noise was gone I was in silence not black silence, not the absence of sound but emerald silence
There was a soft light a couple blocks away emitting the gentle strum of a guitar, some quiet chuckles. I drifted in that direction alongside a moth. There was a sweet smell, one distinguishable from streets soaked with nostril-burning gin and bodily fluids
As I came closer, I found a black and white tiled floor wiry chairs and garden tables and people with faces, pink not from the intoxication of skin and spirits but from the air-conditioned warmth of inside The song was here comes the sun, little darling and the man was tone-deaf but the patrons seemed to like it and so did I
laissez les bon temps roulez
laissez les bon temps roulez
I pulled crumpled dollars from my pocket, an offering for the boy in white who handed me a paper boat filled with sweet white dust and hot airy dough, holding afloat the spirit of the neighborhood with this remark: “If those guys in the back can make ‘em, anyone can”
I wanted to stay there forever, but my feet took me away, took me to the next street, then the next each one growing darker, then darker
laissez les bon temps roulez
laissez les bon temps roulez
Behind corners, I saw shadows enlightened, darting across bricks touching the candle flames on iron-casted railings for a purple heartbeat
It felt cold for once in the heat of the humid bowl my steps created a quickening rhythm of their own they seemed to follow me, to hunt me so I ran not sure what I was running from or what I was running toward
laissez les bon temps roulez
The cadence of my heels resounded through the square in front of a church, its back tattooed with the shadow of a son arms outstretched into wings, draped in fixture fabric
His stony features freer in his silhouette than His statue
laissez les bon temps roulez
The trees who barely escaped the quarter wore moss and beads on their ancient branches, swinging glinting dully under the stars
The traffic lights flashed, too for beads praying their ticking clocks would combust spontaneously
My feet took me to the tracks, hurrying to spring onto the glazed wooden floor of the streetcar which rattled and swung I leaned into the hard oak seat listened to myself hum and breathe, for the first time in a while, and let the rhythm roll me toward the horizon, where some rays were rising up again, swinging
laissez les bon temps roulez
laissez les bon temps roulez
Tears
Abigail Rollins
Tears are
The sun falling beneath the horizon
As the illuminated moon rises
Clouds floating across the darkened sky
Doves flying through their watery depths
Dewdrops of moonlight on the blades of grass Reflections lost in the river flowing away away
For the river is time and the reflection is hope
The dimly lit valley of frozen bluebells
Falling snow on a bright winter night
The lesser light blocking the stars
The face of the moon ever smiling Till the days of the earth are numbered like leaves and fallen
Are tears.
Candle Flame on a Blue Night Sky
Abigail Rollins
Candle flame on a blue night sky
The color of jeans or blackberry pie
Rhythm, O rhythm, is singing a song Of peace and of journeys, a place to belong.
Violin strings and a sad deep note
Swaying and rocking to the musical boat
The purr of the engine, the blanket beneath My hazelnut head of soft curls in a wreath.
Face leaning out in the rushing wind
Dusty white stars shining down on the destined To die and the destined to see life again— O sweet summer night of joy, journey, and rain.
fragility by samuel cotthoff
the day i flew my kite was the day i realized my fragility
a thin piece of fabric woven over rods of wood or metal pushed around by the winds of the earth
i am just a somewhat thicker piece of skin connected to musculature and skelature pushed around and pulled the chaos of society
code-switching every two minutes running from group to group constantly shifting who i am when caught in a storm kites have no control over their direction
they have to let go and face the world willingly
when caught in my own storm i have no sense of where i am or who i am
The Busking Saint Falls From Grace Lyric Hyde
And in this moment, I am falling.
For years I float and fall down streets and alleys and parks. “Walking and falling.”
When the nights are long and cold, I feel the Devil’s bite at my heels, cold silver teeth rusted he once was an angel too.
Did the Devil ever love another? Was his gift to God too great to bear, too much to be holy?
Sometimes, I wish the sidewalks would crack open and swallow me and I could go home like nothing ever happened.
distilled vinegar
Claire Melvin emotions are friends you've created in your mind vast and with quirks that you've given them with time like a friend they can betray you and leave you with the truth of yourself to find do you know who you are or are you all apart scattered in the wind created by the sins of mother and father as all things pass and your innocence dies what's it gonna take to find you again red hot anger washed away by ice cold shame you have to ask yourself are you the window or are you the frame are you what's looked through or are you arranging the emotions in place
sometimes I feel like I'm the rodent model adverse stimuli is placed in front of me to see how i'll react what notes do the lab coats take when I start crying in the middle of genetics class I think I need to do the round on the washing machine that cleans the machine I'll buy some distilled vinegar
Supernova Morgan Dawson
i. when i first met you, i closed my eyes you were too bright, too blinding the sun seemed dim next to you and somewhere, in the back of my my mind i wondered how long you’d last
ii. you burned, too, red-hot and searing ember smiles, molten tears, wildfire rage only ash awaited those who drew close but who was i to deny gravity? and when my hands came away blistered, i didn’t scream
iii. when you died, it was all-encompassing you didn’t flicker or fizzle out it was blinding, it was burning, and it was violent i couldn’t tell if the tears were grief or stardust in my eyes
iv. after the end of it all i’ll choose intensity to describe you because even now my skin still burns where you touched me and my vision is spotted and bruised
– they say every star dies so another can begin
wrap me in your arms by samuel cotthoff wrap me in your arms for i have yearned for the touch of love take me to a place of safety for i have felt weary and alone give me peace of mind for i have anxiously tread through life show me life will be ok for i have undertaken tremendous struggle warm me with your body for i have been frozen for too long let me rest my head on your shoulder for i have been carrying far too much on mine save me from my inner demons for i have gone without a shield my entire life comfort me my friend for i am in pain and need your healing hold me for i am scared of what is to come
perception
Claire Melvinas soon as I look at the page all the thoughts leave my brain and I can barely even stand to put the pen in my hand perhaps my head is filled with sand and a child is trying to bury themselves then digs too deep and reaches my spine, awestruck she beings to climb she lights up each bone and muscle but is disappointed she didn't find wings she saw into my brain and witnessed my windy and reckless thoughts and must have believed I was a bird or a dragonfly I'm disappointed too everytime my eyes return to the page I rage, and rage, and rage because I've never been able to fly how do I pull myself out of that loop I've believed that I can't escape what I feel but my thoughts are designed by my mind they help deal with the dirty and clean but they're constructed by a hidden me and can be changed so the child sees my lack of wings and thinks: the ground is plenty to explore
Mine
Mary Gonzalez
I want to run to my world the grass is always green the sky is clear and the weather is pleasant
There are mermaids in the lagoons fairies in the gardens and dragons in the sky
Let me slip away just for a bit I’m sure no one would mind it is my world after all
I want to bask in the sun’s warmth laying in the grass all while dreaming of my little world.
An Authentic Persian Rug Elke Coenders
Tourists are idiots. Rich idiots, but idiots nonetheless. They take off their shoes— the only things masking that putrid smell of sweat and fat—and rub them all over our silky, hand-woven carpets. They keep calling them Persian rugs. It takes everything inside of me not to yell at them: “Persia. Is. Not. The. Same. Thing. As. Turkey.”
I call this particular breed “cruise people.” The cargo-shorted old man and the tank-topped older woman inspect the carpet I selected especially for them. A silent girl, who must be their daughter, stands several feet from the rug. She dissects it with her eyes.
“Tea?” I gesture to tulip-shaped glasses. They do not know it is an insult when they refuse—or they do not care.
The older woman bats her eyes. “Do you have sweet iced tea?” They do not care.
They speak to me as if the more they enunciate and wiggle their eyebrows, the better I will understand English. They tell me their names, which I immediately forget. I do not tell them mine. When I ask, “Where are you from?”—they could say Constantinople for all I care—they respond to me with the name of someplace I have never heard of. From their annoyed, clipped reactions, I infer they are Americans. U. S. A.
Do you know all the provinces of Turkey? I long to say. Instead, I enact my revenge by telling them the rug was woven by a family descended from Constantine. It took this exotic family three years of labor to craft; nothing like it has ever been made before or will ever be made again. This will be the reason it costs so much to put the rug in a box and fly it across the ocean. I show them the silkworms floating in the well, as the lady with the lightest skin I could find and the whitest smile I could afford spins the silk.
“Have you been enjoying your cruise?” Small talk distracts them from the price tag.
The old man chuckles. “We would’ve been, but our daughter made us do this Turkey thing backpacking style. Wanted ‘the real deal,’ some gooz-llama— I’d be fine with the Lido deck’s buffet.” He meant to say gozleme, the delicate pastry my mother made for our village on rainy nights.
I am the best carpet salesman in Ephesus because I know how to read people. The old man has been objecting to this purchase ever since he stepped off the tour bus. The older woman has wanted a Turkish rug ever since she couldn’t afford one in her twenties. The girl… doesn’t matter, as she does not hold the credit card. She sips the tea I had not noticed she accepted.
“It is organic,” I say, a new word I picked up around five years ago. “This particular carpet is ten thousand American dollars, but for you nicelooking people, I’d be willing to knock it down to… eight thousand.”
Their eyes light up. An authentic haggling experience. “Five thousand,” they say.
I don’t mind their earnest antics. I’ll charge them three thousand dollars in shipping and handling, anyway. I gaze at the carpet as longingly as I can. It hurts my eyes. They are not leaving without it. “The lowest I can go is seven. I have to feed my ladies, after all,” I say.
The girl breaks her staring contest with the carpet for the first time. She is now examining the aforementioned “ladies.” She has not said a word. The older woman beckons to her. “Come, come, Mila. Take your shoes off; the carpet is so soft. Tell us what you think.”
Mila only smiles and shakes her head. Perhaps I have miscalculated. I study her for the first time. She is not fanny-packed like the other tourists, nor does she don flashy garb to lure pickpockets—only a simple long dress with a flower pattern. Maybe this girl is the one I should have been selling to. I know she will advise them against it. They can buy a carpet anywhere for much less, and the design wouldn’t go with any of their decor; I am being slick when I say it is reversible. I can see my life flash before my eyes.
Mila strokes the rug with her thin fingers. “It’s a piece of art,” she says in a silky voice. “This one, unlike the others, has a focal point that will ground the room and make everything seem whole.” As she speaks, she looks directly at me. None of them ever look directly at me.
To cover my shock, I joke: “Can you work for me?” The old man and the older woman laugh. Mila glances back at the carpet in thought.
“Garip bir amerikalı,” I mutter to myself.
Mila’s eyes bore into me. “Garip? Am I strange?” I feel like I am the carpet, the way she dissects me. Not the carpet salesman, not the Turk, but the carpet. “Where are you from?”
“Turkey, of course.”
“Which province? Here in Izmir? Aydin? Bartın?”
I suck in a breath. “Yes, Bartın. In Amasra. So small, you’ve never heard of it.”
“We just came from there, actually. We stayed with a lovely woman who made the most wonderful gozleme on rainy days. Her name was Emine Sydin.”
I am compelled by her eyes. “My name is Baki Sydin.” I refill her tea. She is about to respond but I know I have them now. “How about this carpet?”
The Americans look at each other. They look at the carpet. They look at each other. “Where else are we going to get an authentic Persian rug?”
They shake my hand. I know they will wash their hands later. I charge them three thousand dollars in shipping and handling.
IT LINGERS by Samuel Cotthoff
in the moment, it hurts the pain swells the foundation crumbles from the impact the supports may maintain stability but not for long you feel hopeless in the moment and all else seems to fall to dark but the community can come around again the fortress shall be rebuilt maybe not to its former glory and stature the structure will rise again and all will feel mostly refilled but the soil knows the surrounding environment holds the past we hold the past the stench of the prior hurt can still be detected at all times you can’t overcome your memory it replays on loop twenty four hours a day the moment stabs deep into the body but once the knife is out one will always know recognize and smell the lingering smoke
lingering smoke always smells stronger than the initial explosion
Dedication to the Changeling Lyric Hyde
He appears in a suit and a face that resembles a man, but he is not human. This makes him a symptom, not the cause.
He speaks calmly. The face not quite recognizable.
He pulls back the curtain. “Here is the failure of reality,” he says. “Here is the abyss you dig.”
This person, who I am but is not quite me, looks.
“Who are you without that mask?” he asks me. Checks his watch. “Our time is almost up.” He turns to face the not-me like a mirror.
“You will grow fond of me,” he says. “For I am the I, the XV, the Knight of Cups, the unmasked reflection that lurks in the corners of acceptance and complacency. Find me holding you a mirror between songs. Find where the mask glitches. Where the real face has melted in a pool of glass. Find me in the boredom of suburbia, in the dress that fits but doesn’t suit, in the curse of self-knowledge, the quiet holding of hands. Find me when you shed the old skin assigned to you and rip off the mask. Find me when your face turns blue. In the flats. In the movies of grime and metal and blood and rosaries. Find me baring your teeth when the falsehead fails. Find me in the mirror. Release the chains and make the claim, As Above, So Below, So it shall be.
allostasis
Claire Melvin
are we ready? are we really ready? ready for what? ready for it all.
purpose makes us move purpose makes us create when you don't know why you think why bother you already know how you'll feel because you've lived so many years and you've done it before or something close so you create a reaction something appropriate to feel based on your body's tells the tells of the pores on your skin and the blood rushing to your limbs or the tightening of your neck or your heart beating, noticeable and real before you know it, your reaction is already sealed
your creation, your feeling is from where you've been what you've seen who you think you are doing sex seeking food fighting threats balancing your fluids and your heat the brain taking it's best guess on how best to get you what you need and fulfill that instinctual drive to survive
late night thoughts by samuel cotthoff
eleven forty six pm i “went to bed” maybe forty minutes ago i don’t know, i’m not really sure my noise machine is roaring the sounds of the ocean fill my blue-walled room i always found the ocean calming the waves receding back into vast expanse of water but why isn’t it working this time
twelve twelve am hi still me here i don’t like running, but subconsciously my mind is a track star going over every action i made and how i could’ve done it differently i have the wildest fantasies for the best but the worst scenarios rise from the ashes
twelve fifty seven am i think i’m getting more tired my mind is slowly releasing the gas not pressing the brakes just yet but the anxious wheels still burn and turn here’s the thing, people say that i should go to bed earlier i do, i try, and i do go to bed it’s just hard to sleep one o five am ok, my eyes are feeling the heaviest they have all night i think it’s finally closing time the bar in my mind is emptying out the patrons all leaving, happy and drunk with thought the bartender collects the glasses of memory all in preparation to do it once more tomorrow good night
emotion regulation
Claire Melvin
mental illness is a chronic loss a toll on your capability to move forward with fire addicts look for passion something to care more about than a fix they started out dysregulated begin to self-regulate sun side, moon side fearing what will happen if you let your solar eclipse is nature reality, does it have a balance picking and choosing which thread to snip off or is it the balance, what animals try to move? and does it lie within each person, helping you? then blending back into the whole after you've returned to the happy medium middle
"matter cannot be created or destroyed" only pushed and pulled dysregulation doesn't spontaneously form it comes from somewhere it is no god, it bleeds and that means it can be killed
“Never Been Happier”
Ethan Tarpley
It’s been a bad day for Marcus. He doesn’t want to think about that now. The years since the divorce have worn him down and now he’s finally ready to be done with it all. At mid-afternoon, in a moment of shame, he drives to the hospital and checks in. There’s no line when he goes to the counter at the far end. The waiting room for the Suicides unit is nearly empty.
He goes to the counter and chokes on the words that have been boiling up inside of him. “Here to declare suicide?” asks the woman beyond the counter.
He nods, she gives him the paperwork, and he goes to sit down. “It won’t be long,” she says. They never keep people waiting.
A middle-aged woman and her adult daughter sit a few seats away from Marcus. They have no paperwork. He wonders who they’re here for. An old family friend? A cancer-ridden grandma? Maybe it’s a depressed father-husband. How nice it must be to have someone care about you. It’s a shame, he thinks, that someone took that for granted.
The women catch him staring after a moment. He gives a neighborly nod and looks away, briefly embarrassed. The clerk calls his name and he gets up. She escorts him back through the hallway, to the doctor’s office for an assessment. All standard procedure.
When he gets to the room, the clerk leaves him, and he steps in. There are four white walls and a large machine at the far end, in the shape of a ring, like a donut. A hazy greenish hue emits from the machine’s dim fluorescent lights. A doctor sits at the desk in the corner, typing on a keyboard. He finishes his typing and looks up.
“Hi Marcus.” The doctor adjusts his glasses and reviews his notes on the computer screen, then finally focuses on his patient. “I’m Dr. Farber.”
Marcus nods, his head down. The doctor gestures to a bed on wheels protruding from inside the donut-machine, and Marcus sits down on the end of it.
“Before we go through with the procedure,” the doctor says, “I need to make sure this is the best option for you. It is a pretty big decision, after all. You want to make sure you’re making the right choice, don’t you?” He gives a half-smile.
“If you insist,” Marcus says. He knows that the doctor is just doing his job, that a screening for depression is required by the state, but he wishes this could all be quicker. He’s sure the doctor does too. But suicide has to be a last resort.
Dr. Farber nods and turns back to his computer screen, scrolling through page after page of Marcus’s information. On the screen are his medical records—not just his recent ones; it’s probably every record on file since he was born. They might even have biographical information—the kind detailing his divorce, his past relationships, and the deaths in his family; he doesn’t know. Law requires they use anything they possibly can to throw a wrench in the process. Any plausible treatment that hasn’t been tried has to come first; it’s inefficient, but supposedly more humane that way. Luckily, it looks like Dr. Farber might just go easy on him.
“Looks like you’re in pretty good shape,” he finally says, turning back to Marcus. “You haven’t experienced any medical problems since your last doctor’s appointment?” “Nothing.”
“Good,” he says, smiling as he reads. “And your organs are in great shape!” It’s a chance for Marcus to relinquish consent to donate his organs. Also required.
“Good,” Marcus says.
“Any psychological problems?”
This question seems like a joke. Marcus gives an involuntary chuckle before answering. “Nothing other than the recent suicidal thoughts.”
“Good,” says the doctor. “Well, then you can slide into that scanner and I’ll take a look at your brain.”
This is the real test—to monitor his brain activity and see if there are any irregularities. If something indicates he’s not in his right mind, the operation is through. Marcus lays down on the bed, now noticing it’s on a shiny metal track, and Dr. Farber gingerly slides him into the scanner.
“Close your eyes,” Dr. Farber says. He returns to the computer and presses some keys. Marcus closes his eyes and waits as a quiet ringing starts. He can’t tell if it’s echoing through the room or if it’s just in his ears. A moment later, through his eyelids, he sees a harsh blue light shine across his face. He draws his eyes as tight as he can and hears something from Dr. Farber.
“Not so much pressure on your temple, please.”
He tries to relax his eyelids and wonders if his troubled thoughts will interfere with the scan. No, he thinks; they wouldn’t. They’re mostly only scanning for physical abnormalities, anyway; everyone has troubled thoughts at a time like this. So he lets himself think. About Ava, and about Emily. He pictures them sitting out there in the waiting room for him. But he can’t wipe the words from his mind—the words he hears spoken aloud every time he pictures Emily’s face. I’ve never been happier with anyone. It’s a deep pain felt in his chest.
The ringing stops, the light dims, and Dr. Farber wheels the bed back out. Marcus sits up and rubs his forehead. “Did you find anything, doc?”
Dr. Farber leads him over to the computer screen, as if he’ll understand anything on it. “Well, you do have a slight abnormality in your cingulate gyrus, but it’s minor enough that it’s highly unlikely to be the cause of your depression.” He pauses to look at Marcus. “More likely is it’s a small contributing factor, along with a chronic disposition, and trauma from... your parents’ death, your brother’s death... I guess even the divorce could’ve played a role.” He could say that again.
“I could prescribe you more pills, but from what I read, that hasn’t been any help. Considering there’s no easy way to fix it, I say you go on with the procedure at your own discretion.” He looks to Marcus to gauge his response.
Marcus takes a sigh of relief, thankful at least that the doctor didn’t give him any trouble. He thanks him, and Dr. Farber hands him a tablet now, for him to review the final paperwork. He scans through, leaving Organ donation checked—at least something good may come of this—and gives his signature at the end.
Once done, Dr. Farber opens the door and leads Marcus farther down the hall, to what he guesses is his final destination. It’s a cluttered little office with some computer screens and a big, thick window to a dark room down below.
“Marcus, I’d like you to meet your executioner. This is Barry Wydel.”
The man before them, seated at a modest desk with a few books and a bobblehead or two, doesn’t look quite how one would expect an executioner to look, though this is his profession, and it’s probably something Mr. Wydell has chosen and trained for over a long time. He’s a bland-looking guy, bald, with a cautious smile and a lab coat. He stands up and reaches his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Marcus.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Marcus says. At Wydell’s direction, he takes a seat in the spare office chair that was sitting around, while Dr. Farber leaves the room.
“So, before we get started, I’m just gonna brief you. You’re gonna be in there for about an hour, at least.” He gestures out the window, into the dark room. There’s a door behind him and a staircase going down. “That’s the execution room. You’ll sit back, take a pill—it’s like a sedative, it’ll make you feel good—have a nice little trip, and enjoy your time. If this is your last hour on earth, you don’t want to have to be stressed for it.”
Marcus glances out the window for only a moment to see a cushiony room. On one side sits an armchair. Across from it is a wall of bare concrete, which a janitor is still wiping clean. He has some idea the last execution wasn’t much prior. “Well, I’m glad I won’t be stressed,” he says, then he looks back at Wydell, who’s staring at his tablet.
“Marcus. Do you have anybody that cares about you?”
Marcus looks again out the window, but not at the room. He looks into the darkness, at what seems to be a vast expanse.
I’ve never been happier with anyone.
“No,” he says.
“Well, we’ve got a list of close contacts here,” Wydell says. “We’re gonna send out a message to them when you go in. Following federal statutes, your close contacts have a right to know about your passing, and they have a right to intervene. If anyone intervenes, we stop the procedure and bring them in for questioning. If they can provide a compelling reason why you should live, your procedure will be canceled or postponed until a later date.”
This was all standard stuff. The embarrassment of having that message sent to everyone he knows made Marcus think twice about declaring suicide officially, but he had convinced himself that it was worth not having someone walk in on his rotting body, making someone else clean up his mess. Besides, it’s mostly just the embarrassment Marcus is worried about; intervening in suicides is considered rude, and hardly anybody does it, except for occasional spouses and parents, when they haven’t been told. Even then, he’s sure, they usually concede. “So, I’ve got an ex-wife here, Emily Atwood?” Wydell confirms.
“That’s correct.”
“And a daughter, adult, Ava Zink?”
“Yup.” Marcus nods.
“You don’t think your daughter will mind your passing?” Wydell asks.
Marcus thinks for a moment. Even if she does, she’s far away, in California; she can’t come in for questioning. What might she do, he thinks. She’ll probably see the notification on her phone and sigh with reluctance, having known this was coming for a long time. She’ll say nothing and just let it be. “I think she’ll want what’s best,” Marcus says.
Wydell keeps his judgment to himself and continues on. “Well, looks like that’s it for family. This says you don’t have a current employer?”
“I quit my job on Monday.”
“Right,” says Wydell. “Well, we’re also gonna reach out to a few ex-colleagues and business associates just in case. We’ve got a few people listed here, I won’t trouble you by reading through. Is there anyone else you’d like to notify?”
“No,” Marcus says. How pathetic it would be if he said yes, like this is all a cry for attention; like he wants someone to stop him from going. “Short list, I know,” he says. “It usually tends to be,” Wydell sighs. He puts the tablet away in his drawer and pulls out a pill bottle. He lays it down on the desk and starts unscrewing the cap.
“So this pill,” Marcus says, “Is this to put me out?”
“It’s to knock you out, basically, but no, it’s not gonna kill you,” Wydell says. “You see that chair?” He points through the window.
Marcus peers through, down at the execution room’s only piece of furniture. Looking closely, he sees its most distinctive feature; a shiny metal strip on the back of the headpiece. It’s the only thing on the chair that isn’t covered in cushions—in fact, the only thing in the whole room, except for that concrete wall across from it, which has now been wiped clean. He realizes now it was blood on that wall.
“There’s a little hole in the back, where the head is. That’s where the gun shoots through. You’re gonna go down and sit in that chair for about sixty to ninety minutes. When your time comes—if your time comes,” Wydell taps lightly on a little green button on his control panel. “I press this button, it pulls the trigger on that gun, and fires. You won’t even know.”
Marcus is puzzled. “But why not just give me some poison?” he asks. “Why shoot me? Why the head?”
“It’s sudden,” Wydell says. “And painless. There’s no going back with a poison, plus it can harm those precious organs of yours. This is simple, quick, and easy.” Marcus nods, starting to understand.
“Look at it this way: You want to stop living, and the source of life is the brain. So, the one way we can make sure it ends quickly is by destroying the brain.”
“I see.”
“It also makes things easier for us. We know when you’re dead, and we don’t do it until your time is up. Until then, you just wait; we don’t announce it. If somebody intervenes, we’ll come and get you. If not... Well, you’ll never know. It stays ambiguous.” He smiles at Marcus. “You’ll only ever know if someone cared enough to save you.”
He must think Marcus will respond sentimentally to this, but he doesn’t. He knows he’ll be one of the ones who doesn’t get saved. He resents that, but he’s glad he won’t have someone get in the way.
Wydell opens a mini-fridge in the corner of the room and pours Marcus a small paper cup full of some colorful drink. He holds it out to Marcus with the sedative. “It’s electrolytes,” he says. “Drink this with the pill.”
Marcus pops the pill and downs the drink. Wydell holds the door open for him and then walks him down the stairs. When they get to the bottom, Marcus takes one last look at the metal strip on the back of the chair and notices a small hole for the bullet to pass through. Despite this, the seat is unstained, and the metal strip must have been wiped clean since the last execution. Marcus takes a seat, and Wydell straps his wrists into the chair before saying goodbye and walking back up the stairs, to his office.
Normally, Marcus might be made uncomfortable from being strapped into a chair and restrained, but he feels relatively calm about it. He knows why he’s here, and there’s nowhere else he needs to be. He thinks briefly about the liquid he just drank and realizes he hasn’t had a last chance to use the restroom, but he figures this should be quick enough, and it doesn’t really matter if he soils himself anyway, considering he’ll soon be nothing but a lifeless, organless mound of skin and bone. This sense of calm, he thinks, must be brought on by the drug, which is working quickly. It’s been but a few minutes, and he’s already relaxed.
Some soft lights color the room in green, and red, and blue, and purple, as calming music comes from the speakers on the walls, which he didn’t notice until now. He relaxes in his chair, closing his eyes and now realizing how tired he is, how tired he’s been. The metal strip against the back of his head doesn’t feel so cold and hard anymore; it’s turned into a mix of icy and hot, formless and melting against his skin.
He looks forward and notices, once again, the break in the cushions, the concrete wall across from him, where his brain will soon be splattered. The bullet holes from gunshot after gunshot, firing from this very position, create a small black hole, with chips in the concrete all around it, going off in all directions. He can even see, though the janitor has done a good job of erasing it, faded stains of red all along the concrete, forming a big, beautiful, messy red sun around the hole, and fading as it stretches outward to the ends of the concrete. Brilliantly, none of the blood has tainted the cushions around it; every speck has been calculated to land somewhere between them, on the concrete. Soon, he thinks, his blood will join the others in that big red sun, and the janitor will come in and try to wipe him away, leaving only a hint. This, too, is strangely beautiful. Pondering death, and looking at that big, red sun, he thinks back to the deaths of his family members; first, his brother, then his father, then his mother.
Clay was two years younger than him. He had always had a knack for technology, and while Marcus went to Penn State to study history, Clay went off to the University of Colorado to study engineering. In Boulder, he would meet and marry Emily and live out the rest of his days.
Marcus visited Clay and Emily only a few times. At the time, Marcus was in a highly stressful long-term relationship that he wouldn’t start to regret until much too late. Rebecca, whom he was living with at the time in Cleveland, would get upset whenever Marcus made plans to fly out, so, for the most part, he abided by her demand and stayed in Cleveland. The final straw was when Clay developed cancer, which grew to be terminal, and she wouldn’t let Marcus go see him. He left Rebecca after that, and he took the next flight out to see Clay. For Clay’s last few months, Marcus lived with him and Emily. Clay moved towards death slowly and painfully. He was lucky to have a caring brother and a loving wife by his side every step of the way. When he was gone, Emily and Marcus were both in a fragile place. They had grown so close over Clay’s last two years that it wasn’t long before they found themselves in each other’s arms. They weren’t guilty, for they believed there to be nothing waiting for them after death; they were two young people with lives to live and children to birth, and Clay was gone.
Clay’s cancer was hereditary, passed down from his father. It wasn’t until much later, long after Emily and Marcus were married, that it found its way back to Pop. He had beaten it many years before. This time, however, Pop wasn’t as fortunate. Emily and Marcus went to the funeral when he died, their daughter, Ava, now a teenager. Mom died not long after, from declaring suicide; maybe that was hereditary, too. Marcus intervened once, asked her not to go through with it. But she told him she couldn’t bear to live anymore, and she had only been living for Pop. So, Marcus let her go. He let her get sucked in towards that black hole.
Fading in and out of a dreamy, half-sleep state, he wonders how long it’s been. Time now eludes him completely. Though he has some idea that it’s been less than 90 minutes, he can’t tell for sure if he’s nearing the end of his allotted time, or if it’s only been a long 20 minutes. How long does he have left before his brain leaves his body? Mere minutes, now? It could be any second. As if it’s a slow process, he feels himself drawing towards death. As the minutes pass, his soul moves ever-closer to that little black hole in the wall, to join the others in the red sun. His consciousness gently fades until...
The door opens. Has it really? He wonders for a moment if the sound he heard was merely something from the music; this drug he’s on does seem to have some hallucinogenic properties. But he hears what sound like footsteps, up above, growing louder. He only realizes when Wydell has reached the floor that the music has stopped altogether, has been absent for some time. Wydell comes up to him and loosens the straps on his wrists.
“Drink this,” he says, and hands Marcus something in the darkness.
It’s another paper cup, with another drink in it. Marcus downs it, and the two of them go upstairs.
The hazy feeling from the pill subsides pretty quickly; whatever Wydell had him drink must have counteracted it. Now, as he stands in the office and watches Wydell gather up his things, it sinks in that somebody must’ve intervened. He doesn’t know who. Not Ava, he thinks, right away; she would’ve had to get packing up immediately and take the next flight over here if she were to be heard on the issue. He knows she wouldn’t go through all that effort. Then who? Could it be Emily? It seems unlikely that she still cares about him on that level, but he can’t imagine who else it would be. Who else would even have a second thought?
A pang of shame goes through him as his executioner leads him down the hallway to a conference room. No matter what happens, the following moment will be awkward; he knows that for sure. He wishes Emily would butt out like he thought she would—if it even is Emily; if not, somebody he knows has too much time on their hands.
As they enter the bland room with beige, windowless walls and a long wooden table, Wydell says: “This is probably obvious by now, but you’ve got an intervention. Your close contact will come to talk with us soon.” He leaves the room momentarily, letting Marcus take a seat and ponder in silence.
Aside from the security camera on the wall, he notices a microphone in the center of the table, but its red light—indicating its use—is turned off. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re not still recording, but if he takes their word for it, he’s alone right now. These things rarely go to court, but they keep record of the interventions just in case. Likely, there’ll be a counselor who reviews the close contact’s testimony and decides whose side to take. The thought of discussing such a personal topic in this formal, sterile environment brings Marcus back to the divorce. Maybe, he thinks, Emily gets a kick out of this sort of thing. But maybe she didn’t even call. As he thinks about it, it seems equally likely that someone else decided to show up, someone he hadn’t even considered.
As he’s considering this, the door opens. But the people who walk in are unfamiliar to Marcus. One is a woman in a blazer. The other is a middle-aged guy with blond hair. She leads him to take a seat across from Marcus, and Marcus quickly realizes this blond guy is supposed to be the close contact. The woman sits down by the man, and Wydell promptly returns and takes a seat in between Marcus and the woman.
“My name is Dr. Mondeau,” says the woman, finally breaking the silence. “And I’ll be your counselor. Evan has called an intervention to your suicide, and, as the state requires, you must hear him out before going through with the procedure.”
Marcus stares at the man, unsure whether to be dumbfounded or furious. He holds his tongue until it’s his turn to speak.
“Alternatively, you, Marcus, can try and convince Evan, and he will have to hear you out. While this meeting will be recorded,” she taps a button and turns on the red light on the microphone, “You do have the right to confidentiality and there will be an unmonitored segment to talk to your contact. If, afterwards, we are unable to come to a consensus, this may go onto a higher court, or I, along with a legal aid appointed to me by the state, will look over your case and decide whether to postpone or discontinue your operation.” She looks at both of the men. “The merits of your case rest on the specifics of Marcus’s mental health, as well as any holistic reasons Marcus should continue living.”
“Excuse me, doctor,” Marcus says, stopping her before she can go on. He looks at the man. “Who is this?”
She looks confused, and so does Wydell. She responds, pensively: “This is Evan Guiller, a close contact of yours. He claims to have had an on-and-off love affair with you between the years of 2033 and 2035, I believe,” she looks at Evan, who nods. “Which was briefly before your relationship started with Ms. Emily Atwood?” Evan confirms this as well, so she looks at Marcus. “Mr. Zink, to confirm, you are claiming that you don’t know Mr. Guiller?” Marcus throws up his hands in frustration. “I’ve never seen him before!”
Dr. Mondeau looks at the tablet in front of her, mumbling to herself. “Okay, well that’s an interesting stance to take.” She looks up at him. “He is listed in your records as a close contact.” She looks back at Wydell. “He’s on your list, isn’t he?”
“That’s true,” Wydell says. “He’s on there.”
Marcus is suddenly outraged. Not only is his suicide being hijacked, but it isn’t even by someone who cares about him; it’s by some guy! Some bastard who doesn’t even know him and is probably doing this for kicks, or some kind of moralistic self-actualization.
That’s when he realizes who sits before him. These anti-suicide activists have been around since the suicide departments were first opened. Their organizations have connections, ways to find loopholes to get them onto people’s lists. They sit around all day, answering any call they get to come and intervene by playing the part of a loved one. It’s because of these people that those who are really desperate end up killing themselves with shotguns in their basements, or slit wrists in their bathtubs. It makes Marcus sick with indignation. He grits his teeth, his eyes planted on the liar before him, as Dr. Mondeau continues to drone on about the rules of the intervention.
Now it’s Evan’s turn to speak. He does so with faux compassion in his voice while Marcus rolls his eyes and tries to ignore his words.
“Marcus, look... I know times are hard right now, but I’m pleading with you, please keep fighting. I don’t want you to give up on yourself. It may not seem like it right now, but there are people who care about you.”
Marcus scoffs. “That’s clearly why you’re here, isn’t it.” He looks Evan in the eye, calling his bluff.
“Yes,” Evan says. “I care about you. If it’s true that no one else in your life does right now... You have me. You have my support.”
Marcus cuts him off. “You liar, you don’t even know who I am!”
Now Evan is frustrated. He throws his hands up, feigning offense. “I don’t want to keep going back and forth on this. I say I know you, you say you don’t. It doesn’t matter. We both know—”
Marcus cuts him off. “Who are you trying to convince? I know you’re one of those activist agents. It’s illegal what you’re doing, you know that?”
“You know what? It’s been thirty years.” Evan looks at him intensely. “You say you don’t recognize me? Fine, maybe you don’t.”
Marcus scoffs again and turns to the counselor. “Oh, come on, this is ridiculous! Doctor, I don’t even go for men!”
Evan sighs a painful sigh. “Marcus, you’re on your deathbed here. You don’t have to keep hiding who you are.”
Marcus shouts incredulously. “You are my ex-lover? We are ex-lovers! That’s what you’re telling me?”
Evan nods calmly. He’s a good liar.
“What’s my birthday?”
“You never told me your birthday, Marcus.”
“We’re lovers and I never tell you my birthday? Bullshit. Doctor, he’s clearly lying.” Dr. Mondeau maintains impartiality. She has no response except to take notes on her tablet.
“You know I’m not lying,” says Evan.
Marcus narrows his eyes. “What’s my daughter’s name?”
“Your daughter’s name is Ava.”
This upsets Marcus. He lets his fists tighten under the table. “You’re sick,” he hisses. “You’re sick people, you know that? Cyber-stalking a suicidal man? Where do you people get off? You’re gonna sit here and think you’re the good guy in all of this? Like you’re doing something noble here?”
Evan doesn’t break—if that’s even his real name. It must be, Marcus thinks; the contacts are accompanied by a social security number. “Marcus,” he says, “This isn’t about me. I’m worried about you.”
“Oh, you’re worried about me?” He tries to laugh.
“I know you’ve felt like this before. It’s hard, but you’ve gotten through it.” “I’ve felt like this before? When! Tell me when I’ve been suicidal, and what did I do then?”
Evan stops and thinks. He might’ve caught him in a trap. Under this kind of pressure, who has the confidence to tell tales?
“Winter of 2033,” he finally says, pulling the time out of thin air. “You could hardly get out of bed. When I came over once, you told me you wanted to die and you were thinking of buying a gun. I asked you to go on living, for me. And you said you would, but I was the only reason—”
This suddenly strikes a chord with Marcus. His face tightens up. “Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Fuck you! Fuck you and your mind games. You don’t even know what kind of shit you’re meddling with.” He hears his own voice crack for a moment.
Silence falls over the room for a short while. Then some brief and unconstructive arguing, and then the counselor intervenes. “It looks like we’re not getting anywhere with this,” she says with some reluctance. “You are allowed a period to discuss matters without supervision, if you would both like to do so.”
This offer is almost always taken. Both Evan and Marcus agree to it, maybe with the hope that they can make progress without supervision, or maybe just out of curiosity. Dr. Mondeau gathers her things and turns off the microphone on the table. She and Wydell then leave the room.
Marcus and Evan sit quietly for a few moments, staring at each other from across the table. There’s some hesitation to speak. Marcus watches the security camera’s light go off.
Although, he has no idea if the hospital has a legal obligation not to lie, so this could all be a trick to make them feel more secure. He wonders if Evan is thinking the same thing. Finally, Marcus speaks, flippantly. “What’re you, an actor?”
Evan nods, slowly. “I work small-time gigs at the Boulder Community Theatre.”
“You’re very good at it,” Marcus says.
“Thank you.” Evan twiddles his thumbs. He’s notably less confident now, or at least that’s the body language he’s putting forth. “My cousin died of suicide. Doctorassisted, at a place like this. I didn’t get the chance to intervene, I was out of town, and I was younger, so I wasn’t comfortable taking a stand… I was close with him, though. I regret it so much now.”
Marcus decides not to give him any emotional leeway. He doesn’t nod, he just continues to make eye contact.
Evan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. “I volunteer at Rescue Corps on my off-days. It’s my little contribution to the world.” He slides the card across the table for Marcus to have a look.
The card, Marcus sees, doesn’t have a name on it; just the title Rescue Corps and a phone number and social media tag down below. This is so if Marcus shows the card to the counselor, he can’t prove that it was given to him by Evan; thus, he can’t prove Evan is an agent. Below the contact information, the card says, Call for a free talk or set up a schedule with a free long-term counselor. He wonders if Evan guides counseling, too, or if you have to be a social worker for that.
“You know, I get what you’re doing,” Marcus says, “And it’s very kind and very noble. But you’re not helping. I don’t need help.”
“Well, then I’m sorry, but that makes this a tough situation,” Evan says, crossing his arms. “‘Cuz I’m gonna sit here with you, and I’m gonna make this process as hard for you as I possibly can.”
The unabashed rigidity in Evan’s stance makes Marcus’s stomach churn. “I want to commit suicide, and you want to make my life harder?”
“Yes,” he says. “If I have even a chance to save just one life, I’m gonna do everything in my power to stop you from killing yourself.”
It sounds to Marcus like hell for both of them. “Have you ever suffered from depression?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’ve been depressed. Not for long periods of time, but sometimes, I spend the whole week lying in bed. Just can’t get up.” Evan looks Marcus in the eye with a glimmer of humor. “That kind of thing runs in the family.”
“You ever wanted to kill yourself?”
Evan thinks. He’s less comfortable answering that question. “No,” he finally says. “It’s never gone that far.”
His blood boiling, Marcus stretches over the table and glares at Evan. “Then don’t act like you know what the fuck it is. If you’ve never wanted, more than anything, to put a fucking gun to your head and end it all, don’t act like you relate to me. Like this can all be fixed with a change of attitude.”
Evan raises his hands in defeat and then crosses them again, sitting back in his chair. “I guess I’m set in my ways.”
Silence again. Marcus looks at the card in his hand. “How often do you guys get these procedures postponed?”
“We’re pretty effective.”
“How often do you actually change the guy’s mind?”
Evan’s silent. Evidently not so often.
Marcus has to think of some way to change his mind, some way to level with him. “Okay,” he finally says, putting the card down. “Let’s put ideology aside. You plan to sit here and lie on oath, that you and I had a love affair thirty years ago, so that you can delay my suicide.”
Evan nods.
“I’m gonna keep telling them I’ve never seen you before in my life. Eventually, this’ll go to court, and they’ll look through documents and probably find that we never have crossed paths. Then, my friend, you are gonna find yourself in a whole load of shit, all because you wanted to meddle in my business. After all that, I’m gonna come back here, and get a bullet in my brain. From a utilitarian standpoint, that doesn’t sound like a good outcome for anybody.” Evan looks away, at the wall, in contemplation. He says nothing.
“How about this. The more time you spend in court or in jail, the less time you can dedicate to saving lives. So, I’ll concede that I knew you, and we can avoid that whole investigation. And in return, you back out of the intervention.”
Evan takes a while to come around to it, but he eventually agrees, reluctantly, and they call the counselor back in.
“We’ve come to an agreement,” Marcus says to Dr. Mondeau. “I’m going to go on with the procedure.”
She looks at Evan. She and Wydell both look surprised. “Is that the case?” Evan nods. An explanation would make it more believable, but he says nothing.
“Alright then,” she says. “That makes this a lot less complicated. I’ll leave you, then, with Mr. Wydell.” She turns to Evan. “Mr. Guiller, you’re free to leave. I’ll escort you out.” Evan stays in his chair for a moment.
Marcus walks over to Wydell, who stands with his arms open. “Are you sure you’ve made your decision?” he asks.
Marcus nods. “I’m sure.”
As they leave the room together, Marcus takes one look back at Evan and sees a perfectly forlorn face. As much as he has hated him, he can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. “Well, the procedure goes on as it did earlier,” Wydell says, as they reach the door to his office. They go inside. “You’ll take another pill and feel good for a little while, I’ll send out another email to your same close contacts, and if anyone intervenes, we’ll have to stop it again and take you out.” He reaches into the drawer and holds out the pill bottle.
“Another pill, huh?” He knows there won’t be another intervention—his list was short and everyone who might care has already chosen not to intervene—but he feels the need to joke. “How many of these can I take? Is there a limit to how many times we do this before I just overdose on the sedative?”
Wydell smiles. “That’s never come up before.”
Marcus takes the pill and washes it down with another paper cup full of electrolytes. He notices now that he has a full bladder, but decides not to mention it to Wydell. Feeling the warmth of the sedative kick in, he lets Wydell lead him back down the stairs and strap him into the chair. Then he’s alone again.
It’s different being strapped into the chair the second time. Maybe it feels more final because he knows he’s had a second chance, and gave it up just the same. For a brief moment, he wonders why he so steadfastly turned down another chance at life. It’s true, he had done his thinking before he checked in today; maybe it was the fact that he had already made up his mind that gave him such certainty that he wanted death.
The final straw that made up his mind seems somewhat arbitrary now. A picture of Emily he saw online today, posted on her social media with a caption. She was on a boat with her boyfriend, Ed, wearing her new engagement ring, smiling with joy. I’m so blessed to have found such a wonderful guy. I’ve never been happier with anyone.
It felt like a slap in the face. He knew it was over between them, that it had been over long ago, but he had considered it a great marriage. He wondered, were those 20 years they had spent together meaningless? The thought could shatter a person’s heart, and it did. He tried to reminisce on the good times they had, but from his memories, now, he couldn’t shake the sense that he had been alone all along.
One night several years ago, when they were still married, Marcus laid in bed thinking about what his mother had told him before she went. Ava was off at college and never called; perhaps she held some grudge against them for something they’d done. Marcus’s last friends had left the company, and his family was all gone. Since his mother’s death, he had made himself a part of Emily’s family. He realized he felt what Mom had felt; he was only living for her.
He told Emily this. It didn’t go well. She freaked out and told him why that wasn’t okay, told him he couldn’t live for someone else and he had to get counseling. He didn’t see it as a big deal, but he should’ve seen it coming. Emily had never tolerated his moping; it always seemed it was because she loved him so much, but maybe she just felt burdened by it. He doesn’t know anymore. He did go to counseling and get some help, but the passion with which she pushed him to get better was suddenly gone two years later, when she served him the divorce papers. Maybe she had just wanted to be free of his dependence; maybe she had wanted to leave all along. I’ve never been happier with anyone.
He, of course, was the “anyone.”
Now, Marcus is starting to wonder. Does he really want to die? Well, he does now, but maybe it could pass after all. Maybe the feeling will go away like it had before, and come back to pester him on another day. Maybe he could beat it like he had before. He feels foolish as he considers the man who tried and failed to save him, and wonders if he could’ve been persuaded.
But there’s no sense in thinking about that now. His wrists are tied down. He tries to lift himself from the chair, but, feeling the tension against his arms, he knows his resistance is pointless. He relaxes in his seat and lets the drug do its job to calm him and let things go as planned. It’s too late now. He feels the tug of fate, pulling him towards the black hole, towards the red sun before him. There’s nothing on the other side. Soon, that’s where he’ll be. Soon...
Artifact
Lyric Hyde
I tried writing on the computer.
The power went out, entire document gone, vanished in a thunderstorm. What were the words I wrote?
What phrase did I use to describe that tree, that book, that song?
And I realized how my history could be erased, how many thoughts cross my mind that are left unwritten and never experienced again, how easily we disappear, how vain we are to think that anyone would care to know the web built and blown away in a single-second night.
I realized why I love scrapbooks. Here are my most important pieces, the thoughts you may care to not miss, the memories that refuse to rot, a life gifted in love.
But what of the words thought on my walk, The way my mind described a twisted branch Or the veins in a leaf?
Or the words that stick to the tongue in rumination, passed over in rounds of roving mouth? What to do with the forgotten language of myself?
How do I fathom a twisted nightmare, knowing it belongs to me alone? Does that make it sacred?
Or is it a curse, a torn-out tongue? Who gets these thoughts when I die? Who will misinterpret every word I put in the world?
Who knows who I am when I am nothing?
The garden Mary Gonzalez
Into the thick of it we go a moonlit night a gentle breeze and a garden
You extend a hand I take it it’s warm into the garden we go dark hair shimmering under the night eyes that gleam with stars with each step you seem so familiar but, from where?
where have I seen you? I can’t seem to remember but you do We descend into a clearing rays of moonbeams stream through the greenhouse small flickering green lights surround us
You lead me into a dance I don’t know how to dance yet our moves are smooth as we glide across the lawn
We twirl and spin and I can’t help but laugh you smile You bring us to a stop a wistful look in your eyes It’s time to wake up You let go I wake and I can’t remember
