William supported his head with the palms of his hands, elbows resting on the table. Tears ran unhindered down his forearms as his body convulsed. An unopened beer sat on the table to his left…a .45 to his right.
Nothing else mattered. Either choice would suffice.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, a handsome man with slick black hair. He wore a black trench coat and dark sunglasses. Smiling with one side of his mouth, he stepped to William’s side. With one finger he touched the small puddle of tears collecting on the table. His smile deepened.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” the man said as he moved behind William. He put his hands on William’s shoulders and squeezed. “You can end this anytime you like.”
He moved his hands to William’s cheeks and lifted, guiding him to look beyond the tears. “Have you forgotten the gun? Why must you continue to be so miserable? Pick it up. End this now.”
William sniffed and the tears stopped. He stared at the gun. His fingers twitched toward it.
The man moved to the other side of the table and knelt behind the gun in William’s line of sight. “It won’t even hurt. Just a gentle squeeze of the trigger, and all this pain goes away.”
William tore his eyes from the gun and put his head back in his hands.
“What are you waiting for? They’re not coming back. You’re alone.”
William reached for the beer and pulled the tab. He threw his head back and guzzled for several seconds.
The man stood up and circled the table. “Go ahead. Numb the pain, but it’ll be back. You know I’m right. And what are you going to do then? You can’t stay drunk your entire life. Think about it.”
William set the can down and stared at the table.
“Let the alcohol work through your system. It’ll make this easier.”
The man knelt by William’s side and leaned close to his ear. “Don’t you want to be with them again? Don’t you want to see your son? Your daughter?” He leaned in and whispered. His lips almost brushed William’s ear. “Your wife?”
He stood and started circling again. “You miss them. You miss their voices, their presence. They left you. They left you… alone.” The last word seemed to echo from the walls of the kitchen.
William’s fingers flexed toward the gun, though he continued to stare elsewhere.
The man smiled, curling his lip. “You could be with them in only a few moments. It would be quick. Why wait? They would want you to. They want to see you again. They’re waiting.”
William’s hand moved a little.
The man stepped closer and loomed over William. “You can be happy again. You can end the pain.”
William moved his hand further.
“Do it! Now!”
William grabbed the gun and pulled it close, holding it to his chest with both hands.
The man knelt again. “Don’t worry. I’m here to help. I’ll talk you through it. I’ve done this many times. I was there to help your wife.” He put a hand on William’s arm. “The important thing is for you not to listen to the lies. No matter what anyone else has said, no matter what your instincts tell you, you need to realize that it was your fault, just as you suspect.
“If you had been a better father, your daughter wouldn’t have run away and gotten into trouble. If you had loved her more, she wouldn’t have sought love elsewhere. If you had been a better father, your son wouldn’t have had to go help. Instead, you went back to your beer. You failed your daughter by not being there. You failed your son by not doing the job yourself. At least I was there when they died. Where were you? They died slowly and painfully as the car burned to the ground, screaming for help that wouldn’t arrive. Does that help?”
William caressed the gun like a newborn baby.
“And your wife couldn’t take it, could she? She was an emotional wreck. She needed you to be strong. She needed you to comfort her. But did you? No. You comforted the alcohol instead.” The man put his hand over William’s hand on the gun. “At least she left you plenty of bullets, my friend.”
William looked up to the faint red stain on the wall next to him, streaked from scrubbing with bleach.
“You see?” said the man in black. “It was your fault. Go to them now… apologize. It’s the right thing to do. It’s only fair.”
William started shaking.
“Yes… it’s time. Do it.”
William lifted the gun, his whole arm lurching.
“DO IT!”
William dropped the gun on the table.
The man in black stood and leaned into William’s face and shouted. “What’s wrong with you? Do you enjoy misery? Do you enjoy blood on your hands? You’re worthless! You’re a fool! You’re a waste of a human being! End this…put the world out of the misery of your existence, before you kill someone else. It’s the only honorable thing to do. Blow your brains out. End the pain. DO IT!”
William started to convulse. He grabbed the end of the table and shook it, screaming as loud as he could. The contents of the table slid away and crashed to the floor… including the gun.
“Idiot. Pick it up! What’s wrong with you? You’re a disgrace. You can’t even kill yourself with dignity. You’re a failure at everything. Pick it up! NOW!”
William fell to the ground weeping. He crawled beneath the table for a moment. When he stood he held two items, the gun and a package. As he sat, he placed them both before him.
“What’s that?” asked the man.
William pulled off an envelope taped to the package and opened it. He pulled out a card that read “Happy Father’s Day” on the front.
The man in black huffed. “Father’s Day was last month. This is a waste of your time. Finish this…finish it before you lose the nerve.”
William opened the card and a letter fell out.
“Don’t read that,” said the man. “It’s from a dead person. It will do you no good. Just pick up the gun and let’s end this. I’m here with you. We’re doing this together, remember? Forget the letter.”
William grabbed the letter and opened it. The man crossed his arms and paced. As William read, somehow he found more tears. At the end, he slammed the letter down, took up the package, and tore through the wrapping.
After holding the book in his hands for a moment, he placed it on the table next to the gun.
“A Bible? Are you kidding me?” said the man in black as he returned to the table. “That’s the coward’s way out! If God cared about you, why would you have lost your family? If he really existed, why do you hurt right now? Your son was a fool to leave this for you. It changes nothing! A Bible can’t bring your family back. A Bible can’t heal the pain!”
He knelt and put a hand on William’s shoulder. “But the gun can… pick it up. No more wasting time with all this crying. Nothing else can save you. Splatter your brains on the wall with your wife’s, and you can join her in Hell. That’s where you belong… that’s what you deserve. It’s too late for you, it’s too late to change your life. End it now! Pick it up!”
He leaned into William’s face.
“The gun… GET IT! Now! Stop thinking about it, you worthless piece of trash! Stop the pain, stop your existence! Do it! DO IT!”
William convulsed again. His body rocked with sobs and his hand reached for the gun.
The man threw his arms in the air and laughed. “YES! Do it! Put it to your head! Blow away the pain! Blow away your sorrows!”
William’s shaking arm bent and the barrel moved to his temple.
“That’s it… yes,” the man hissed in ecstasy. “Death, sweet death. Do it! DO IT!”
Suddenly, William held his breath and stopped trembling. The gun settled into place on the side of his head.
The man in black started to dance around the table, laughing.
William took a deep steadying breath… then slammed the gun back to the table. His hands went for the Bible.
“NOOOO!” the man screamed, rushing to William’s side. “Wha
t are you doing? Put that down!”
William opened it to the bookmark left there by his son.
“Stop this! This won’t help, put it down! NOW! The gun… get the gun!”
He started reading.
The man in black put his hands to his head and roared. “NO! Don’t do this! You can’t… you can’t… you’re mine! Put it down!”
Four other men stepped out of the shadows. They wore white t-shirts and pants, clothing that hinted at powerful muscles hiding beneath. Their radiant faces and piercing blue eyes scanned the room for only a moment, before they stepped toward the table.
The man in black hissed and backed away. “Leave him alone… he’s mine!”
The four men took positions around William, ignoring the man in black.
The man drifted back to the shadows from which he emerged, his face pale and twisted with hate. “You can’t do this! He’s supposed to be mine!”
As the man in black disappeared, William slid out of his chair to his knees…
Praying.
~}~~~{~
She looked at the pool sightlessly for some minutes, understanding now that when people desired to kill themselves, it was really the plan of an invisible evil. It crossed Gizile’s mind that each night before falling asleep the prayers of her friends protected her in much the same way as she had just observed. She had never thanked them. Her own selfishness had kept her so consumed with grief and anger, she never realized so many people still loved her.
Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.
She turned to Master Tok, to find him watching her now instead of the clouds. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been a selfish scylla, and I should have been shelled like one, too.”
He grunted. “The pool, girl. It ices.”
She turned her thoughts back to the pool, and watched a man open a book.
~}~~~{~
Ears—P. A. Baines
“Look at their ears.”
Carl stares down at the words on the page for a moment and chuckles quietly to himself. He glances around as if to share the joke with someone but he is alone. The shop is deserted apart from the severe-looking cashier pretending not to keep an eye on him over her horn-rimmed glasses. Dusty shelves crammed to overflowing lean towards him as if to share a secret. Outside, the rain persists and the alley is as empty as it was when he stumbled in a quarter of an hour earlier.
He flips to the book’s cover. The Path to Self Discovery. A man’s head is looking up towards some invisible star, his face obscured by a silver blue aura. The author’s name sounds Indian. It hints at some deep, mystical knowledge.
“Look at people’s ears and imagine how they would appear to someone who has never seen ears before. Soon you will only see ears.”
Carl shrugs and replaces the book, in a gap between Find Your True Being and Live the Blessed Life. It is a tight fit and he has to wriggle it a little. He feels the cashier’s eyes in the back of his head.
He checks his watch and realizes he only has a few minutes left before the end of his lunch break. The rain has let up but is still driving rivulets down the window. Someone scuttles past the door—raincoat collar pulled up high over ears.
“Look…”
Carl strolls along the aisle, his eyes roaming the sea of titles. Many have similar themes. The words “self”, “love”, “power” and “life” repeat more often than most. Some are new. Many look ancient. A vaguely musty smell teases his nostrils. At the back wall he comes to a section filled with titles about healing using everything from crystals and visualisation, to sounds and even colours. This leads into books about relationships, friendship, marriage, and one or two that make him look away with embarrassment. He hurries a little here, until he comes to a shelf with books on unsolved mysteries: the Yeti, the Loch Ness, pyramids, UFOs and aliens.
He reaches up, allowing his hand to touch the spines, and hesitates. He feels suddenly foolish.
As an actuary for a large insurance company he has little time for flights of fancy. His world revolves around numbers and formulas, odds and statistics, tables and charts. His days are filled with histograms, standard deviations, and risk assessments. Ordinarily he has no interest in such things as UFOs or aliens. It is a revelation to him that so much time and energy has been spent on things which are, to use a term he understands, outside his sample population.
He becomes aware that the rain has stopped and also that his break finished three minutes ago. The woman watches him leave. His polite smile is not returned.
Back at the office his mind returns to the real world, but his normally solid concentration is as slippery as an eel and he catches himself gazing out of the window more than once.
~}~~~{~
The next day at lunchtime Carl is the first out of the office. He has been distracted all morning and decides he needs fresh air. He heads to the park and takes the first available bench.
The sun bathes him in gentle warmth and he breathes deeply. Out on the lake, a family of swans probes the dark water for food. Beyond that a dog chases a ball as if it were the last thing on Earth. A slow but steady trickle of office workers invades the grass in a casual land-grab.
The soft pounding of rubber on gravel approaches and he turns to watch a young woman in a tracksuit and headband jog breathlessly past. Her ponytail and headphone wire bounce in unison to a barely-audible back-beat. Her hair is pulled up high on her head, revealing her …
“…ears.”
Suddenly he becomes aware of just how strange her ears really are. Like fleshy pipes adorned with blobs of skin stuck onto the sides of her head. He stares at them—fascinated. They remind him of absurd pink mushrooms. Everything else about her is perfectly normal—except for those weird attachments.
He laughs out loud, which is something he never does. It is a snorty kind of laugh, bordering on a sneeze. It is the kind of sound you make when something is both funny and ridiculous at the same time.
He looks around to see if anyone else has noticed. Surely someone…An elderly couple approach—walking their dog—in the same direction as the jogger. He looks at them to see if they have noticed, but they are engrossed in their walk. They are both watching their dog sniffing at the verge. They watch it the way a young couple watches a toddler. Suddenly he notices the man’s ears. They are bigger than the jogger’s with more flesh at the end of the tube. The man’s white hair and bald patch emphasise their pinkness and Carl lets out a small snicker.
They turn and glare at him and he looks away, all hot in the face. As they stalk off he cannot help but stare some more. They are truly grotesque.
At the next bench a serious-looking man is reading the newspaper. Immaculately dressed in suit and tie—his hair freshly cut. His leather suitcase sits at his feet, reflecting off his polished shoes. The paper rustles in his hands—a broadsheet—as he turns the page. It is the Financial Times. Must be a banker. Or a stockbroker. Looks like he drives a big executive car. Probably lives in an up-market part of the city. Possibly a house in the country.
In his mind’s eye, Carl plots this man on a distribution curve. Expensive house and car. Secure neighbourhood. State of the art burglar alarm.
The man turns away, placing the newspaper sideways on the bench, looking down as he shifts his weight onto one buttock.
They are small, with narrow pipes and skinny lobules. Skin pale against his black hair…
“No!”
Carl forces himself to look away. This is ridiculous. He returns to his office, not stopping off for his usual sandwich. He avoids looking at people, and closes the blinds in his room.
~}~~~{~
In Carl’s dream, he is in a crowd. Rain is tumbling onto his shoulders from the umbrellas of those around him. He turns to find a way out but he is hemmed in. He looks around but cannot see their faces. All are dressed the same. Black raincoats. Black umbrellas. He looks up. He has no umbrella; the only one who has no umbrella. The rain spatters his face and he blinks at the d
ark sky. He wipes his face with the back of his hand.
He looks around but they all have their backs turned. His muffled calls go unnoticed. They cannot hear him even though they have such big…
…ears as big as his hand. Huge fleshy mounds that dominate the sides of their heads, hanging down onto their shoulders. Ears as big as buckets, pushing back and around until the stalks touch and he cannot see their heads anymore. Until the two are joined into one enormous ear.
He screams at them but they cannot hear. He screams until he finds himself upright, awake in his bed, the sweat trickling down his back.
~}~~~{~
“It’s their ears,” he says. He sits with his head turned and his eyes averted. “It’s all I can see.”
“So, when did you start noticing…ears?”
The voice is calm. The voice is patient. The voice comes from years of practice. It is designed to soothe raw and exposed nerves. It belongs to a face Carl only dared to look at for the briefest of moments as he came in. In case he should see…
“Two days ago. I read something in a book. It started out as a joke.”
The wall is adorned with certificates. Diplomas. Degrees. A doctorate in psychiatry. A photograph of a happy family. All smiles in front of a cloudy, blue background. No mental health problems in that picture. Just ears.
Carl whimpers and forces himself to look away.
“It seems to me you have developed a fixation. You say you are an actuary?”
“Yes.”
“And you describe yourself as something of a perfectionist?”
“Yes. I guess I would.”
The office is filled with plants and ornaments. It looks like an office you might find in someone’s home. There is a lot of wood. The colours are warm.
“Would you say you are a stickler for detail?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you get upset over small things?”
“Well yes, I suppose I do. But I’m not obsessive if that’s what you’re driving at. At least I don’t think I am.”
The shapes in the office are soft and smooth. The ornaments are tasteful. No sharp edges anywhere. The one on the table under the window is a mahogany carving. It is a stylised rendition of a woman and child. The shapes are vague, the curves exaggerated. Yet it is still possible—if you look closely enough—to make out what looks like…