Fresh Short Story: Sibilant (5)

Sibilant (1)・Sibilant (2)・Sibilant (3)・Sibilant (4)

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The imminent quality of death did not plague Michael or the majority of his classmates. With lives so free of violence or disease, their death remained safely in the conceptual realm. Michael, so determined to tear through this coaxing membrane and confront the truth in study, barely noticed the real-world version until it confronted him.

“I’m depressed.”

Michael looked up from his laptop. After a moment of silence, his roommate moved closer. “I know you probably don’t care. You don’t seem to care about anybody. And nobody cares about me. What’s the point? Fuck it. Never mind.” He dropped onto his bed, but continued staring.

Michael removed his hands from the keyboard and leaned back in his chair. It is true, he rarely gave any thought to his roommate, a slightly heavyset 19-year-old with dark crescents under his eyes and a penchant for rewearing dirty clothes. Michael searched his mind for a suitable reply. He felt called to act, and that he must not err. He considered simply asking, "What's going on?" This would be a mistake. The man needed a jolt.

“Lie down, Alan."

His eyes darted about. "What for?"

“Face down." Michael stood and flexed his hands.

“I asked what for!”

“Healing.”

Eyes still unhinged, Alan rubbed a palm on his loose jeans. He glanced at the insects and arachnids on Michael's side of the dorm. He hesitated. But Michael, tall, pale, and darkly clothed, was approaching, and for a moment Alan felt actual fear. He turned and lay on the bed, almost as if to hide.

He felt hands apply pressure to the muscles around his shoulder blades. He jumped and gave a scathing glare. “I’m not gay, man!”

Michael smiled patiently. “Did I say that you were?”

“Then what the hell’re you touching me for?”

“It’s called a massage, Alan. Relax.”

Still half twisted towards Michael, he shook his head. “Seems pretty fucking gay, Mike.”

“Nobody cares about you--" Hearing his own words, Alan blinked as if struck. "--and nobody else is here, so what the fuck does it matter what it seems, or what anyone else might think? I’m going to help you. This is how it starts tonight. So either keep on living by social standards you despise, or turn around and try to relax.”

Alan turned back hesitantly. “Good. That’s very good. Now follow my voice.” Michael resumed massaging his roommate. “Breathe deeply — in, out...” I’m flying blind here, Michael thought. After about ten minutes he asked, “Where do you feel most relaxed? A beach? Forest?”

Alan's voice came from farther away. “Honestly, my own room. Just being alone. Playing video games. Like a fucking loser, I guess.”

Michael understood the kind of atmosphere he meant. He turned out the light, and turned on his desk lamp.

“You’re alone. Just you and me. And I’m barely a person.” Alan laughed briefly. “Breathe deepl—there you go." Michael continued working his tense muscles. "You’re floating in darkness. There is nothing to be done tomorrow--"

"Yes there is. I have two classes, and an essay due, and--"

"There is nothing. Let it go. You'll survive. There is no such thing as judgment. There is no you. There are only the peace and solitude of this room.” He moved his fingers down the muscles along Alan’s neck. This is how malleable people can be under the right emotional influence, Michael thought. He would never allow me into his personal space this way if he were not subsumed in depression.

After a long while, Michael stepped back. “How do you feel?”

“I...better, but...” Alan slowly sat up. “But it’s my mind that’s the problem, don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter if my body feels good. I’m all fucked up.” Still, much of the previous tension had drained from his voice.

“How so?”

“Just look at me! I’m a fat, ugly bastard who’s barely passing each semester. I don’t do anything. I’m a fucking loser, and I’ll probably always be this way.” Michael inwardly observed that this was a spiral resuming.

“No."

“Easy for you to say.” Alan rotated his neck, feeling out the looseness in his muscles.

“Because I’m going to see to it that this changes. Starting tonight.”

“What are you gonna do?” The tone was skeptical, but hope shone through.

“First thing, your body. Your body is your temple -- the only one you'll ever live in. From now on, no more late night drinking or gaming.”

“Fuck that!”

Michael gave Alan such a chilling look that he shrank. Then he softened. “That massage felt good, right? There’s more. There’s a lot more. Just leave everything to me. All you have to do is listen.”

“I don’t know, man...” Alan ran a hand through his greasy hair. “What are you, my dad?”

“Better,” Michael said, and Alan actually laughed.

“You’re a weird dude.”

“The spider in the freezer didn’t tip you off?” Michael turned. “OK, back to my homework. It’s bedtime in an hour. Do whatever you want until then.”

“Of course I’ll do what I want!”

“Alan, you asked for my help.” Michael didn’t look up from his computer. “Were you just fucking around? Or are you seriously depressed and in need of a complete life change?”

“Yeah, but—"

“So forget everything you’ve been taught about how life and friendships are supposed to work. We’re doing this my way, because their way isn’t working for you.”

Alan shook his head in bewilderment. “Fine, Mike. Fine." He sat down at his computer, then added, "No gay stuff.”

"If I start fucking your ass, you'll be the first to know." Laughter.

Michael suppressed his excitement, but a glow filled his eyes. I could kill him, he thought. Draw him closer and closer-- he glanced at an orb weaver he had framed -- then drive him into the darkest well of despair.

If he saved Alan immediately, the glimpse of death would be lost to him. He needed to know, before anything. He needed to see up close the way that people poison themselves. First I'll see. Then I'll save him. It was decided.

Before resuming his homework, Michael looked up a poem he remembered, Spiders by Delmore Schwartz, which began:

"Is the spider a monster in miniature?
His web is a cruel stair, to be sure,
Designed artfully, cunningly placed,
A delicate trap, carefully spun
To bind the fly (innocent or unaware)
In a net as strong as a chain or a gun."

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aole i pau