Lose 10 Pounds of Ugly Fat... Cut Off Your Head

 

The Before Times (Barely!)

“It’s never this empty here,” Gina says, herding her youngest out of the Titanosaur exhibit.

My best friend Alex, who’s come up from Delaware to visit me for a day, shoots me a look. I raise an eyebrow. He moves closer, speaking softly enough that Gina can’t hear him.

“It doesn’t seem all that empty to me,” he mutters, eyeing our fellow museumgoers.

I swallow a nervous laugh. By Delaware standards, the Museum of Natural History probably does seem crowded. The borough of Queens, my home for just over three years now, is more than twice as populous as Alex’s home state. Still, this isn’t the crowd I’d expect on a Sunday.

Most of the city’s seemed emptier than usual this past week. It’s… kind of creepy.

We make our way to the Discovery Room, a hands-on science area for kids. A friendly twenty-something checks us in. “Stay as long as you want,” she says, offering up the hand sanitizer that’s quickly become a fixture in all public places here. “It hasn’t been busy.” 

“Do you think it’s because of the virus?” I ask once the kids have run off to explore.

Gina shakes her head. “It’s the first really nice spring day. People are just outside enjoying it.”

I nod and fall silent, my insides twisting a little as I watch my 9 year old son strong-arming a kid he’s just met into serving as his assistant for whatever experiment he’s dreamed up. 

It’s March 7th, nearly a week since New York state confirmed its first case of the “novel coronavirus.” New Yorkers mobbed the grocery stores that weekend, standing in line for hours in hopes of stocking their tiny pantries with bottled water, toilet paper and Clorox wipes. 

Not yet, my friends told me when I asked if I should worry.

Since then, life in the city has proceeded as usual; it always does. But there’s more space than there should be on the subway during my commute, and the streets in midtown feel subdued when I walk them on my lunch breaks. It’s almost as though the city is holding its breath. 

And yet, when rumors swirl about closing the NYC public schools, I roll my eyes. Why would they do that for 33 cases? I thought New Yorkers were supposed to be good in a crisis.

The Calm Before the Storm

It’s only 7:30 on a Thursday night, but the N train is all but empty. I sanitize my hands. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I sanitize that as well before texting Alex: On my way home now.

Was it fun?

I bite my lip, glancing around the eerily deserted subway car. 

I ghosted everyone as we were about to walk into another bar but yes.

For good measure, I sanitize my hands again. It’s probably excessive, but you never know these days. It’s March 12th, only five days since the museum, and our case count has more than tripled. There are almost a hundred cases in NYC alone. The National Guard has set up what they’re calling a “containment zone” in New Rochelle, less than an hour away from the city. 

If my team at work hadn’t planned this outing months in advance, I would’ve backed out. I almost did anyway. But it’s for a good cause -- volunteering at a food bank. And once I got there, I figured I might as well stay for dinner and drinks; I’m not planning to go back into the office again until this whole virus thing blows over. Who knows when I’ll see everyone again?

But now I’m regretting how long I stayed, how careless I was. In Harlem, the food bank was quiet but the restaurant where we had dinner was nearly at capacity by the time we left. My coworkers and I sneak-shared food from each other’s plates when our boss wasn’t looking.

Meanwhile, Broadway’s announced it’s shutting down for the next month. And on a private Facebook group, my mom-friends and I are discussing whether we should pull our kids out of school; I decide tomorrow will be my son’s last day. Just for now, and just to be safe, but -- 

What if the virus really is as deadly as the news is saying? What if we all get sick?

A Beautiful Day

“Is it still safe to be outside?” my son asks.

They showed him videos about the virus in school, before I withdrew him. He’s discovered that the theme from Steven Universe is 21 seconds long, and he’s taken to singing it while he washes his hands. But overall, he’s seemed unperturbed by the virus so far.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell him, gripping his hand a little too tightly.

It’s Sunday, March 15th. There are 720 confirmed coronavirus cases in New York state, 329 in the city. Only yesterday, we reported our first coronavirus death; today there were two more.

My corner of Queens doesn’t seem to have noticed. The weather is glorious, unseasonably warm and breezy. People are out in force, strolling beneath the brilliant blue sky as though it’s a normal spring day -- as though our city isn’t dying before our eyes. I burst into silent tears.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

I nod numbly, towing my son down the sidewalk toward the corner bodega. 

In Italy, hospitals are now so overwhelmed they’re “triaging out” coronavirus patients who aren’t considered as likely to recover, turning away the elderly and those with exacerbating conditions.

Italy is us in two weeks, the news keeps saying. Will we be able to walk outside then? President Trump is already threatening to impose lockdowns for areas with large numbers of cases. I try not to think too hard about what that could mean, given his well-known vendetta against the city.

Should I find somewhere else we can stay? Just for a little while, you know. Just in case.

“It’ll be okay,” I say again, more for my own benefit than for my son’s.

We stock up on toilet paper and snacks we don’t really need. Once we’re home and showered, our cast-off clothes safely sealed away in a plastic garbage bag, we snuggle and watch cartoons. I hold it together for him; I don’t look at the news again until he’s gone to bed.

When I do, there’s a new round of closures: New York City public schools, all movie theaters, concert venues, and bars. All restaurants as well, except for takeout and delivery.

This time I allow myself to weep in earnest, and this time it’s out of relief.

At the Epicenter

In case you were wondering how many days into the apocalypse it would be before I snapped and gave myself a terrible haircut with blunt scissors, I text Alex, it’s today many days.

It’s Thursday, April 2nd. I call the virus by its proper name now, or COVID for short. I guess the city didn’t shut down soon enough to keep it in check. There are 92,381 confirmed cases of it in New York state now, an increase of 8,669 from the day before, and 2,373 total deaths. 

More than half of both are in the city. 

Times Square stands empty, though like most people, I’ve only seen it in pictures. We don’t go outside anymore, not even for walks; my son refuses to leave the apartment. The city is painfully quiet, apart from the unrelenting sound of sirens. We hear them all day and all night, echoing oddly off the silent buildings, and we all know each one means another likely death.

My friend Gina, the one from the museum, posts this on our Facebook group:

So John was called to work today in a hospital to put up shelves. He assumed the shelves were to store masks and other emergency equipment.

He just got home.

The shelves were for bodies.

At other hospitals, the parking lots are filled with refrigerated trailers to store the dead. We lose another New Yorker to COVID approximately every two and a half minutes. And as if this isn’t torture enough in itself, it seems people in other parts of the country believe it’s all a lie.

On Twitter, #FilmYourHospital is trending, an attempt to debunk the severity of the situation here by filming empty reception areas in overtaxed NYC hospitals. It makes me want to spit nails.

I learn to take comfort in small things: Governor Cuomo’s briefings, my talent for finding an Amazon Fresh delivery slot when no one else can, the fact that as our death rate continues to rise, the number of new cases per day seems to be plateauing at “only” 8 to 9 thousand.

We build a new normal, Zoom calls and waving from windows passing for social interaction. At 7pm every night, we cheer for the healthcare workers fighting for our lives. My friends talk about summer, as though camps and vacations are something we’re still allowed to believe in. 

But personally, I only hope for days where we don’t hear sirens.

“Let go of my fucking son.” Murdock moves in close.

Can smell the stench of his carnivore breath, feel it hot on my face. Heart’s in my throat, stomach right behind it. I gulp ‘em back, keep my knife hand steady. Keep my eyes on his, searing blue and all but shooting sparks. World goes dim, him and me and nothing else.

“Let go of him, you Umani piece of shit,” he growls, like I didn’t already hear him.

I smirk, my arm still tight around the kid. “Gotta give me what I want first, General.”

Course he can’t, not really. Can’t give me back the man I love, the man I lost. He’s gone for good ‘cause I tried to stall the war Murdock wants so bad, but --

Least I can finish what I fucking started.

Murdock glares, teeth bared. “I don’t have to give you anything.”

“Guess not.” I drop my gaze, focus on the blade. Blood wells up with just a tiny shift in pressure, almost black against the kid’s brown skin. Paints slick trails around the bruises on his neck. Kid’s silent, doesn’t move a fucking muscle. His eyes meet mine, calm as summer seas.

Air’s too thick, heavy in my lungs. Hands wanna shake, takes all my strength to hold ‘em still.

Murdock’s carved from fucking stone, a true Majerian. Folds his beefy arms across his chest and stares me down. “Why stop there?” He shakes his head. “Go ahead, cut deeper. Bleed him dry, for all I care. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

I swallow hard, mouth dry as desert dunes. “But he’s… your fucking kid.”

“He’s expendable.”

Kid goes stiff against me, lets out this little squeak. My hold on him relaxes and I stroke his hair with frozen fingers. Pulse pounds in my ears, throat closes up. No choice now, no way out --

Devin, sweetheart. Breathe.

I blink, remember why I’m here. Strain to hear that soft, sweet voice and let it ground me. Force myself to breathe in deep, be strong for him. I push the kid away, mouth one word at him:

Run.

“Everyone’s expendable,” I whisper when he’s gone.

I lift my shirt, reveal the wires bundled nice and neat above my shattered heart. Those ice-chip eyes of Murdock’s widen, fixed on my homemade bomb. His hand creeps toward his blaster and I grip my knife, white-knuckled. Raise it up and press its blade against my throat.

“Guess what happens if I fucking die,” I croak.

It turns out that there's going to be another season of LJ Idol.

I tend not to actually write things for Idol when I sign up for it, but I'll give it a shot anyway. Wish me luck?

“Pa?” The voice breaks into Dr. Jansen’s thoughts, squeaky and a touch breathless. “You got visitors.”

Jansen pushes his chair back from the solid stone table and stands, running a hand through his close-cropped brown hair. Something hurtles into him and he stumbles back a step; his son Weston’s skinny arms encircle him with impressive strength. The boy, eleven years old and already near as tall as his father, buries his face in Jansen’s labcoat. The scientist pats his shivering son’s dark, curly head in an absent way, knowing without looking who's at the door.

The boy’s never liked the Manips; Jansen can’t say he blames him.

“Come on in,” he says, his own voice even.

The Manip glides inside, its feet noiseless on the stainless alloy floor. It waits, silent, as Jansen makes his clumsy way over to the data-safe, his son still clinging to him. His back to the Manip, he opens the safe and retrieves the chip with last quarter’s reports.

A chill comes over him, and he turns to find the Manip inches away; skin crawling, Jansen suppresses a nervous laugh.

The Manips don’t appear to have any sense of humor, but he’d swear they enjoy startling him. He offers this one a wan smile and drops the chip into its skeletal hand. It nods as its white, fleshless fingers close around the chip, its face obscured by the hood of its billowing black cloak. The creature retreats to the hall, its movements so quick it appears to flicker. It doesn’t speak; the Manips never do.

Weston slowly releases his his death-grip on Jansen; moments later, a young, paunchy man steps into the doorway. The breast pocket of his ill-fitted brown suit is adorned with a Government employee's identification badge.

Tugging at the collar of his lint-flecked black button-down, he clears his throat. “I apologize for the interruption, Sir, but the Program Director requests your presence.” He clears his throat again. “There’s a hoverpod waiting outside.”

Jansen sighs, eyeing the slides he’s just finished preparing, the jars of phosphorescent serum composites. He shoots a wistful glance at the half-assembled prototype for his largest public client’s latest Productivity Assistance Management system. His work will have to wait; Jansen Technologies hasn’t earned its reputation by keeping Government officials waiting, even middle-grade ones with delusions of grandeur.

“Weston?” He turns to his son. “Keep an eye on the place for me?”

The boy stands, taut as a bow string and wide black eyes fastened on the shadowy figure lurking in the hall. On any other occasion, he’d be squealing in delight over the chance at even an hour alone in his father’s lab. Now, however, he only nods and offers a weak, “Sure, Pa.”

Jansen unlocks a tall, metal cabinet; its double doors open with a loud screech. He removes a garment bag and a pair of well-oiled dress shoes from inside and locks it back with nimble fingers. “Go on home if it gets too close to dinnertime. Tell your Ma I might be late, too--okay, kiddo?” Pulling Weston into an awkward, one-armed embrace, he whispers in the boy’s ear. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

He follows the public servant out. The halls are empty; most employees lack the clearance to enter this sector of the building. Two pairs of footfalls echo in the hall--the squeak of Jansen’s sneakers and the clippity-clop of the other man’s hard-soled shoes. Beneath the sound of their steps, Jansen hears his own breathing, the slight whistle of the younger man’s nose. The Manip trails behind them; its respirations--if it breathes at all--are inaudible. No one speaks on the way outside; the conversation at the meeting isn’t likely to be much better.

By the time he arrives at Program Headquarters, Jansen’s folded his labcoat and tucked it away in his garment bag, along with the jeans and Attack of the Killer Sprinkmelons T-shirt he was wearing underneath. He’s changed into a charcoal gray suit, expensive and tailored to fit his slight figure with precision. His shoes and socks are business black. The pressed, pristine white of his collared shirt offsets his smooth, dark skin--a complexion some spend good money to fake. Born and raised High-Ender, Jansen knows how to dress; it’s with perfect intention that he ruins the look with a smiley-face tie.

In the lobby, the Government lackey does the usual check-in routine--retinal scan, DNA sample, time in and expected time out of 23:59, Government-speak for “you’ll leave when we let you.” He takes his leave with a slight bow of his head. The Manip hovers at the back of the lobby; when Jansen approaches, it begins to drift down a dim corridor with a polished faux-marble floor. Jansen follows it onto an elevator that whisks them up seventy-odd floors and opens onto a hallway identical to the first. Exiting the elevator, the Manip leads him to a conference room with its imitation-wood door closed. It waits.

Jansen pushes the door open. The entire back wall of the room is a single sheet of shatterproof glass with a slight tint; the light filtering through this window-wall is the only illumination. At the center of the room is a long, simulated-stone table. The others are already seated at one end, stiff and unsmiling. Not one of them wears an interesting tie, unless Director Willard’s grease-spotted one counts. Willard occupies the head of the table, flanked by Stillwell and Adams, both of whom Jansen’s met before at various social events. The remaining man is young, mid-twenties at most and pulling off business casual far too well to be a Government employee. He glances toward the door and nods; the Manip floats out into the hallway and pulls it closed.

“Fashionably late as always,” Stillwell cracks as Jansen eases himself into an empty chair.

Rocking back in his seat, Jansen meets Stillwell’s honey-colored eyes with a level gaze and a small smile. He bites back a caustic remark about being fashionable, at least--Stillwell’s jacket sags just a touch in the shoulders, and its sleeve reveals the entire cuff of the man’s shirt. Jansen chides himself for his pettiness; it’s not Stillwell’s wardrobe that bothers him anyway.

“A pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jansen.” Director Willard sounds almost sincere. “I trust that your family’s well?”

“Very well--thank you, Director,” Jansen replies. “Both boys’re growing like weeds and my wife’s research is--”

“Women’s work,” Stillwell interrupts, flashing Jansen a cold smile. “I was under the impression we had real business to discuss.”

“Stillwell,” the Director warns, his graying, bushy brows bunched together.

It’s all Jansen can do to repress a smirk. The unfamiliar young man seated next to Stillwell isn’t as successful, and Adams seems to be suffering from a sudden and unfortunate attack of coughing. Stillwell’s thin lips press together to the point of invisibility. Willard waits, expressionless, while Adams regains his composure.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I've brought you here, Dr. Jansen.” The Director says when the room is silent again.

Jansen chuckles. “There are a great many things I wonder about. Scientists are inherently curious individuals.”

“Let me introduce you to our team, and we’ll get straight to the point.” Willard inclines his head toward Stillwell. “It seems you’re already acquainted with our Deputy Commissioner of Schools. Seated next to you is Dr. Richard Adams, Associate Vice President of the Bureau of Mental Fortitude. And last but not least,” he says, gesturing to the man beside Stillwell, “our young friend over here is Victor Larkin, Program Liaison. He assists with both recruitment and mentoring of Program members.”

Larkin smiles, warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And the Manips?” Jansen asks. “You work with them as well?”

The smile freezes on Larkin’s face; it fades from his eyes as they dart toward Adams. Adams, in turn, goes a bit gray in the face and looks over at Willard, who fiddles with his tie clip. “Yes, and them as well,” the Director says after a moment. He clears his throat. “How much do you know about the Program and your involvement with it?”

Jansen stretches, his jacket suddenly feeling restrictive. “My understanding is that the Program trains young men to become special operatives. Potential recruits are found through the school system using standardized tests and other screenings.”

“That’s a vast oversimplification of the--”

“Stillwell,” The Director barks. “Let the man speak.”

“As far as my involvement,” Jansen continues as if he was never interrupted. “I synthesize a chemical known as C-3614X, which is one component of an organic device the Government’s created for the Program. I believe the Manips are somehow able to use this device to observe the potentials, and these observations help determine which ones are a good fit for the Program.”

“Yes,” Willard says. “Very good. Adams, can you take it from here?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Adams clears his throat. “While surveillance is a helpful tool, on its own it provides a success rate of only thirty-five percent. In other words, almost two thirds of the boys we induct into the Program are unable to complete their training and become...” He trails off, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Special operatives. Our hope--”

“Our hope is that with some tweaks to your formula,” Willard interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can greatly reduce this rate of attrition.”

Rate of attrition. Jansen turns the words over in his mind; he dislikes how businesslike they sound. These boys, these potentials, aren’t much older than his own son. “What kind of tweaks?”

“Based on your research data thus far,” Adams says, “We believe it’s possible to enhance the organic monitors to establish a--” He pauses to examine his fingernails. “--a telepathic link between the Manips and the potentials.”

“A… what?” Jansen’s mind whirls; he wonders if he’s being mocked. “You want to read their thoughts?”

“Of course n--” Adams begins.

“Not at this time,” the Director says, his voice firm. “We intend to establish a simple bond with each potential’s brain. By measuring the strength of the bond, we’ll be better able to determine which candidates have sufficient abilities to excel in the Program.”

A sudden chill creeps over Jansen; he folds his hands in his lap to keep them still. “Isn’t that a bit… invasive?”

The young one, Larkin, leans forward. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

“Being cut from the Program is, ah, it’s very hard on these boys.” Adams rubs at the remains of his hair again. Jansen notices beads of perspiration along the man’s receding hairline. “They often require extensive counseling, and returning to their old living situations is--well, it’s quite difficult to say the least.”

“So you see,” Director Willard cuts in. “The telepathic link would, in fact, be less invasive than our current methods.”

* * * * *
Randall keeps it together until the break room door’s closed behind him. He tosses the grungy backpack onto the table, trying not to think about the way the kid fought to keep it. Tiny little thing, not even five feet tall, and it took five men to take him down. His ankles felt so small, the bones so delicate under Randall’s huge hands--

He bites back a scream and fights off tears, his whole body shaking with the effort. His fist slams into the wall and bounces off, useless. Randall blinks at the undamaged wall and then his reddening knuckles; he wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. The Program was supposed to be a way out of his dead-end life, a way to help smart kids from shitty homes who never had a chance.

It isn’t helping the kid out there any, that’s for sure. He never quit struggling, not even after they got the restraints on him. Like a cornered animal, growling deep in his throat, back arching up off the table and head jerking from side to side. Wrists straining against the cuffs and cords standing out against his stick-figure arms, even after the first injection--

The door opens with a slight creak. “You okay in there, big guy?” Larkin asks.

Randall sinks into one of the too-small chairs, pulling the pack toward him and unzipping it. He’s not okay, can’t stop hearing the kid’s screams. Can’t un-see the bloody tracks down his hairless cheeks where he’d clawed himself before they managed to bring him in.

Not okay at all.

“I’ll get by,” Randall mutters, broad shoulders tensed.

“They’re not always like this, y’know,” Larkin says, taking a seat. “The intakes, I mean.”

“Hope not.” Randall keeps his eyes on the table, trained on the kid’s belongings as he sorts through them. They don't amount to much--cheap phone, ratty old clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, some polished stones in a fake leather pouch.

“It’s this new observation device.” Larkin sighs. “Things’ve been a lot rougher around here since they started using it."

Randall nods, distracted by something he's pulled from the pile of crumpled clothes. It's one of those souvenir-shop bottles, filled with shells and sand; Randall's willing to bet this kid's never seen the shore. He picks up the pouch he set aside earlier, running a thick finger over its soft, scarred surface. Sniffs at it, his brow furrowing--not fake after all, and hides are a luxury for a kid like this.

"Lots more kids like that one the past couple years, out of their minds and seeing shit that ain’t even there.”

Randall looks up; this wasn't covered in orientation. “The device makes them hallucinate?”

“Some of ‘em, yeah.” Larkin grimaces. “It wasn’t supposed to, not really. The point was to let the Manips communicate with the potentials, to ease them into things. To gauge whether they’d be a good fit for the Program. Least that’s how it was presented to me.”

“Let me guess. This one wasn’t a good fit.”

“That’s the worst part--not necessarily." Larkin picks up the beach-bottle from the table; he rolls it between long, slim fingers, passes it from one hand to the other. "The mind-link does something to some of the kids, makes their brains go haywire. But it’s not like it weeds out the ones without enough talent. It's--" He falls silent, eyes down and lip caught between his teeth.

Randall waits, turning back to the objects on the table. He picks up a cloth bundle about the size of a loaf of bread. It's a vidframe, cocooned in layers of wash-worn T-shirts--a girl, thirteen or so, with a mop of black curls and eyes like tumbled jet. Dark skin, shy smile and straight white teeth. Randall shakes his head. Poor kid got himself mixed up with some High-Ender's daughter, some sweet little thing with money for trinkets and trips to the shore. Randall wonders what they’ll tell her when she asks what happened to him.

"Y’know Number Two?” Larkin finally asks, voice low. “That one’s the worst intake I ever did.”

“Really?" Randall almost drops the vidframe. "Two?”

Two was born to be a Manip; none of the other Program kids can keep up with him.

“Yep." Larkin swallows and looks down at the table. "Came in here hollering about ghosts and dead things, clawing himself up like that one did tonight. We had to keep him holed up here on the Processing Unit for ages, but you’d never know it now. The kid’s amazing. Doesn’t remember a thing about all that bad stuff, either.”

“So this new kid," Randall pauses, afraid to ask. Afraid to hope. "He might actually end up okay?”

“Might." Larkin picks up a pair of jeans, shakes it out and folds it.

Randall picks up a paper napkin from the table, shredding it as he waits.

"It’s hard to say this early on," Larkin continues. "The ones that come in hot like this, they’re always a mess. Most of ‘em won’t eat or drink; I think they’re too mixed up to remember. The ones who’ll sleep tend to get nightmares. Treatments help some of them, clear up the hallucinations and the dreams. Those’re the ones with the best chance. We’ll know in a day or two if this one responds to the treatments or not.”

“And if he does?”

“It’ll be critical to keep a close eye on him. Even once they can think clear, they’re scared out of their minds. They tend to hurt themselves, to hide wherever they can. You have to talk to them, try to draw them out. Make sure they know you’ve got their back.”

“That’s what you did with Two?”

“Yep. Like I said, it was touch and go for a long time. But after a while, he adjusted. Some do, if you watch ‘em close enough.”

“What happens to the ones who don’t?” Randall asks.

Larkin opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. He stands, sweeping the scraps of torn napkin from the table. Patting Randall on the shoulder, he says, "We really ought to go back out there, y'know."

It's all the answer Randall needs.


(next chapter is here)


[A/N: This was originally posted for Open Topic in... some week of LJ Idol Season 9.]

The Voice in my Head
(inspired by Dr. Seuss's The Cat in the Hat)



The words would not flow.
It was too hard to write.
So I stared at the screen
all day long and all night.

I messaged Alicia.
We chatted a bit.
And I said, "How I wish
all my writing weren't shit!"

My muse was away
and would not come to call.
So I wasted my day.
I wrote nothing at all.

So all I could do was to
sit!
  sit!
    sit!
      sit!
And I did not like it.
Not one little bit.

Then I said, "What the fuck?
I don't care if it sucks."
I typed,
then deleted and whined to my friend,
"It's tripe!"
And I heard it.
The voice in my head.
And it said to me,
"What kind of 'writer' are you?
Your plot's full of holes
and your humor's not funny.
And nobody
likes your main character, honey."

"I know some good ways I could help,"
said the voice.
"I have some good crit,"
said the voice in my head.
"A lot of good crit.
I will give it to you.
"Your 'readers' will thank me so much if I do."

Then suddenly I
did not know what to say.
My word count was already low
for the day.

But my friend said, "No! No!
Make that voice go away!
Tell that voice in your head
you do NOT want to play.
It should not be there.
It will make you morose.
It should not be there
With your deadline so close!"

"Now! Now! Have no fear.
Have no fear!" the voice pled.
"My crit is not bad,"
said the voice in my head.
"Why, this could be
quite a good piece," the voice said,
"with a technique I call
rip-rip-rip it to shreds!"

"Fucking Christ," said my friend.
"Let's not do this again!"
"Gotta go," said my friend,
and she signed off IM.

"Have no fear!" said the voice.
"I would not steer you wrong.
I will beta for you
I will make your piece strong.
By deleting this poo
and then writing instead--
good words," said the voice, said the voice
in my head.

"Look at this!
Look at your ghastly word choice.
And your info-dumps, oh--
and your character's voice!
He can't talk like this, dude!
He can't say 'fuck' this much!
Oh, the sentence fragments!
And your 'worldbuilding' sucks!
And look!
This is not realistic at all!
But that is not all!
Oh, no.
That is not all..."

"Listen up!
Listen up!
Listen up NOW!
It is good to use words
but you have to know how.
I can teach you to write
things that people will read!
Just as soon as you scrap
this ridiculous screed.
You must shitcan this 'plot'--
your 'protagonist,' too!
And then with my help
you can write something new.
You can write something great
if you do as I say!
But never your way.
Oh, no.
Never your way."

That is what the voice said...
So I sat on my bed.
I sat there like a lump
and I wanted to quit.
Then I said to the voice,
"Fuck you and all your 'crit'!"

So I took a long nap
and I thought and I thought.
I said, "Are you helping?
Oh, no! You are not.
You're not helping me grow
or write something worth shit.
No, you are not helping,
not one little bit!"

"Get out of my head!"
said myself to the voice.
"I have to write now!
Deadline's Monday--no choice!
You tore down my plot
and my characters too.
You wasted my time
and I wrote nothing new.
You SHOULD NOT be here,
mean old voice in my head."
So I banished that voice
and I wrote this instead.

I thought it would be fun to list the books I read this year. You know, because I don't keep track very well. This is based on my Kindle purchase history (which means I'm missing some I already owned or was given by my lovely book-pirating friends) and my memory (which means I'm missing some because my memory sucks. Anyway, here goes.

The scary thing is how many of these (5?) are books I'd read before. I clearly need new material.

(although my list of Kindle purchases says otherwise--I just need to read what I buy)

More or less in reverse chronological order:
1. Misery by Stephen King
2. The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
3. The Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss
4. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
5. Island by Aldous Huxley
6. The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
7. Divergent by Veronica Roth
8. Insurgent by Veronica Roth
9. Allegiant by Veronica Roth (don't... just don't)
10. Crank by Ellen Hopkins (why do most of my work friends read YA, arghhhh)
11. A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin
12. A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin
13. A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin
14. A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin
15. A Dance with Dragons by George R. R. Martin
16. The Half-Life of Planets by Emily Franklin
17. A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby
18. Tiger, Tiger: A Memoir by Margaux Fragoso
19. The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman
20. The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
21. A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
22. Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King
23. Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
24. The Giver by Lois Lowry
25. A Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs
26. The Talisman by Stephen King
27. On Writing by Stephen King

...That list is actually kind of short and sad. Oh well. I've been working 50-hour weeks since April while having a 3 year old and trying to write every day. And reading a million Idol posts. Let's not talk about how much of today's writing time I wasted making this list. Oops.

ETA: I decided I might as well keep updating the list for as long as I remember. And I also found some more books I had read this year and forgotten to note before. Oops.

28. Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn
29. The Night Circus by Erin Morganstern
30. Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami
31. Middlesex: A Novel by Jeffrey Eugenides
32. The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists by Eleanor D. Payson
33. Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi (bleh)
34. Scars by Cheryl Rainfield
35. A Child Called It: One Child's Courage to Survive by Dave Pelzer
36. Mean Mothers by Peg Streep
37. Sharp by David Fitzpatrick
38. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

"We have to talk," Katie's eyes are hard and her brow's all creased up.

I nod and I try to look agreeable, but I don't say a word and I keep on brushing Daniel's hair. And I focus on the sweet floral scent of his shampoo and how soft his hair feels and the way it slides like black silk through my fingers. Katie wanted to cut it last year when all of this started, but I wouldn't let her. It's his pride and joy, or at least it was.

He won't be able to keep it up, Katie said, and you'll have your hands full anyway.

But my hands don't feel full, not with all I've lost.

"It's about Daniel," she continues, and her voice's so cold.

He doesn't react to the sound of his name, but I do. Because I don't want to talk about Daniel--not now with him here and not later, either. I know what Katie's gonna say, and I don't want to hear it. My hands won't stay steady and I almost drop the brush and it snags in Daniel's hair. And he turns to me with a small, hurt noise, and he's too pale and his eyes are big and shadowed and scared. But he's every bit as beautiful to me as he's always been, and for a second I swear he's there, really there--

And he blinks and the moment passes, and my heart breaks all over again.

"Sorry I scared you, dude," I whisper, and I lay a hand on his back. I can feel his ribs through his T-shirt and the too-fast beating of his heart. His whole body tenses under my touch, and I've gotta stay still 'til he relaxes. But then he leans in and rests his head on my shoulder, and I hold him close and breathe him in and remember how he used to be. How we used to be. And I remember those first awful weeks last year--how lost he looked and his endless questions.

What happened? Was I dead? Am I alive now?

One year and who knows how many tests and treatments later, and we still know so little.

Every thirty seconds and sometimes sooner, his memory resets and for him there's nothing in between. And he's quieter now with all the meds they've got him on, but those questions are still there and I can see them in his eyes whenever he looks at me.

Where'd I go? How long was I asleep?

But there's never any answers to give him, because even the doctors're stumped. It's a brain injury, they say, but they're not clear on the cause and I can't help because I wasn't around when it happened. They tell us it's a rare case and they look at Daniel like he's a puzzle for them to put together. But they can't find all the pieces, and they can't say for sure if he'll get better or how long it'll take if he does. It could happen tomorrow or in a year or not at all. And that's the worst part, that nobody really knows anything.

All I know is Daniel's gone, maybe forever, and I wasn't there when he needed me most.

"Jess?" Katie's voice is softer now, but she's not gonna let me ignore her.

"What is it?" I ask, and I'm so tired, all worn out from fighting so hard to hold onto what's left.

And I feel selfish saying that when Daniel's the one who's lost everything. It's not so much work taking care of him, really. Because it turns out he can take care of his hair and his showers and all those things just fine on his own as long as you remind him every day. The doctors call that procedural memory, and it means his body remembers how to do things even though his brain doesn't. So he can still tinker with his circuits and wires and stuff, and it makes him so happy and it's the only time he's almost him.

But you've gotta watch him so he doesn't get distracted and burn the house down... like he almost did the other day.

Katie twists a lock of her own black hair around one finger. "I think we need to consider... other options for his care."

My eyes well up and my stomach's in my shoes and I think I might choke on this lump in my throat. But I knew this was coming and I've gotta stay calm, so I wait to speak 'til my voice won't shake. "There are no other options."

"Jess." All the steel's gone from her now, and her voice's flat and kinda robotic. "He's not getting any better."

My arm tightens around him of its own volition and he lets out a soft little sigh. And there's no way I'm gonna abandon him again, not now and not ever. "He's--" My words come out all squeaky and I swallow and start over. "He's calmer, isn't he?"

Katie snorts. "More like catatonic." She shakes her head, and her dark eyes flash. "How long do you think you can keep this up? You're only nineteen, Jess. You're supposed to be going out to parties and... doing whatever normal people our age do."

"You don't understand--" I start, but Katie cuts me off.

"Understand what?" she demands, and her face might as well be made of metal except for the flush rising on her brown skin. "That you blame yourself for a breakup that wasn't your fault? Or that you're wasting your life playing nursemaid to make up for it?"

Her face's too close to mine and her breath's hot on my cheeks. Daniel squirms away and he huddles in the corner and makes himself small and I want to tell him it's all gonna be okay. But it isn't okay, and I don't know if it ever will be. And I want to tell Katie it is my fault, because I knew he didn't mean all those things he said to me, the last time I saw him before. I knew it was just a fight and I walked out on him anyway, and he never takes care of himself when I'm not around, and--

"Snap out of it, Jess," she growls, and she lunges toward me and I think she's gonna slap me. But she grasps me by the tops of my arms instead and lifts me onto my feet. She shakes me like a ragdoll and her long nails dig into my skin.

"H- he belongs with me, K--"

"Yeah, right," she snaps. "That's why you were on that six-week 'vacation' at your parents' house when all this started."

And she might as well have slapped me right across the face, the way that stings.

"You didn't break him, you idiot." Her arms fall to her sides and she stares at the floor, and I've never seen her look so sad. "I heard him yelling at you clear across the house, and I heard the front door slam when he left. He walked out on you first, and you were right to leave him when you did. He was broken from the start--"

"He's. Not. Broken," I hiss through gritted teeth, and that low, icy voice's coming from my mouth but it doesn't sound like mine. My blood's pounding in my ears and there's this crazy strength surging through me. And I'm shaking but it's not because I'm scared, and all of a sudden I don't feel like sweet, harmless little Jess anymore. I march right up to Katie and I stare her down and I swear I could throw her across the room. Daniel shrinks away from me, and he mutters something I can't make out.

But Katie doesn't back down one bit. "Well, he's not coming back, is he? Look at him."

He's cowering against the wall, and his eyes are bright with fear.

"Is this the man you love?" Katie won't let up, not for one minute.

And all my rage drains away in an instant, because that's a question I can actually answer. "Yes."

She hollers something back, but I don't hear what it is because my eyes are on Daniel. And he blinks back at me with this light in his eyes and I want so much to believe it means something. That this time it's him, it's really him and he's back for good. But I've been hoping so hard for way too long, so I swallow and I brace myself for the moment the light flickers out again.

But it doesn't come.

Daniel's perfect brows knit together and he clears his throat. "Don't fight," he croaks. "Please."

His voice's like a thousand rusty hinges but it's the most wonderful sound I've ever heard.

I throw my arms around him and I snuffle into his shirt and he holds me like he's never gonna let go. My hands tangle in his hair and now I'm the one with all the questions but I'm too busy clinging to him for dear life to ask them.

"She's right, y'know." His words're soft puffs against my ear and they make me shiver. "Did this to myself."

I'm drenched in tears and my head's spinning and I don't want to pull away, but I do. "What d'you mean, dude?"

"Might not want anything to do with me once I tell you," Daniel mutters.

He leans forward and he lets his hair fall over his face like he always does when he's ashamed. And it's so him it makes me ache, and there's nothing he can say that'll change the way I feel, and--

"You left, and I--" He pauses and picks at the carpet, and he takes a deep breath. And he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Look, I fucked up, okay? Knew this guy..." He trails off, and he looks straight at me with his big wet eyes and shakes his head. "I don't deserve you, Jess. I wanted this."

And I can't think straight, because nothing makes sense. "You wanted this? To lose all your memories?"

"Not all of them." He sighs. "Guy wasn't supposed to take everything. Just--" His voice cracks, and my heart does, too.

Because I already know what he's gonna say, but knowing doesn't make it hurt any less. He cups my chin in one gentle hand and he plants a soft kiss on my forehead. And he whispers the words against my skin.

"Just... you."



Author's Note:
This story and its characters are fictional, but the idea was inspired by a real person. They did not teach me about Clive Wearing when I got my psych degree, and I feel a little cheated (especially since I'm still paying back my student loans).

The winter wind howls, pummels me with invisible fists. It cuts through my hoodie, knocks my own wind right out of me, but I don't mind. Up here on the roof, it's peaceful--or what passes for that these days. I risk my neck every time I come here--the jump from the nearest tree's almost too far. One day I'll probably miss, but I won't mind that, either.

Not like I've got a lot to live for anyway.

I remember the first time I made the leap. How I held my breath and waited for the shock--that skull-splitting, white-hot pain. Almost hoped for it, really. It's fucked up, isn't it, wanting 'em to hurt me so bad I can't breathe? Thing is, you can't think either, when you're hurting like that. But the shock--they call it "Therapeutic Correction"--never came, even though they had to know I was up here that night. They track us through our neuro chips, so they have to know I've been here most every night since, too. That I've been talking to her.

"Is that you, sugar?" Her voice drifts up from below, slow and sweet like the syrup Eric's ma used to--

Dangerous thoughts, Number Seven. Another voice, icier than any wind.

All of us on Ward Zero hear the voices, heard 'em months before we came to the Home. They're part of the Program, meant to guide us. Get our thoughts back on track when they veer off too far. The first time I heard 'em, I thought I'd gone crazy. After a while I knew I had, but by then it didn't matter. It was just one more thing I didn't think about, like the names the other kids called me at school. The store clerks' withering looks when I picked up my ma's bottles. How I knew that's all I was to her--an extra ration, a way to get more booze.

One more thing I've learned to work around, that's all the voices are.

The shocks're supposed to be like that, too. None of the other Ward Zero guys need 'em anymore--not even Number Eight and Number Nine, who got here after I did. They do what they're told, automatic-like. None of 'em seem to wonder why we're here, what the Program's really about. They stick together, eat and sleep and train, don't break the rules. All of 'em avoid the shocks, all except me. I'm the only one who's ever tried to run, and the "correction" I got for that near killed me. Made me miss a week of training, too.

"Sug?" she calls, real soft, from her balcony on Women's Ward. "Help a lady up?"

"Yeah." I stretch out on my belly, dangle one arm over the edge and brace myself with the other. She climbs up quick, but I stay where I am. Lie there looking down into the darkness, think about how far I could fall. How easy it'd be. The voice doesn't do a thing to stop me, but she does. She grasps my arm tight, pulls me back from the brink. Does she know what I was thinking? If so, she shows no sign.

I straighten up and turn to face her, have to look up a little to meet her eyes. She's never told me how old she is, never even told me her name. But I figure her for at least Eleventh Year, maybe even of age. She's got at least an inch on me, even though I'm tall for fourteen. Towered over all the other boys in my class, back when I still went to school. When Eric was still--

Number Seven. Control your mind, before it controls you.

I shake my head, try to clear it.

"Hard day?" She brushes my hair out of my eyes, studies me. "You look done in."

My knees turn to rubber. I grit my teeth against despair, wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. Strong. I'm strong, always have been, and Eric wouldn't want me dead. He wouldn't. I wait for the voice to tell me otherwise, but it's silent for now.

"I've been--" My words catch in my throat, and I swallow. "I'm okay."

We both know it's a lie. She feels the sadness in me, same as I feel it in her. The ache inside that won't ever go away. I see it in her dark eyes, the way her smiles never quite reach 'em. Hear it in the country lilt of her voice, the heavy note that weighs it down.

She gets it, the way the Program guys never will.

They're nice enough, I guess, but most of 'em are happy to be here. Why wouldn't they be? They come from shitty families like mine, and other than the "corrections," life here's pretty cushy. The kitchen staff makes our favorite foods, and we've got all the games and vids and music we could ever want. The other wards're all locked down, but not Ward Zero. We're free to roam the grounds, to do whatever we feel like when we're not training. Who knows? Maybe I'd be happy here, too, if my best friend hadn't died the day I moved in.

Your best friend betrayed you, the voice reminds me, like I'm ever gonna forget. He turned you over to us.

"Not much for talkin' tonight, are you?" she asks.

Tears prick my eyes at the kindness in her voice, but I'm not gonna cry--not in front of her or anyone else. I shake my head, turn away. There's a stone structure nearby, about a foot taller than me, with an overhang that blocks some of the wind. Set into one side's a door--probably leads to the stairs, but it's always locked. I sit down, my back against it. Rest my cheek against its cool metal surface. Even in this weather, it's a comfort. She sits, too, and I let my hair fall over my face, wait 'til I can trust myself to speak.

"Been thinking a lot, is all." My voice's thick, and I clear my throat. "Y'know, about why I'm here."

"You goin' philosophical on me?" She laughs, and it's like music. "Or you mean how you wound up in the Home?"

Kinda both. Why am I alive when Eric's dead? If he turned me in, why'd he die trying to stop them from--

That's enough, Number Seven.

"How'd you end up in the Home?" I ask, to occupy my mind with something else. On Ward Zero, we're special. They hand-picked us for the Program, even if some of us weren't exactly willing. The other Residents, though... there's a reason they've got 'em all on lockdown. A reason this place's called the Home for the Intractably Insane. "You don't seem like a nutter."

She snorts. "Well, you don't seem like a killer. What're you, a hunnert-twenty pounds sopping wet?"

A what? I blink at her, shocked silent.

Her eyes go wide, and the color drains from her face. "Bless your little heart." She puts a hand to her own heart, and her full lips part like she's gonna say more. But she doesn't, not right away. She leans in close, smooths my hair back from my face. Puts a cool hand on my forehead like a ma'd do--any ma besides mine. "You... you really don't know, do you?"

My stomach lurches, and I gulp in cold air to settle it. "Know what?"

She sighs. Plays with a strand of her long black hair, twists it around one slim finger.

They're the killers, not me--the men in the black cloaks. I want to tell her, but I'm trembling too hard to get the words out. "Men" doesn't feel like the right thing to call 'em, either, those faceless figures in black. The boneless, graceful way they moved, and how their bodies flickered--

The shock comes before I can speak, swift and fucking brutal. Rips through my brain like lightning, rattles my teeth in their sockets. My breath stops, and my heart beats out of time. Crashes around inside my ribcage like a tiny, broken bird. I clap my hands to my head, bite my tongue so I won't cry out. Never let 'em hear me scream. Mouth tastes like metal, world goes gray--

"Hey," I croak. Fight to stay conscious. "You called me a killer. Why?"

"Oh, honey." Her voice's so sad. "What'd you think they were training you for?"