Diplopia

“How the hell am I supposed to memorize all of this?” I texted my girlfriend.

Century-old floorboards creaked beneath me as I paced back and forth nervously.

“It’s gonna be fine,” she responded. “You got this.”

I sighed. It felt like a thousand rubber bands were wound tight around the base of my skull, slowly squeezing every last bit of meaningful focus out of me. I knew I had to do well on this test. Anything less than an 80% would surely get me dropped from the class and if I got dropped from the class, I knew that I would never end up becoming a paramedic. And if I never became a paramedic, I knew that I would never end up pushing myself. And if I never pushed myself, I knew that I would never end up amounting to anything. And if I never amounted to anything, I knew that I would spend the rest of my life forever regretting the courage I never had. So, yeah, no pressure.

“You’re right,” I lied, texting her exactly what I thought she wanted to hear.

I appreciated the support, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes you just want to be a sad sack of shit, you know? Plus, I don’t think she understood just how screwed I truly was.

“I got to hit the books, I’ll text you later,” I followed up with.

Realistically I knew that I probably had no more than two hours of good work left in me. I had been studying non-stop for the last few months and was on the verge of mental collapse. But I figured if I could get just one more chapter in today then I would at least have a fighting chance. So, grabbing my textbook, I took a seat at my desk and got back to work.

I was elbow-deep in dysrhythmia review when a loud bang suddenly pierced the silent stillness that filled my apartment. My heart skipped a beat as my brain fought to process this abrupt shift in auditory perception. The building I lived in was nearly one hundred and fifty years old so I had grown rather accustomed to its chronic creaks and cracks, but this was different. This sounded intentional. Assuming that it was nothing more than my shady downstairs neighbor though, I quickly brushed it off and went back to studying.

“A QRS complex with a bizarre appearance and a duration of 0.12 seconds or more signifies some abnormality in conduction through the ventricles. A bundle branch block is a type of intraventricular conduction defect involving impaired conduction from the Bundle of His to one or more of the bundle branches. A blockage at the level of the….”

A second bang rang out.

“For Christ’s sake,” I mumbled, slamming my book shut.

A seething sense of irritation swept through me as I got up from my desk. Not picking up his dog’s shit was one thing, but acting a fool a few days before one of the most important tests of my entire life was unacceptable. I was not about to let anyone, especially this asshole, ruin what I had worked so hard to achieve. I was going to pass that test even if it killed me.

Letting out another sigh, I staggered over to the bathroom. I wanted to make sure it was actually him before I did anything drastic. Plus, I had cannulated my foot an hour or so earlier in a procrastinatory effort to practice my IV skills and now had five hundred milliliters of normal saline compressing my bladder.

I listened carefully as I loomed over the toilet. My bathroom sat directly above his bedroom so I figured if I was going to pinpoint the source of the sound this was the best place to be. I didn’t get much chance to investigate though as three more bangs rang out in quick succession. Only, this time they were exponentially louder.

“Dammit,” I cursed.

To my surprise they didn’t sound like they were coming from the apartment below me though. Rather they sounded like they were coming from somewhere beside me. Shit, if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought they were coming from Claudette’s place, Unit 4.

I had lived next to Claudette for the last eighteen months and admittedly knew next to nothing about her. I knew she was a nurse, originally from New Orleans, drove a silver Jeep Renegade, and used lavender fabric softener, but that was about it. Outside of that she was more or less a perfect stranger.

Unlike the pain in the ass below me though, who had been running what sounded like a lawnmower off and on for the past few days, I never had any issues with Claudette. She was quiet, she was clean, and she kept to herself. In fact, prior to today, I hadn’t heard a single peep from her. Regardless, the bangs were very clearly coming from her side of the wall and I knew that if I didn’t do something, I would never pass my exam. So, after finishing up my business, I washed my hands and made my way out into the kitchen.

A large bay window adorns the far wall of my dining room. Sitting parallel to my kitchen table, it serves as the unofficial focal point of my sad little domicile. From it, you can see practically everything: the front yard, the parking lot, most of the side yard, and even the vast majority of Secretary Frazier Street. My buddies and I always joke that if shit were to ever hit the fan it would serve as the perfect sniper’s nest. One that would put even the Texas School Book Depository to shame.

So, taking my spot in front of the window, I peered out into the expanse of land laid out before me. I scoured the porch, the driveway, the train tracks, the neighbor’s yard, and as far up the street as I could, looking for any potential sources behind these bangs. But to my dismay, I found nothing. No Claudette, no shady neighbor, no wandering meth head, no mangy mutt, no feral tomcat, nothing. Nothing at all.

Defeated, I wandered back to my bedroom and took a seat on the bed. Two thick fleece blankets were stretched wide across the back windows, blotting out the afternoon sun and shrouding the space in a lair-like darkness. Looking around, I realized just how truly depressing the place had become. In the span of just four months, it had gone from a normal bachelor pad to something more akin to a medieval dungeon.

I pulled back the blankets and was met with the spectacular image of fiery red hills rolling across my backyard. Its views like this that remind me why people don’t leave this godforsaken place. You can take the boy out of the hills, but you can’t take the hills out of the boy.

It took me a few sweeps to finally locate the perp, but once I did, I knew exactly who it was. Standing directly in front of the dumpster, with her back turned towards me, was Claudette. Being the only black woman in town, it was more or less a dead giveaway. Her ebony skin and long black braids might as well have been alien features here in Whitesburg, a place whose name is ever fitting.

Speaking of Whitesburg, it is about as Podunk as you can get. Situated in the heart of coal country, it serves as the unofficial frontline of the war on the American Dream. A place where fentanyl, booze, meth, and poverty reign supreme.

The more I watched Claudette though the less typical townie I saw in her. She didn’t have the same slumped stance of a dope fiend nor the stereotypical shaky gait of a boozehound. Rather she stood perfectly erect and perfectly still. Frankly a little too erect and little too still. In her arms, she clutched a red bundle, one which she cuddled close like a mother might an infant. She stood like this for a whole minute straight. Two whole minutes straight. Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine whole minutes straight without even the slightest flinch.

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes.

Since day one of medic school, I had been balls to the wall, foot on the gas, stressing hard over every medication dose, cardiac rhythm, and trauma protocol. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had taken a night off and it showed.

I put my glasses on and looked back out into the yard below. My gaze zeroed in on the dumpster, but to my surprise Claudette was nowhere to be found. All that remained was a red sweatshirt that hung limply from its lid.

My pocket buzzed.

“Dinner is five minutes out, got your favorite,” a text from my girlfriend read.

A Crunchwrap Supreme, chicken quesadilla, and Code Red Mountain Dew. I was one lucky son of a bitch.

I was just about to text her back when a muffled voice rang out from somewhere back behind me.

“What are you doing, baby?” The voice yelled.

Living in a glorified slum, I heard random voices all the time. The voices of strung-out junkies, sleazy call girls, bratty kids, and pissed off wives regularly rattled the roof of my ancient apartment. But much like the boisterous bangs, this voice was different. This voice was riddled with panic. A primal panic that I hadn’t heard since my little sister almost choked to death when I was eight.

“Baby!?” The voice insisted.

Its pitch seemed to grow with each passing word.

“You hear me?” It called out again, pulling me back towards the kitchen.

Having relocated to the sniper’s perch, I could now see a candy apple red Dodge Durango parked in the middle of the driveway. One whom I could only assume belonged to the middle-aged black woman standing anxiously at the front door. Call it intuition, but I had a feeling she was looking for Claudette.

“For Heaven’s sake,” the woman scoffed.

Right then a blacked-out SUV turned onto Secretary Frazier Street, kicking up thick clouds of dust in its wake. It came to a rolling stop at the end of the driveway and a stocky redhead clad in a bulletproof vest and rainbow-tinted Pit Vipers stepped out. He muttered something into his radio before approaching who I assumed to be Claudette’s mother.

The duo exchanged hushed words before my attention was drawn back down to my buzzing pocket.

“Your Doordash order has arrived,” a text from an unknown number read.

“Fuck,” I groaned.

Talk about shit timing.

The familiar crunch of crushed gravel brought my gaze back up and I watched as Medic 25 and Engine 50 lumber on down the street towards us. Whatever was going on here was obviously much more serious than I had originally thought and to make matters worse, my dinner was now being held hostage somewhere out there amongst the growing mass of Letcher County’s finest.

”Baby, please! You are scaring us,” Claudette’s mom belted out.

My mind reeled as I tried to think up alternative routes. Usually, I used the building’s main entrance anytime I left the house, but considering this path took me right past Claudette’s front door, I was suddenly very wary to take it. But outside of dropping drown from a second story window I really had no other option. It was either take my chances with Claudette or have Hot Pockets for the fourth night in a row. And lord knows my GI tract needed a break. So, taking in one last deep breath, I made my way to my front door and grabbed the knob.

A faint scent of lavender filled my nostrils as I gripped its weathered brass. I don’t know if it was just because I was in the comfort of my own home, but something didn’t feel right all of a sudden. I had dealt with dozens if not hundreds of unruly patients over the course of my career, but for one reason or another I was dreading the thought of facing Claudette. I don’t know how to explain it, but something just felt off.

I turned the knob and pushed. My heart was beating out my chest at this point. Instead of finding my melanated neighbor though, all I was met with was mounds of mismatched clutter. I breathed in a sigh of relief. Heaps of clothes, piles of books, and stacks of cheap furniture lined the tight hallway that Claudette and I shared. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that she was moving out, perhaps having been evicted given all the racket.

I held my breath as I weaved through the mountains of junk, doing my best to keep as low of a profile as I could. About halfway down the hallway though I came to Claudette’s apartment. Her door was wide open and a faint rustling oozed out. Despite my curiosity, I didn’t stop to investigate. I just kept moving forward, making a beeline straight for the stairs.

The weight of a thousand worlds was lifted off me the moment my feet made contact with the top step. I was almost there. Ten more and I would be home free. But before I could even manage to take another step, I was stopped dead in my tracks.

Standing at the bottom of the steps was Claudette.

I almost didn’t recognize her at first. Her greasy hair, saggy skin, and sickly stature made her look more ghoul than human. But I knew it was her because she stood with that same stillness. An awful stillness that sent icy shivers snaking down my spine.

“He-he-hello?” I stammered.

No response.

She just stared blankly ahead. Her fixed gaze boring a hole in the adjacent wall.

“Claudette?” I called out.

Still nothing.

I couldn’t tell if she was frozen in a catatonic state or just high off her ass. What I could tell though was that she was in bad shape. Like involuntary seventy-two-hour hold shape. I mean shit, I don’t think she even knew I was there and I was standing less than five feet away from her.

After some silent deliberation, I finally decided to just bite the bullet and walk right on past her. I figured that if she truly was having some kind of psychiatric emergency chances were that she wouldn’t even notice me. And if she did, I figured I could probably outmaneuver her anyway. So, with soft steps, I did just that.

I was past her and less than two steps away from the building’s front door when I first heard it.

“Don’t believe him,” a hollow voice whispered.

My legs went slack. Every part of me said don’t do it, my mind, my body, and even my soul begged me not to turn around. But being the mere mortal that I am, my curiosity ultimately got the best of me.

Standing in the same rigid fashion, with her gaze still stuck on the adjacent wall, was Claudette.

“What?” I asked with a noticeable crack in my voice.

She turned her head with an impossible slowness.

My hands began to tremble as I met her gaze. I never really got a good look at her the first time around, but now that we were face to face, I could see just how truly lifeless and marbled her eyes had become. Like those of a taxidermized animal, they did nothing more than reflect a carefully crafted illusion of existence.

I could feel my pulse beginning to spike: ninety, one hundred, one hundred ten, one hundred twenty, one hundred thirty, one hundred forty, and so on. There probably wasn’t enough Adenosine in the entire world to bring me back down at this point, for it was becoming increasingly obvious that this was not your run-of-the-mill psych call. This was something far stranger.

Panicked, I spun back around and busted out the front door. Tripping and falling, I almost took Engine 50’s Lieutenant out with me.

“We looking for you?” He asked, helping me to my feet.

An army of concerned faces flanked him.

My chest heaved in and out as my brain somersaulted.

“No,” I finally blurted out.

Hearing this, the Lieutenant blew by me with profound indifference, a motley crew of firefighters and paramedics hot on his heels. I quietly slipped by them, still in somewhat of a shocked daze, and stumbled out into the front yard. It was here, amongst the growing convoy of emergency vehicles, that I eventually found my DoorDash driver and retrieved my dinner.

“Is my baby okay?” A familiar voice called out.

I turned to find the same woman from before watching me from across the yard.

I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what to say. Hell, I didn’t even know what to think. Whatever was wrong with Claudette was far beyond my paygrade. She needed a shrink or maybe even a priest, but definitely not some washed-up EMT barely making it through paramedic school.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” I lied, trying my best to hide my telling squeak.

A look of relief washed over her.

“Oh, thank God,” she exclaimed. “I thought I was going to lose her too.”

I felt my face twist.

“Too?” I asked, quickly realizing that my question was probably inappropriate.

“Yeah, her momma up and lost it back in ’98,” she admitted.

My eyebrows arched.

“I am Aneeka by the way,” she said, outstretching her hand. “Claudette’s aunt.”

I shook it and spent the next few minutes chatting with her. She told all about the supposed “curse” that plagued their family. Apparently, just about every generation since she could remember had experienced some kind of horrific tragedy. Her great-great-great-great-grandmother was a slave of Madame LaLaurie’s, her great-grandfather was strung up by a lynch mob, her father shot himself shortly after returning home from Vietnam, and her baby sister had spent the last two decades fighting crack-induced demons in a state-run psychiatric facility just outside of Lexington.

But despite all of this Claudette was said to be different. The light of her aunt’s eye, she was the one supposedly destined to break this awful curse. After all, she had a great job, a strong work ethic, a good head on her shoulders, and loads of promise. But that apparently all went out the window late last night when she started neurotically texting about “depraved doppelgangers” and “twisted twins”, swearing that her apartment was “haunted” and that she was “possessed”.

It suddenly all made sense. The banging, the cops, the hallway, her vacant stare, her unflinching stillness, everything. Despite what they may think, I had a sneaking suspicion that devils and demons weren’t to blame for their family’s unsavory history though, but rather it was largely due to the effects of mental illness and systemic oppression.

I was trying to find a polite way to excuse myself when the front door suddenly blew open with a familiar bang. Out from it poured a parade of first responders with Claudette sandwiched tightly in between them. From what I could see she wore the same lifeless look from before, one that now made a little more sense given her lineage.

The paramedics escorted her out to the ambulance while the Lieutenant convened with Claudette’s aunt. Right before stepping up into the truck though she stopped, swayed for a moment, and spoke with a toneless indifference.

“She lyin.”

I looked over at Claudette’s aunt.

“Look at her eyes.”

She returned a concerned gaze.

“That ain’t me.”

My mouth dried.

“C’est un diable.”

My stomach churched.

Then without any further explanation, she calmly climbed up into the ambulance and was gone, bringing an abrupt end to my wild afternoon.

I spent the remainder of the evening trying to study. After about two hours of mindlessly staring at my textbook though I finally threw in the towel. The motivation just wasn’t there. Plus, I knew I could use a night off. So, with seemingly nothing else to do, I popped a thirty-milligram edible, poured myself a stiff drink, and prepared for blast off.

I was standing at the end of my childhood cul-de-sac when I finally came to. Staring up at an oppressive grey sky, I watched as an old-timey helicopter descended upon me. Its wired frame swayed side to side as its single occupant, a James Dean lookalike clad in a Cold War era army uniform, looked down at me.

I squinted hard trying to make out his face. His chin was honed and angulated, cheekbones high and tight, hair slicked back and greased, and his 5 o’clock shadow was sharp enough to draw blood. For some strange reason, I felt like I knew this man, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how. Despite having no idea who he was, I felt oddly drawn to him. Almost as if I had known him my entire life. It wasn’t until I got a good look at his eyes though that I finally figured out why. Hidden amongst a paternal warmth were the eyes of my grandfather. The same grandfather that I had lost to cancer when I was eight and spent the rest of my life idolizing. Only this version of him looked to be stuck in 1952.

The moment I realized it was him a deep sense of longing set in. Nearly two decades worth of love and admiration came pouring out of me as hundreds of precious memories flooded my mind. Fat tears of joy began to stream down my face as the helicopter landed directly in front of me. I had so much to ask him and even more to tell, but what I wanted most of all was a hug, a hug that I thought was dead and buried long ago. But right as I reached out to embrace him, I woke up.

Orange beams of bright morning sun poured in through a break in the blankets. Despite the oppressive stench of bottom shelf bourbon that wafted off of me, I felt good. Focused, motivated, and thoroughly refreshed, I was ready to take on the day. Shit, I was ready to take on the year.

I sat on my front porch and took in fresh gulps of sweet morning air as I laced up my sneakers. Remnants of Claudette’s episode still littered the upstairs hallway. I had a feeling that it was going to be a long time before I saw her again. Putting these thoughts aside though, I finished with my shoes and took off on a long run.

My path took me up hills, across hollers, over streams, down valleys, and through thick sections of backwoods. While I ran my mind wandered in every which way. I thought of friends, family, work, and school. Israel, Palestine, the 2016 World Series, and even Kanye West’s infamous Hurricane Katrina video. But it was while reviewing the various doses of Midazolam that I first saw it.

Roughly a hundred yards up ahead of me was a small slender silhouette. Bathed in a deep blood red, it looked humanoid in almost every sense. I watched as its tiny frame bobbed up and down rhythmically against the brush and brambles. I couldn’t make out any specifics, but we looked to be heading in the same direction, venturing deeper and deeper into the surrounding forest.

I usually wouldn’t think much of this. I passed by people all the time on my runs: neighbors, farmers, miners, drivers, and sometimes even the occasional moonshiner. But not here. Not in this particular stretch of woods. This was one of the few remaining places left untouched by the tainted hands of civilization. It was a hidden gem amongst an over-constructed and undervalued world and one whose foliage was so thick that you damn near needed a machete to navigate through. Regardless, I continued on, eventually losing sight of the silhouette as I neared my halfway point.

A lone shingle hung loosely from the abandoned cabin that sat rotting away in the middle of the woods. I found this dilapidated relic a few years back and have used it as my turnaround point ever since. Stopping to catch my breath, I glanced around at its crumbling façade. I expected to find signs of a visitor: footprints, broken twigs, shifted soil, etc., but found nothing. The place looked just as undisturbed as the day I found it.

I was less than a mile out from my apartment when I caught another glimpse of something red up on the horizon. It had the same blood-tinted hue as before, only this time it seemed to be headed right for me.

The figure was twenty yards and closing by the time I finally recognized it for what it was. Standing four foot nothing and wearing a blood red “Louisville Football” sweatshirt was a kid. A boy to be exact who was probably no older than seven or eight.

Twenty yards later and the boy passed without incident. We didn’t exchange words, we didn’t exchange glances, we didn’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. We just walked right on by like two ships passing in the night. Despite our close proximities, I didn’t get a good look at his face. His hood was up and his eyes were buried in the ground below. Outside of the sweatshirt, really the only other identifying aspect was his obnoxiously sweet floral scent.

I was back inside my apartment and halfway up the stairs when it hit me. The sweatshirt. Blood red and lined with thick black trim, it was the same one that I had worn when I was his age. And when I say same one, I don’t just mean the same style, but rather the same exact sweatshirt. Like shared an identical burn mark right over the “Lou” same.

A heavy tightness filled the center of my chest. Things had gone from strange to downright creepy in the blink of an eye. I mean there was no way this was merely a coincidence, right? Regardless, I wanted no further part of it. So, without hesitation I bolted back up to my apartment and slammed the door shut.

I spent the next few hours fixated on the boy in the red sweatshirt. I tried anything and everything to distract myself. I read, I studied, I did pushups, I did sit ups, I watched tv, hell I even tried watching porn, but nothing seemed to take. I was obsessed.

But then, just as things couldn’t seem to get any stranger, a familiar bang rang out.

“Hello?” I called out in a forceful whisper.

The flowery stench of artificial lavender filled the cluttered hallway that I was now creeping down.

“It’s Patrick, Claudette’s neighbor,” I repeated, this time a little louder.

I tiptoed towards her door. It was still just as wide open as she had left it, only now an eerie stillness seeped out. I groaned. Either someone was messing with me or I was losing my goddamn mind.

I stepped inside and inched my way forward, clomping my feet in an effort to forewarn any potential occupants. I didn’t want to catch a paranoid pill pusher or schizophrenic Satanist by surprise, especially since there are enough ARs and AKs here in Whitesburg to fund a small army. Now I don’t know exactly what I expected to find, maybe a drug den or voodoo temple given her recent behavior, but it surely wasn’t this. Not the everyday run-of-the-mill subsidized apartment that lay before me.

A half-eaten bowl of macaroni and cheese sat rotting away on the kitchen table. Outside of the mess in the hallway, nothing really looked out of the ordinary here. There were no bloody pentagrams, no dirty needles, no belt-fed machine guns, nor even a single bottle of liquor in the entire apartment. If anything, the place just looked sad. So much so that it would have likely driven even the most sound-minded individuals mad as well.

I searched every nook and cranny of that God-forsaken apartment but didn’t find a single thing. No human, no demon, no cat, not even a freaking ant. I was about at my wit’s end. I knew that if I stayed here any longer, I would likely end up on the same floor as Claudette. So, I left.

Back at my place, I caught a rare glimpse of myself as I walked by the bathroom. I couldn’t recall the last time I had shaved, let alone bathed. My face was scruffy and grey, my eyes sunken and bloodshot, my hair frizzy and matted, and my clothes filthy and worn. If I was a cartoon character, I surely would have had little green stink lines wafting off of me.

I shed my soiled rags and jumped in the shower. The warm water did wonders for my grimy body, but little to ease my troubled mind. Like a dog chasing its own tail, my thoughts ran in circles around themselves.

I was all toweled off and pulling a dull razor across my face when I first saw it. Out of the corner of my eye, in the reflection of the mirror, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something red flash behind me. Before I could investigate any further though a sharp pain tore through my chin, pulling my attention back forward.

“Shit!” I cursed.

A thin river of blood streamed down my neck.

“Relax, Patrick,” I said as I balled up a tiny piece of toilet paper.

“It’s all in your head,” I assured myself, pressing the ball hard against my chin.

I let out a deep sigh before peering back over my shoulder.

Nothing.

I smirked.

I was officially losing it.

After finishing up my shave I threw on a towel and wandered out into the kitchen, putting on a fresh pot of coffee while I worked to calm myself.

“Caffeine, a shower, some fresh clothes, and I’ll be good to go,” I sang with feigned confidence.

A small part of me believed that if I said this with enough conviction it just might actually come true, but an even larger part of me knew that this was bullshit. I was headed in a dangerous direction and nearing a tipping point. Stress, paranoia, schizophrenia, demons, devils, whatever this was, it was winning.

The coffee finished brewing and I poured myself a cup. I took a big whiff of it before venturing out into my bedroom. Rich and nutty, it smelled just like the thing I needed. I put on a fresh pair of drawers and swung open my closet door only to be met with the crashing sound of shattering ceramic. Dangling in between my high school letterman and camo Carhartt was a blood red Louisville Football sweatshirt. A blood red Louisville Football sweatshirt with thick black trim and a familiar burn mark.

I froze. And by froze I don’t mean that I was just scared shitless, but rather I was legit frozen in place. Paralyzed: like couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe. Hell, I couldn’t even feel the 150ºF coffee dripping down my foot. It was then that the banging suddenly returned in full force. Coming from every direction, it filled my tiny room with a deafening roar. If I could have moved, I would have run, spoken I would have screamed, blinked I would have shut my eyes, and breathed I would have held my breath, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. I was frozen solid and at the complete mercy of…

I awoke in a cold sweat sprawled out in the middle of my bed. A familiar stench loomed thick in the air.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

“What the hell happened?” I asked out loud.

My head pounded and my stomach lurched. I couldn’t tell if I had just woken up from a nap or a full night’s rest. I could still remember the events of this morning, but now all of a sudden they felt strangely distant.

I grabbed my phone and swiped it open. “4:03”, stared back at me in big white print.

“Fuck,” I groaned.

I never slept in this late.

I was just about to call my girlfriend when my gaze was suddenly pulled back towards my closet. Tucked away in the corner, its door sat wide open, revealing its inner contents. And hanging by their lonesome in the middle of it were my letterman and Carhartt. No red sweatshirt was anywhere to be found.

I breathed in a sigh of relief. I guess it had just been a dream after all.

An incoming text rattled my phone. It was from my Uncle Jim, my mother’s brother and the current owner of my apartment building.

“Hey Pat, got some bad news. Claudette passed away last night. I’m going to swing by tomorrow and start cleaning up. You free to help?”

A frown creased my face.

A second text came through. This one from an unknown number with a 504 area code.

“He lyin.”

A lump began to form in the back of my throat.

A third came through.

“Look at his eyes.”

A fourth.

“That ain’t you.”

I could feel my throat starting to close. There was no way it was her. Even if Uncle Jim was wrong, I knew she wouldn’t have access to a phone. Cell phones are strictly prohibited in psych wards and there was no way she was out already. Someone had to be messing with me. It was the only explanation.

“WHO IS FUCKING WITH ME!?” I exploded.

I don’t know where it came from, but a blind rage suddenly tore through me.

“HUH, MOTHERFUCKER!?”

My face flushed.

“I AM NOT CRAZY!”

The veins in my neck began to quiver.

“YOU HEAR ME!?”

My vision blurred.

“FUCK!”

I opened my mouth to issue one last forceful proclamation, but was immediately met with…

It was pitch dark by the time I finally awoke. My sheets were now soaked and my mind was coated in a dreadful fuzziness.

“What is happening to me?” I cried.

Thick tears began to well up in my eyes.

A single bang rang out.

Something was wrong, very wrong.

A second bang rang out.

I needed help, serious help.

A third.

By this point, I was laughing hysterically. The line between fact and fiction had grown so blurred that I felt like laughter was my only remaining defense. Well, that and one other thing, but I wasn’t quite there yet. So, instead I picked up my phone and dialed.

“911, what’s the address of your emergency?” A hollow voice croaked.

I wet my lips.

“525 Secretary Frazier Street,” I said.

A fourth bang rang out.

Only this time it sounded like it was coming through the phone.

A fifth bang.

Tears began to stream down my face.

A sixth.

My mind began to crack.

A seventh.

“No,” I pleaded.

An eighth.

A hollow cackle spurted from the other side of the line before one last phrase was uttered.

“C’est un diable.”

And with this, my mind finally went. The few remaining shreds of sanity that I had so desperately held onto were pulverized into a thousand tiny little pieces. I closed my eyes and for the first time in my life I wished I was dead.

It was the faint scent of lavender of all things that ended up bringing me back around. I opened my eyes expecting to find myself back in bed, stuck in the same fucked up version of Groundhog Day, but instead was met with perhaps the most bizarre spectacle I had ever seen. Standing before me was me.

Roughly four foot tall and clad in a blood red Louisville Football sweatshirt with black trim and a burn mark right over the “Lou” was me. Only this me wasn’t the same me that I had seen in the mirror earlier. Nor was it even the same one that I remembered seeing over the course of the past fifteen years. Rather this was the me that obsessively read comic books, ate Doritos for dinner, and struggled with multiplication tables. This was the me that had yet to be kissed, yet to get drunk, and yet to be sullied by the crushing realities of life. This was eight-year-old me.

I stared at myself with dumbstruck eyes for what felt like hours. This was beyond crazy. This was beyond logical. This was pure lunacy. If it wasn’t for my eyes, I probably would have been scared shitless, but just like my grandfather’s, they expressed an ethereal sense of warmth that instantly melted my worries and wrapped me in a euphoric sense of love. One that echoed the sheer pureness of youth.

With trembling hands, I reached out to touch me. A part of me was hoping to feel something, to know that such a purity could actually still exist, but another part of me was hoping to feel nothing because I knew that if I did, life would never be the same.

My fingers connected and were met with soft, warm, skin. Like a shot of good coke straight to the dome, it filled me with an ecstatic sense of ecstasy. One that was so strong that I could have been standing in the selection line at Auschwitz and still been on cloud nine.

I leaned in to embrace myself. This was it. I was finally getting the hug I wanted, the hug I so desperately needed. But right as I felt my childish arms lock around me, I saw it. The warmth that had lulled me into this vulnerable state of trust was snuffed out right before my eyes and quickly replaced by a haunting sense of nothingness. The same haunting sense of nothingness that I had seen in Claudette.

I tried to break free, but it was no use. The harder I fought, the tighter my arms held. I was stuck, forced to gaze into the depths of my own crushing nothingness for the rest of eternity. So, I gave up. The months of unending stress, the days of psychological torture, and the complete utter lack of hope had finally done it. It had broken me for good. So, with a rare calmness, I grabbed the nine-millimeter from my nightstand, put the barrel in my mouth, and pulled the trigger.

“Tonight, on WLKY 32, a rash of unexplained deaths that rocked the small town of Whitesburg can finally be laid to rest as investigators have uncovered a methamphetamine manufacturing lab in the downstairs unit of a local apartment building. Located in the five hundred block of Secretary Frazier Street, the building experienced two suspicious deaths in the span of forty eight hours, prompting a thorough investigation by local authorities. A spokesperson from the Letcher County Sherriff’s Office stated that a search warrant conducted late last night revealed the illegal narcotics lab as well as an indoor generator that was being used to power the operation. Investigators believe that the generator’s toxic fumes leaked into the building’s upstairs apartments and played a major role in the tragic deaths of two of its occupants. No arrests have been made at this point. Officials are asking the publics help in identify a person of interest. Last seen leaving the apartment in question, witnesses describe the suspect as a young male anywhere between four and five foot tall and wearing a blood red “Louisville Football” sweatshirt with thick black trim and a burn mark over the “Lou”. If you or anyone you know has any information regarding the matter please call our crime stoppers number at (502) 893-3671.”