The Man Whose Insides Were Broken

Lloyd was a man of few feelings. Actually, he had virtually no feelings at all. The one feeling he thought he may have was really more of a suspicion. He suspected that, in some way or the other, his insides—emotions, whatever—had been broken. The vision he had of his insides was that of an open piano, the intricate wiring and mechanisms all smashed and cut.

Sitting in his apartment one night, he decided to try and make himself cry. For hours, he played back emotions through years of memory. He would contort his face and make slurpy noises with his mouth, all the physicalities that came with really intense weeping, but no tears would come. The next day, he signed on as a volunteer at a nursing home. Every morning he would drive out to the home and have long discussions with the oldest man there. When the old man finally died, Lloyd stopped going to the home, but he didn’t cry. Didn’t even really feel sad.

He walked in the worst parts of town to get home. One day he was mugged. He thought this should have angered him but it didn’t. He collected himself from the pavement and continued home.

One night, he had a dream. In the dream, he got up from the couch. He specifically recalled heading for the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. Halfway there, he collapsed onto the floor. Blood trickled out of his mouth. He crept to the phone and dialed emergency. A parade of doctors automatically appeared in his apartment. One of them opened up the top of his head and looked inside. “Good Lord, son,” he said with Lloyd’s father’s voice. “You’re all busted up in there.” Lloyd only looked at him. The next day he woke up and inspected his pillow for blood. For a brief second he felt joy that his internal breakage had not yet made him bleed. It was something, at least.