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I am vaguely aware that there is something wrong with me. Something off-kilter and misshapen that defines who I am on a deep level. It projects a barrier between myself and the world. It is invisible to everyone, including me, but I can feel it. A certain hollowness. Like the world is a bunch of dry tinder and I’m waiting for it to burn.
“what if I jumped? What if I oopsie-daisied myself into oblivion without a second of introspection? What if I simply gave in to the cold part of my mind?”
I am twenty-one years old, and I feel lethal. I’m sitting at the computer, changing commas and misspelled words with mechanical efficiency. I’m neither bored nor interested; I am simply there. It feels like a rehearsal. A book I read once described a depressive episode as “it feels like practice.” And it does. Everything feels like it doesn’t matter very much.
Jay, for example, likes the Atlanta Hawks. I don’t care about basketball, but if I want to deepen my friendship with Jay, I can simply send an Atlanta Hawks joke and he is thrilled.
People just want attention. They want someone to tell them all their little idiosyncrasies are genius. That they are adorable, understood, and appreciated. They want to know that no matter how secretly awful they are, someone will accept them. And if it is handsome, jovial, confident me? Sweet, funny, clever Nolan? Well, that’s everything. Who doesn’t want pretty people to notice them?
“‘Leaves hellbent on hitting the earth, beautiful and suicidal, their destination resolute. I hope I find that. I hope I have the guidance of my individual gravity.’”
I was numb. Confused. Although my body was there physically, I was an empty shell inside, wondering why I was the only one who felt… annoyed.
Peter. That’s it. No… Parker. Peter Parker? Shit, that can’t be right. Whatever.
“I’ve been around a lot longer than you have, sweetheart—” “Do you work here?” I interrupt her this time. She frowns. “Pardon?” “Do. You. Work. Here?” I slowly let out, ensuring I enunciate to dumb it down for her. “At Target?” “No.” “Then let me do my job. You’re holding up the line,” I point out.
“Cora has been nothing but disrespectful. I’d like an apology from her.” Lauren flashes me an unbothered stare as I pop a piece of gum into my mouth. Amusement flickers in her eyes.
“She doesn’t believe that I’ve applied the twenty-five percent off,” I tell her. “I’ve assured her multiple times that I have.” Lauren steps in front of the register with a nod. “Let me take a look,” she says, her voice trailing off as she looks over the monitor. After a few seconds, she nods. “Yes. I see it right here. The coupon has been applied, ma’am.”
“Now, are you ready to pay, Karen?” I ask, leaning forward. “Or are you going to continue being a miserable cunt?”
Music does little for me. I recognize it, I understand it, and I sense the function in most people’s lives. But music to me is sugar free soda; it is flat, tasteless, and lacking somehow. I play music out of habit, as a way to find bands and songs that I can use to relate to others. Stockpiling references like ammo for a social battle. Talking to people is a contest to see who runs out of content first.
Being what they wanted all the time took a toll, until eventually the agitation threatened to spill into bloodlust. So, I night drive. I drive for hours, letting the lethal waves of rage course through me, feeling every agitation and itch in my hands to strangle, maim, and kill.
I like everything that is happening. I like the way my footsteps sound on the gravel shoulder. I like the way my arms hang at my sides. I like the way my shirt clings to my body. The knife feels fitted, groomed for my hand. The grim weight behind my eyes, the constant hunger and boredom, has alleviated for the briefest of moments. Clarity.
Once, some time ago, someone in line at the cafeteria had spilled orange juice on me, and I had to leave the building to stop from chasing them down and kicking them to death. In this moment though, I am calm. I ignore the deer’s struggles and slit its throat.
I wonder what it will be like to hurt a human. Will their eyes gush when I drive a screwdriver through them, or will they implode like mini balloons? Can you rip teeth out with pliers, or are the movies lying to me?
Everyone my age tells me what a nightmare, what a chore, what an awful thing dating is. People are fake, they say. They lie, cheat, and most of all—people play games.
I don’t mind though, and dating doesn’t bother me. There’s a mutual performative aspect to it that I feel very comfortable in. You say cute, funny things. You wear the nice clothes. You slip into the best version of yourself, and then present. I wish this is all it was.
The gash the deer left me is red and bright. I caress it gently with my thumb, thinking about the knife. “What’s with the smile?” Natalie asks. I glance up. “Hmm?” “You smiled. Like, really smiled.” “I smile all the time.” She shrugs. “Sure, everyone does. But normally you don’t smile with your entire face. Just your mouth.” She gestures to her own eyes. “You smiled just now, with your eyes, too.”
She’s perceptive, I’ll give her that. I glance at the scratch again and feel my “true” smile return. My brain offers something to tell her, and I seize it gleefully. “I’m just having a really, really nice time with you,” I say, thumbing the ridges of the scratch. Natalie blushes and looks down at her lap. I have the sense the performance is done. Our lines have been read and the audience is satisfied.
It’s her chance, see? She’s playing the same game I am, only her desire is to domesticate me into a gently smiling mascot that takes all her moods easily, assures her with constant compliments, wears sweaters and has no problem walking her dog. She’s like an alien, wanting to lay eggs inside of me. Use me until I’m drained and vacant, watching sports on the couch while she concocts the next phases of our life that she controls fully. And it starts with offering care. Simpering, frantic care that proves what a good, doting girlfriend she will be.
I want to remove the skin from her skull and run my lips along the smooth, bleached white bone.
She swallows it easily and gives me another soppy look. It’s bright eyed, furious in its intensity. Natalie is thinking I’m perfect at this moment. She’s wondering if she needs to start freezing these moments in her mind. She’ll need them when she tells ‘the story of us’ to coworkers, relatives, her social media followers… If it wasn’t so funny, I’d almost be touched.
The boredom is back, and I feel a flash of irritation toward Natalie, like her normalcy and humanness has somehow ruined the afterglow of killing the deer.
“Are you okay, Nolan? You don’t seem that into it.” I look down at her and feel my irritation growing to resemble real anger. I’m not being normal enough. I’m not an eager, drooling boy. I’m not being human.
She blinks twice and her mouth drops open slightly. For a brief, flickering moment, I see fear, and I feel relief. I’m finally seen. I’m finally revealed. Then I realize she’s not afraid. Not really. She’s turned on. “Take off your clothes,” I tell her. My voice has dropped an octave and become smoother. I’d read that men with higher voices were seen as deferent and more easily dismissed, allowing me to glide through most social situations without ever being the focus.
My hand snaps out and closes around her throat, gripping firmly. I pull her in closely, staring into her eyes. Part of me is willing her to see me—truly see me—in all the darkness. Instead, she gasps, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile.
“You know, it’s interesting,” she murmurs, lying on her back, her hands reaching down to stroke my cock. “People have these different personalities during sex. They change into different people.” Her hands begin to work faster. “You’re different than I expected.”
“Last night, I killed a deer. The blood was so warm. No, no, shh… listen to me... it felt just how your pussy feels right now.”
I was “broken”, and she wanted to fix me. She believed I could be fixed. But I’d always wondered if that was even possible.
“If time is real, then why does the world feel so still?” I wonder, allowing my gaze to settle on the clock once more. “If time is real, then where have I been for the last fifty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds? Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nine—”
I thought my Tinder days were over. But here we are. Just another night I never got off, and another man who couldn’t make me feel the everlasting bliss of an orgasm everyone always raves about. I told myself that I was done with trying to fill the void inside me with random men. It’s never worked before, so what makes me think that it would scratch the itch now?
Wow. What a rush. Abruptly, my eyes shoot open as realization sets in. There’s a slippery sensation between my thighs. I’m drenched.
People talk of morning grogginess, of struggling to wake, and not functioning until they have their coffee. I am not like this. I am simply awake, or I am not.
Even still, I’d have my night self. Deer to kill. Rage to unleash. It excites me a little. The idea of a life-long secret. A grand performance. It sounds like a challenge. Constructing the lie—cementing the house, the minivan, the jobs, the anniversaries, and birthdays—and gluing it all into place. Not to mention how the tension of potentially being caught would be delicious.
Because ultimately, one day soon, I want to kill a person. The annihilation of a human being is the next step, but I like to be ready. Mentally prepared. Right now, I feel too impulsive, too fidgety, maybe even prone to impatience.
“But if I talk,” she whispers, “maybe that will make you mad. And if you’re mad enough…” The pace of her stroking increases, her hand sliding up and down my cock, her thumb brushing the tip with each stroke. “Maybe you’ll fuck me like you did last night.” “Maybe,” I reply.
I turn my head to stare into her smiling, playful eyes. She thinks I’m still—for the most part—a nice guy. My intensity in the bedroom adds just the right amount of danger to her life. I’m a mirage to her. She’ll interact with only the shiny edges, never fully understanding that there is no depth beyond the mirrored image. Okay.
As I roll off her, clarity hits. Though I’m certain there is very little future for us, for the moment, I am not bored. I suppose that will have to be enough.
Time has passed and I realize I have lost most of the day. This happens from time to time. There’s no particular cause or reason; I simply check out. The world passes in front of me, and my face moves mechanically, nodding and talking and moving throughout life, but the swirling force of consciousness that is Nolan is gone. Disengaged. A dark lightbulb. An automaton of flesh.
I open my mouth to say something nice. Something witty and forgettable, anything to oil what keeps the machine of civil society moving. Instead, I gnash my teeth and hiss at her, before running out the door into the cold, dark night. The look on her face strikes me as hilarious as I start up my car and drive away, my eyes scanning the road frantically, hoping for another deer.
My sense of people-pleasing has backfired; I had casually suggested a Lord of the Rings marathon to Natalie just to make her happy. I didn’t know they were this long. I’m having a bad day.
My bad days start at the center of my forehead, somewhere deep in my brain. A dull ache, like a hunger headache, that slowly slides down and lurks just behind my eyes, pulsing and gnawing. “Migraines,” the doctor called them. “Migraines,” I tell people. But I know it is something more.
“High school soccer. Accidentally kicked the goal post, broke it, that’s the dent.” I smile back. What if you bite her as hard as you can? Sink your teeth into the bone. See if your canine teeth will fit in the dent. Do it, do it, do it. Leaning down, I kiss her shin gently. “Cute.”
The store is mostly empty, and I am the lone ghostly figure, wandering around and thinking my exquisitely dark thoughts. It is frustrating to have them categorized that way. I don’t find them dark. I don’t find them frightening, heinous or anything else of that nature. Other people do. The little shadows that flit around me are so easy to scare and manipulate. I don’t know why I play their game, other than it is easy and I am good at it.
“We’re closing.” The voice is cold, haughty, and seemingly pissed off. I turn to my right and look down slightly to see an employee in a red polo shirt and beige capris glaring at me. Her arms are folded, and her nails are painted black, though I notice they’re chipped, almost as if she enjoys picking at them. Studying her features, I take note of her dark, faded blue eyes. They could almost be gray.
Her eyes narrow to small slits. I flash her my smile with the expectation that the attitude will drop, absently expecting the anger to dissipate slightly. I let my eyes drift down her body, and I make it obvious, tilting my chin up and down in an exaggerated manner. Her name tag reads “Cora”. “We close in five minutes.” She shifts her weight to her other foot and somehow manages to harden her glare further. “Please leave.” Interesting. She didn’t react to me.
Cora from Target looks genuinely disgusted by the mere fact that I exist. There’s a brief pause before I respond, my hand still near the paring knives. Meeting her eyes, I find myself gauging what kind of new creature is standing before me, when she breaks the gaze for the most minute moment. She glances at the knives in that same lustful, hungry way that I do.
Sparing a glance over my shoulder as I leave the store, I see Cora trailing her fingers along the racks of knives, a dreamy and distant expression on her face.
