House of Mirrors
Between the green trees there is a bright black cube. A monolith made of glossy nothingness. Placed perfectly alone in this clearing, seemingly undiscovered. It stands about a hundred feet tall and a hundred feet wide and a hundred feet long. And to think, an hour ago I was enthralled by a mere endangered bird.
I came here to investigate the past and stumbled upon the future. My map was supposed to lead me to ancient ruins. Perhaps that isn’t off the table—anything is on the table, really. A classified government laboratory? An extraterrestrial spacecraft? How much will this change my thesis? Ha! Your thesis is a low-order concern, Lewis. If I show them these photos, they ought to hand me the PhD early.
I check my photos. They are too far away. I look back at two hours’ worth of forest and foliage. That would be tricky to traverse at night. I glance up at the cloudless sky. You could say the day had dyed down into an afternoon purple. But only an afternoon, not an evening. I have time. Besides, how long would this take anyway? (And it wouldn’t be thrilling if I didn’t jinx myself.) I march towards the monolith.
As I approach the monolith, I see over the tall grass. The cube is not quite a cube. The foundation is smaller than its perimeter; the four outer walls are all eaves, projections that protrude significantly from the relatively diminutive base. I am no architect, but this foundation should not be able to sustain such weight. This structure should not have been possible in ancient times, maybe not even by today’s standards. I duck underneath the eaves, as though they were not twenty feet tall.
As I am about twenty yards away, the monolith’s mouth opens white. On the small foundation, two sliding doors part to reveal a luminous room. I stop dead in my tracks. Shit. It heard me. Perhaps the alien spaceship theory was wrong—this is the alien’s body. I have nothing to go off of here; my expertise lies in ancient Greece, Egypt, Rome… not in potentially sentient black boxes.
Again, I could turn away: to keep my life, to live another day, to turn around after having come so far. Perhaps some stones are better left unturned. I thought of my bed, and the world behind the window, at a comfortable distance. I scoff aloud. My desire to survive is, once again, outweighed by a louder voice.
I walk to the foot of the entrance. The inside is so blindingly white I can barely see banners of glass. Timidly I tap my foot atop the first tile. Nothing happens. With a gulp of my own, I step inside the monolith. I hear the doors slide shut behind me. A moment ago this made so much sense.
Ahead of me are a series of tall, reflective, glass panes that stretch up into the ceiling. I walk forwards and my reflection confronts me. It’s a mirror. And a spotless one. My image is so clear; I see every pore, every dried sweat stain, every hair I should have plucked. Having had enough of that I attempt to pass by, but it moves with me. Eventually the reflection runs out of glass and I move forwards, past the pane. My victory only lasts a second; I run into another reflection. There I am again. This time, I turn and head to the right. Again, I’m confronted by another reflection. I go the opposite direction. After a slightly longer hallway, I find myself face to face with myself. I turn right, I see myself. I turn left, myself. I look over my shoulder and there I am looking back at me. It’s a maze of mirrors. Truly, I have wandered into the strangest forest. I tread through more trunks of glass.
I don’t know why, but the brightness frightens me more; the black exterior was only ominous, this white is just disturbing. A terror opposite to darkness: not born of what I couldn’t see, but what I could. And all these eyes—though they are my own—watching me, parallel in their paranoia.
So I play a little game. I quickly twist my head at a reflection. It looks back at me. I swivel my head the other way. It’s looking back at me. I tiptoe down a corridor and flick my head left. Still, my reflection catches my gaze. I want to see if I can catch it unaware. I’ve been doing this since I was young. Barely conscious, I tried to outrun my shadow. Shrugging, I put my hands in my pockets and stroll along, feigning obliviousness. I close my eyes and whistle a little. When I think enough time has passed, I spin and look behind me.
Something scampers away. I gasped loudly. All I saw was a dark dash, an after image left by some unknown thing. I could have sworn it had a pointed tail.
Time to go. I turn around and dart away. I run into a reflection, nearly crashing into myself. I head right until I see another reflection. All I know is I look terrified. Another right and a left takes me into a clearing. These mirrors each tilt at an angle, reflecting one another, creating a kaleidoscope of Lewises. Some of the “me’s” look to my right, over at the ones looking to my left. While some are completely turned, none appear to be looking right at me. It’s a dazzling dead end, but still a dead end. I scan the room of reflections, flipping through them like pages. Reflection, reflection, reflection, reflection… nothing. In one of the triangular cells, about four layers in, there’s an empty space. One’s missing.
The rest of the reflections and I stare at the empty space. A reflection gone rogue. That shouldn’t be possible. Maybe these aren’t mirrors but screens. I could stand here all day and I wouldn’t figure it out. There’s no service out here. Who would I even call? I hadn’t thought this through.
I hear a whimper to my right. I look at the crowd of reflections. One of them is shaking.
“What the—”
“What the—” it replies, mouthing the words without a voice of its own. The reflection holds still like I am, but even more tense. It raises its chin, like a knife is at its throat. It’s afraid. I step a little closer. It shakes its head. I stop. It’s telling me “no.”
A hand crawls up his shoulder. Flinching, I try to slap the hand away, like it’s a spider. But when I look, nothing’s there. Still, I feel each finger on my own shoulder, gently resting one after another. I look back into that mirror. From behind my reflection’s head, peeks another reflection. This one is smiling. I can only see half its face; half its devilish, one flared nostril, and a sadistic glint in its right eye. The rogue.
Breathless as the captured reflection, I stare ahead, unsure of what to do. Think. Do I run? Would that even work? Do I have a moral obligation to this reflection? Will the rogue negotiate? Perhaps my existence is attached to the reflection. If it dies, I die. Therefore, if I run, then, I self-annihilate. My brain is plugged up with possibilities. So I’m standing, stifled, while the smiling rogue licks its lips. The hostage’s bottom lip quivered, maybe realizing I have no idea what to do. A tear runs down its face. I can’t remember the last time I saw myself cry.
The longer I look, the less I feel its fingers on my shoulders but my own fingers on the reflection’s shoulders. The rogue giggles, eyes alight with pride. I can imagine not wanting to die, but holding someone hostage is something I’d never do.
“What are you?”
It mouths my words back to me yet its smile has not disappeared. The rogue’s neck writhes around; mechanically human yet serpentine in nature. It wants to speak but the words seem to boil in its throat. I feel my own esophagus burning, like a volcano ready to vomit lava.
My name is Instinct.
Its voice is a guttural rumbling; like a motor revving in my own ribcage. The rogue repositions, veiling itself with its victim. Then, the rogue wraps its arms around the hostage; it seizes the skull with his left, grabs the jaw with his right, and pulls in opposite directions. Snap. The reflection falls to the floor. And the rogue disappears behind the dropping body.
I stumble backward. My reflection lies lifeless on the floor. My reflections and I glance around, wondering if we’re next. The rogue could be anywhere.
The first thought that pops into your head. I turn towards the footsteps, but no one’s there. The reflections remain in place, except for two. The feeling in your gut. I twist my head again but he’s too fast. The room seems smaller. The knee-jerk. I shuffle backwards. I hit the glass. A hand grabs my collar. The rogue whispers something terrifying in my ear. I am who you really are.
I turn and throw a punch. The glass splinters into ten reflections of my horrified face. I check my knuckles for blood but there isn’t even a scratch. I’ve never thrown a punch before. The ninth reflection smiles at me. I can work with that. My eyes widen at the words. I sprint out the nearest hallway. Right, left, right, right, left, right, doesn’t matter—if there’s space, I take it. Finally, finally I see the darkness of night. I dive outside the monolith and into the grass and crawl away. The sliding doors slowly close.
Exhausted, I begin to pant heavily. Every breath doesn’t feel like enough. I stare at the dirt. I vow to never speak of this. To hide this deep within myself and never let it out. When I turn back to the forest, I see a statue of an eleven-foot frog—its stilt-like limbs abnormally long, eyes bulging black, and mouth upturned into something resembling an amused smile. Written on its green marble skin are the secrets of the universe, in a language I cannot yet read.
*******
Forget the wimpy archaeologist for a second. I want to talk to you.
Here are some questions I want you to answer as fast as you can:
Who is your least favorite friend?
What race of people comes to mind when I say “crime”?
Out of your family members, who are you most sexually attracted to?
Now I know you. And you would never say your answers out loud. But you did have an answer for each of them. You tried to deflect with “none” but something crossed your mind first. Don’t deny it.
I heard you.
*******
The light shines through the large window. It’s getting him right in the eye. Besides the window, the professor’s office walls are lined with books. Behind him is a bookshelf so tall it touches the ceiling. Lewis has often wondered how anyone is supposed to reach those.
“So, how was your trip?” he asks. The professor is a man in his fifties; a plaid vest, gray hair, and a full beard he hadn’t shaved since he’d seen his student last. Lewis clears his throat.
“It was good,” he replies, with one eye closed. The harsh light shines against his left cheek; it darkens his wrinkles and reveals thin hairs. White flakes of dead skin peel off his face, floating in the still air.
“Ah, I’m sure you’ve been asked that a hundred times by now. Naturally, we’re all curious. You’ve been away from home for a very long time.” The professor doesn’t notice it, but Lewis’s eye twitches when he hears home.
“Yes, certainly, it’s been a while, definitely.” Lewis had been away for half a year.
“Well, how about we shift gears and talk about what you’ve been up to. What you learned.”
“Yes, ahem,” Lewis clears his throat again. He lifts his backside off the chair, grabs the armrests, then scoots his chair forward and then scoots back to the same place. “Well, in regards to what I have learned I would say that, in specific, or, to be granular about it, that I encountered many things I hadn’t before; that is to say, I learned about things I didn’t know that I didn’t know as well as, of course, things I had searched for and found, eventually.”
“Right…” nods the professor, trying to digest that sentence. “How about you give me some specific details. Anything concrete?”
“About what?” There’s a pause.
“The project you’ve been working on.”
“The project… as in, the project?”
“Yes, that one,” he chuckles. “I sort of thought that’s why we’re here.” The professor leans back into his chair; from Lewis’s angle it appears he’s leaning back into the books. Lewis can feel the professor’s favor slipping from his grasp.
“I apologize,” Lewis wipes his brow. “It was a long journey. Truthfully, I’m still a bit jetlagged.”
“Would you like to do this another day, then?”
“Yes, that would be preferable,” says Lewis, starting to rise from his seat.
“I am worried that…” the professor interjects. Lewis sits down quickly. “My concern is that you are falling behind. You are intelligent and wise for a twenty-something, but there’s an issue with these little things. You’re familiar with a ‘lay-up’ in basketball, correct?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of a lay-up before.”
“You’re missing the lay-ups, here. The basket is right in front of you. You know what to do, the only thing that’s left is just to do it. You’re not doing the thing. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“What I want for you is to do yourself a favor and do these things. Not later or tomorrow—because ‘eventually’ turns into ‘never.’ I want you to use your talent and achieve what I know you can…”
“Why do you keep moving the table?”
“That you… what?” the professor stops himself. His brow furrows and his mouth hangs open as he looks at Lewis.
“The table.”
“I didn’t move the table.”
“Didn’t you just… maybe I’m seeing things.”
“Anyway,” the professor clears his throat. “What I want—what I hope, is that you—”
“Stop moving the table.”
“I am not moving the table. Are you messing with me?”
“No, I swear I’m not.”
“I am not moving the table,” the professor says. Lewis looks baffled. He hits the side of his head like it’s an old, malfunctioning TV.
“You need to listen to me, right now. Forget the table, forget everything else. What I’m telling you is for your own good. If you don’t take my advice now, you—”
“The table! It’s moving!” Lewis shouts, pointing at it. The table did not move, and it had not moved before. Lewis turns to the professor. His finger droops and the professor leans back in his chair.
“I think you should leave,” sighs the professor. Lewis looks at him. His arms are crossed and his eyes tired. Lewis looks back at the table. The table stands still. Lewis looks back at the disappointed professor. Lewis’s conviction begins to fade. He was so certain that the table had moved, but that would defy all logic. As he leans down to grab his book bag, Lewis hears the table scoot forward. This time he says nothing and leaves the room.
*******
This is a world of euphemisms. “Abortion.” “Little people.” “You are being let go.”
Don’t scoff. You say them, too.
When you tell that special someone “wow, you look amazing tonight,” what you really mean to say is “I want to fuck you.” You spray cologne on your words to mask the stink.
Remember: truth comes from the gut. It rises like fire. But before it can surface, the scheming mind and the sanctimonious heart snuff it out. These mutinous usurpers desecrate honesty into “half-truths” and “white lies”—and those are just plain lies.
You’re not moral. You’re a coward.
*******
Lewis, quietly bewildered, now finds himself sitting in a cafe. He looks around as if he’d just fallen through the roof and landed in the chair. Across from him are two of his longtime friends, Bella and Fernando. They’re laughing hysterically at an inside joke. They lean into each other’s laps. They’ve been a couple for a while now. The two of them are busy with their own conversation while Lewis is busy with his own.
“Sorry, Lewis,” says Bella, wiping a tear. “This all happened while you were away.”
“You feeling alright, man?” asks Fernando.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Lewis swallows.
“Sweet, just checking,” he nods. Lewis grinds his teeth.
“Yeah. Which, uh, what’s the name of this cafe… again?” He adds in the last word as if it will help.
“Um, this is Sammy’s,” Bella replies. “We’ve been here a bunch of times, hello?” Lewis scans the ceiling. He thought for sure it was “Tammy’s.”
“Ah, give him a break,” says Fernando, putting his arm around her. “It’s been a while, after all. Makes sense you’d forget a few things,” he shrugs. Fernando takes a sip of his coffee. Lewis furrows his brow.
“Well, I mean, I was only gone for six months,” he chuckles. “Not a lifetime.”
“Well, yeah, obviously but… I dunno, I’d probably have forgotten a few things if I were you.”
“It’s like a fresh slate,” Bella chimes in.
“Right! That’s what I meant to say—a fresh slate,” Fernando repeats. Lewis pauses as they smile at him. For a moment he wants to say something else, but retreats into a nod. Nearly every time Lewis goes to speak, he has to take a vote on it; his mind is an open forum of voices, an assiduous democracy whose compromises usually lead to nothing but silence.
“So…” Bella looks over at Fernando. “We want to hear all about your travels!” she exclaims.
“Yeah, man! What was it like out there? Got some photos to show us?” He sure does. A few photos of a monolith is all that comes to mind. Lewis can’t remember anything else. The memory of that black block blotches out everything else. Lewis gazes out the window for a moment.
“It was amazing,” sighs Lewis. The two smile, mistaking his misery for nostalgia.
“Ah, I bet you miss it.” He deflects with a chuckle, stuffing another sharp reply. Then he tilts his head, distrusting his cynicism. Surely there is something he misses, he thinks to himself. Lewis thinks for a moment, constructing an anecdote.
“It’s funny, there was this statue of a…”
Fernando and Bella start making out in front of him. Lewis rears his head back. Couples kiss. But these two are really going at it. For a moment, their lips separate and a string of shared spit dips downwards, but they go back in so quick, they catch the bridge before it collapses. It becomes too much for Lewis.
“Why are you doing that?!” Immediately they stop kissing.
“Doing what?” she asks.
“Doing th—” Lewis gets deja vu. Lewis studies their expressions. Bella squints and slightly turns her head. Fernando scrunches his face. Alert eyes, widened nostrils—they really have no idea what he’s talking about.
Lewis stands up and looks around. The waiter walks over to the next table with a plate of three cups. Lewis can see the steam rising from each of the cups. The cafe appears normal.
“Lewis, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t kn…” Lewis can’t get the last word to come out, but his friends can tell.
“You feeling alright, man?”
“Do you need something? We can help.”
Liar.
“Stop talking…” he mutters.
“Lewis?”
“Get out of my head, get out of my head…”
“Hey now, we’re just looking out for you,” says Fernando, a bit sternly. He places his hand on Lewis’ shoulder. He slaps the hand away.
“Don’t!” Lewis shouts. Fernando and Bella look mortified. Lewis realizes how loud he got, swallows, and whispers an apology before scampering away.
Lewis barges through the bathroom door. He puts his hands on the sink counter to stop himself from falling. He breathes heavily as he stares at the drain. He looks upward and into the mirror. Instinct grins at him. Lewis ducks his head down, averting his eyes.
They pity you.
“Would you shut up?”
They should.
“What the hell would you know about my friends?”
They’re not yours, they’re mine.
“You’re insufferable. No one would befriend something like you.”
I agree. Let me at the wheel—I bet she’ll fall for me.
“No! It’s not like that!”
Oh, so you’re gay.
“Shut up!”
No wonder you can’t get your dick up.
Lewis punches the mirror. The glass shatters. Lewis lowers his head. Scattered in the sink are smirking faces.
Why do you keep doing that?
Lewis pants, out of breath. His reality begins to sink in. After snickering at his new victim, Instinct sighs and begins to speak again:
Allow me to remind you of what you have been programmed to forget: You are an animal. All humans are animals. We can hide behind technology and language and this thing they call “civilization.” This epidemic of politeness is unsustainable; society flourishes but the man rots. You are decomposing because of your own cowardice.
Lewis shakes his head but the idea won’t come out; his mind had already been infected by it. Grabbing his head, he began to realize these terrifying notions had not taken hold simply because Instinct’s voice was loud, or even that his arguments were undeniably true, but because the idea was his own.
Your turn is over. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay locked in here… You’ll let me take your place.
“There it is!” Lewis points at Instinct. His expression appears insane but he laughs with relief.
“You really had me going there, but you let it slip. I’m the one who’s in control, I’m at the wheel. All this about who I really am when you’re stuck behind that mirror.” Instinct crosses his arms and sighs.
Let’s see how long your optimism will last.
From outside the door, Lewis hears a familiar voice:
“We’re here to help.”
“Yeah we’re here to help.”
“Let us help… ahh,” the voice falters, disturbed by something. Lewis presses his ear against the door. There’s moaning noises. Lewis goes to open the door. Then he retracts his hand. Does he want to see? He shakes his head, forcing himself to say no. Lewis decides to keep his head down and opens the door. When he opens the doors, there’s a cacophony of moans. Lewis looks around, mouth agape. It’s all of them. The entire cafe. Doing it. Lewis gulps and walks onward, loosely shielding his eyes with a hand. There’s a door at the end of the cafe.
Lewis twists the knob and barges through. He finds himself standing in the large room of a castle. Hand still on the knob, he freezes in the entry way, wide-eyed. Lewis furrows his brow. There’s a group of strange people. Front and center is a little boy in a private school outfit. He wears a white polo, navy blue shorts, and has a backpack that’s too big. Kneeling beside the boy is a woman, tending to him and oblivious to Lewis. She might be his mother or his teacher. To the boy’s left, standing behind them is a nun wearing black tunic and a white cornet, alongside a man in a tuxedo but with the head of a penguin. They watch Lewis carefully from within the darkness. To the left of the mother, there’s a man sitting at a desk, behind a bright computer screen. He wears a purple nametag that reads “Anthony.” As the man types at his keyboard, he holds his stare at Lewis. The little boy in front points at Lewis. In the very back, Lewis sees a mirror. A blurry face smirks at him.
Offer’s still on the table.
“Fuck you.” Lewis slams the door and goes back the other way.
When Lewis goes back through the door, it takes him into a strange hallway. The rug is red and the walls are pink. There’s a white stain on the ground. Lewis’ throat starts to itch. He paces forward, pulled to a door that looks like home. The hallway begins to twist and contract. A shrinking pink hallway. Lewis stumbles as the hall contracts and twists. His breath shortens. It crosses Lewis’ mind that he will die. Immediately, his legs begin to kick. I will not die. Lewis sprints down the hallway. When he is about to fall face-first, he catches himself with his hands and runs on all fours. Like an animal, he bounds headlong until he crashes into the door.
*******
Lewis jumps into the door, slamming into it so hard that it falls off the hinges and into the next room. Lewis, groaning on the ground, finally opens his eyes. He finds himself in a small house, in the dining room. Lewis winces, wiping his brow. The impact stings. He feels it right on his horns. Growing on his temples are two bull-horns. When he touches them, he sees his hands. His skin has turned blue.
“Sit down, you’re late.” Sitting opposite him is a moving marble statue, the shape of an ancient Greek warrior, wearing only a golden helmet. His white skin and chiseled jaw chow down on dinner. Lewis gets to his feet. “The food’s probably cold by now.” Lewis looks down at his plate. It’s a bunch of bananas.
“Who are you?” asks Lewis. The statue stops eating to give Lewis a disappointed look. Then he makes a gesture. He lifts his hand while puffing his chest. He’s telling Lewis to posture up. When Lewis stands up straight, the statue goes back to his meal.
The biology of this marble man baffles Lewis. His chews and swallows sound like stones sliding into place. Lewis’ breaking and entering, though accidental, didn’t even startle him. The statue seems to know him. So, Lewis, overly acquainted with the bizarre, decides to sit down for dinner.
“If you don’t eat, you won’t get any stronger,” explains the statue. “You look thin. Why aren’t you working out?” Lewis looks at his flimsy arms.
“Well—”
“Well you should,” the statue interjects. “At your age, you ought to be working out every day.” Lewis rears his head back. He wants to argue but he knows it’s true.
“Yeah,” Lewis sighs. “I know.” He peels one banana. Underneath is an unpeeled banana.
“Not good enough,” says the statue. “Don’t say you will. Do it.”
“Yeah I know.”
“Make it a habit,” the statue scolds. “I don’t want to keep having to tell you over and over again.”
“Yeah, I know.” Lewis’s eyes wander to a book left open on the table. When he tries to read the words, the black letters turn into ants and scatter everywhere. The statue slams its fork.
“Are you listening to me?” Lewis’ stomach drops.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then repeat to me what I just said,” the statue demands. Lewis begins as though he is about to recite it back to him, but suddenly he is lost for words; his short-term memory has been temporarily disabled.
“I don’t—”
“Damn it! You listen to me when I’m talking to you. Understood?” Lewis closes his gaping mouth and stares over his plate; he thinks that even moving a muscle might agitate the statue. The pressure is relentless. Lewis can only grind his teeth.
The statue takes his plate over to the kitchen sink. Lewis watches him walk. The marble makes metallic clashes every time his toes touch the tiles. Then Lewis sees it: the statue is missing a heel.
“I don’t like having these conversations with you.” The statue washes his plate and puts it in the sink. “It puts me in an uncomfortable situation.” The statue makes its way back to the table, clears its throat, and begins again. “But until you show me you can do better, we’re going to keep having these discussions.”
He’s more annoying than Instinct, Lewis thinks. The statue walks back to his chair, while his words ricochet against the walls of Lewis’ mind. Echoing louder than Instinct. Yet, despite multiple prior opportunities, Lewis can’t muster a single rebuttal. So he sinks his chin into his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis sees his own horn.
“Who are you?” asks Lewis, who already knows.
The statue is silent.
“Do you know who I am?”
The statue remains silent.
“It would shock you…”
“Hm?”
“…the things that cross my mind,” Lewis explains, rubbing his eyes. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. You would be disgusted. Sickened. Ashamed.”
“…” The statue has no reaction. And that irritates Lewis. He makes a crazy face at the statue.
“You wanna know the first thing I think of when I see a baby? What would happen if I threw it against a wall!” Lewis giggles. The statue remains stoic. “Isn’t that awful? That’s the first thing I think of—that’s who I really am, deep down. I am a monster.” Lewis stretches out his arms, smiling like a psychopath.
The statue has no reaction. He takes a moment to digest the argument. “No. Not at all,” the statue counters. “A thought isn’t true because it’s first. You’re the filter, too.” The statue goes back to eating his food.
The wisdom falls on deaf ears—Lewis can only think of his failed performance. He wanted the statue to recoil in horror, to be as ashamed of him as he was of himself. Instead, the statue calmly disassembled his argument, detected the fallacy, and dispatched it with one sentence. Lewis squeezes until he’s purple. His fingers twitch with rage, his hands spasming spiders. That golden helmet. The marble skin. Lewis’ horns become sharper.
“What the hell would you know about it? Bastard.”
“Hey. You can’t talk to me like that.”
“Can’t?” he mocks. “I can do whatever the hell I want!” Lewis surges up from his seat, nearly knocking his chair down. At this height, above the statue, Lewis feels an unfamiliar cold; this is uncharted territory. The statue stands up to meet him. Only two inches separate them, but Lewis feels towered over.
“Sit. Down.” The statue points a finger on the table. Lewis shoves the table out of the way. With nothing standing between them, face to face, Lewis whispers: “Make me.”
The statue, surprised but not shaken, bows his head. His golden helmet shines but the room darkens.
“You know I don’t like to be the bad guy,” says the statue, shaking his head. Then he raises it to meet Lewis’s glare. “But this is why I have to do it. This is why you can’t be trusted. This is why you’re still alone. You are—”
Swing.
Lewis, without forethought or form, throws a wild punch at the statue. The statue doesn’t budge. Though there is no mark on his marble face, no evidence that a strike had even landed; the statue’s expression looks deeply offended. Lewis, blue with pain, grunts in a desperate attempt to mask the extreme pain. The statue won’t even fight back. Lewis is ashamed. And that makes him more angry. So he swings again. The results are the same but this time the consequences kick in.
“AUGHHHH!!!” Lewis shrieks. In a battle of bone and marble, Lewis has broken his hand. He clutches his twisted, fractured fingers, all four pointing in different directions. As Lewis breathes heavily, he notices the statue move. The lights start to flicker. The statue props itself up on the countertop. It cups its forehead with the other. The statue is in pain. And Lewis notices it.
“Stop it,” demands the statue.
Lewis slams his head against the cupboard. He hears a crack—whether it was the wood or his skull, he couldn’t care less.
“Stop it!”
Lewis, noticing he’s still conscious, slams his head against the counter.
“Stop it…”
Lewis grabs the toaster. Clank. Clank. Clank. He smashes it against his face until he can’t feel anything.
“Stop it… please.” Lewis finally stops. The demands had become begging. As blood drips from his broken crown, Lewis takes the advice and sits up straight. He looks down at the statue and smiles with red teeth.
“You are weak, old man.”
Standing victoriously over the statue, he starts to notice something. The white marble membrane, somehow, splits on its forehead. The statue starts to bleed. Bleeding real, red blood. Lewis finds himself back behind the wheel, horrified. His catharsis left a cavern in his soul. Lewis looks down at his hands, one bloodied, one mangled. He looks back at the statue, struggling to his feet. Lewis’s eyes become glassy. And he runs away.
Bloodied, battered, somehow still conscious, Lewis runs to the next door. When he opens it, he finds himself in an alleyway. This time, Lewis doesn’t allow him to be shocked. He runs so fast the wind dries his tears. He runs until the bloodstains dissolve and the bruises fall off his face.
Lewis runs away, running and running and running and running…
*******
…and running and running and running until I find myself in a clearing. Car horns howl, engines stutter and whirr, shoes stomp across the cement. The alleyway gave way to a city I don’t recognize.
The sky is as gray as the skyscrapers that loom over me. The street signs are unintelligible; the cityfolk faces are blurred to oblivion. I scrub my eyes. But do I even want to see?
Someone bumps into me from behind. “Sorry,” says a familiar voice. A man in a gray trench coat and fedora stumbles past. I’ve heard that voice before, but where? My eyes readjust. Just for a moment—just before he hurries away—I catch a glimpse of my own face. He turns away and walks off as if he hadn’t seen his own face on mine. As if my face were the only one. And then I take a good look around.
The old man across the street, the two cooks at the hot dog stand, the young men in line, the woman strutting by. Everyone has his face. Lewis stands in the middle of the street, watching as other Lewises pass him by. A cyclist weaving between cars and flipping the bird to a taxi driver with the same face. A police officer with a large gut, back to the wall, chewing on a bagel. A clerk doing chores in the store behind him. A pair of highschoolers. A woman in heels. A decrepit old man. A mother and her young child in the stroller. All wearing my face.
“You there,” says another me. I turn to look at myself. This version of me is lying on the street; I’m wearing a number of jackets, tattered pants that don’t reach my bony ankles, and a newspaper for a blanket. I’m on the front page. “Spare some change for me?” I ask. “Uh… y-yeah, of course,” I reply. As I reach for my wallet, I see my own bewildered face, scrambling for change. When I finally find my wallet, I open it to find three ones and a five. I unfold the five and see my face, all textured, green, and with a presidential wig. My eyes wander upwards, towards a billboard. And there I am, advertising the newest, reddest brand of lipstick. Somewhere, there’s a family photo being taken. A couple making love. A homicide. All with my face. My hands hang to my side. The five-dollar-bill floats to the floor, and the wallet along with it. “Thank you, thank you,” I say, from the ground.
I look down at my hand. My skin had turned blue—but blue like the sky. Clouds drift across my palms. I flip my hand over. The same. When I wave it, the scene doesn’t change. The clouds keep drifting. An epidermal portal. I look up. The sky is made of flesh now. Either the world is becoming me or I am becoming the world. No, that’s arrogant—I am stuck in my own stomach. Digesting myself, slowly. Viscera and truth, both bitter, rest on my tongue.
I never left the monolith.
I wander into the city square. I lie flat on the concrete and stare up at the firmaments of flesh. My epiphany came too late. Was there a good time to realize it? It was probably before I stepped foot in that wretched monolith. Or perhaps there was a way out I did not see. Or perhaps it was earlier: when I decided to go on the trip; or earlier, when I chose to study archaeology; or much earlier, when as a troublesome child I got lost for the first time. Maybe there never was a way out.
These crucial questions drift past my thoughts like the clouds on my skin; all I can focus on is the uncomfortable concrete. How nice would it be to hide in bed right now? I wish I had stayed. I don’t know when I’m referring to, just in general. It’s too hard out here. Life was better when the world was at arm’s length, trapped behind a window. I hear someone cackling. I close my eyes and cut to white.
There is complete silence. Is this heaven? I lift my head. It’s a small white room, so small it’s more of a cell. There’s a square window at the end of the room. Outside it is a bright blue sky with one white cloud. I rise to my feet and walk over, revealing more and more of what’s outside. First come the green trees, then the rooftops of houses, then the sidewalk. Then he walks by. Even from the side, I can see the edge of his grinning mouth. The toothy, cheeky smirk of Instinct. He stretches his arms out, like he’s waking from a deep, dormant sleep.
I told you.
He turns to me, hands on hips, looking victorious.
I’m the real you.
No. No, no, no… I bang my fist against the glass. Again and again until I lose the will to fight. My heavy panting fogs up the window. My hand slides down the glass. I rest my head against the mirror, only now I’m stuck on the other side of it.
He’s won. I have been locked out of my own life. Forced to watch behind all glass while he gets to live it. Instinct wheezes with laughter, so proud of himself that he doesn’t look where he’s going. Bonk. Instinct falls down and onto his backside. It’s like he ran into a wall. A shadow is cast over his sneering expression. I shuffle over to get the angle.
An eleven -foot frog appears before him. It’s the same one as I’d seen before, with the amused smile and the secrets of the universe inscribed on its skin. This time, though, it turns its head. The frog ignores Instinct and looks directly at me. The rogue, furious he’s been ignored, growls and whines. But the frog pays him no mind. It continues to look at me, delighted and disappointed. Before the frog leaps away into the distance, it tells me:
“You forgot to laugh.”