This Immortal Coil
by Ethan Brown
I don’t remember my dreams. Peaceful sleep is a void. Gaps in time. Sometimes, though, I’ll be out somewhere, doing something, and think: I’ve been here before. Cycles. Circles. Rings and spirals. Déjà vu. That’s how I know it’s not real.
I sleep with the television on. The sound stays off. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark, per se–no, I quite like it, actually. Swirling, swooping patterns tickling the subconscious, teasing the imagination. I’m here. Between the walls. The spaces behind your eyes. Just in front of you when you close them. Oblivion. The waiting is the worst part. Once, I endured an overnight field-trip with class. Slept next to a friend—not with—and awoke the next day to his eyes. Inches from mine. Unblinking. An awkward confrontation, made more so by the morning wood. It reflected in the black glass. So, I prefer to wake up to bright lights, flashing rhythmically along the walls. Let the thing watch from the shadows. Six feet away, six feet deep.
Usually, I leave the nature channel on. That can be hit or miss, though. One night I awoke to a lion soundlessly tearing into a baby gazelle. It was a long take, the clip slowed for dramatic effect. Blood and viscera showered the dry savannah grass. Is it cannibalism if a gazelle grazes brush fed by the blood of its child? Is that sad? Or is it just the circle of life? The…natural order of things. The lions don’t sing about it, that’s for sure. They sleep for 16 hours a day! Did you know that? Can’t say I blame them. Why sing when evolution gave you a free pass to sit on your ass two-thirds of the day. I sure wouldn’t.
Though dreams invariably slip from reach, the nightmares burrow deep. I remember them all. The horror varies. Take the one I had on Monday—it wasn’t so bad. A stroll around a lake, the sun setting the sky ablaze. Scattered smatterings of marigold, taffy and blond perfectly reflected in the glossy, black surface of the water. Very nice stuff, right? But the air felt sharp and light slanted weirdly. Reverberations in the ground beneath me. Not quite an earthquake, but a cosmic call.
Do I mean something to you?
If the antelope does.
I couldn’t be bothered to parse through the minutiae—already do that 40 hours a week—plus the weather was pleasant otherwise. The vague, looping birdsong was nice. A Robin landed on my finger. It looked at me, head cocked, eyes human and wet with mucus.
Cheepcheepcheep.
That wasn’t birdsong. I know the clanging and grinding of metal on metal when I hear it. Mechanical. Manufactured. “Progress.” That was no robin.
Cheepcheepchirp.
I crushed it. Squelch. I had to be sure! It exploded into confetti. Surprise! One of those little flags that pops out of a joke gun drifted to the ground, flipping and turning and spiraling as it fell. I told you so. It landed on the blank side. I had to bend over to pick it up. The world went silent. Then a whisper, digging in my ear.
Bang. Your mother will die someday.
My eyes opened slowly after that. On the television, a documentary played. Harsh, sterile light shooting bullets at the dark’s feet.
Dance for me. Dance.
And on the screen, a developing graph depicting Japan’s aging population. The curve was subtle, but steady, as those depicting the worst news always are.
Since then, the nightmares have been getting worse. The horrors mount night by night—each longer, more intense, more real. Food for thought while I’m sitting at my desk, writing lies and twisting truths. The plates get bigger, the portions grow larger. I think I’m coming down with something. What’s indigestion for the mind?
Tonight, the thing out there and my brain come together to outdo themselves. The nightmare is visceral. Bloody. Abstract. Death spells the end for most dreams. Not this one. Stage fright, break a leg. I hack up a lung. Hearts don’t break, they rip and tear and wilt. Breaths come seemingly at random, fresh air never; I’ve cocooned myself in sweat and sheets. Still, I breathe.
In-out-in-out-gulp-in-ahhh. The flesh of my throat aches, raw.
Sick.
I pop an ibuprofen and hop in the Prius. Used all my sick days on dental appointments (perfect record for cavities, by the way) and other insurance write-offs. The office is empty when I get there, and shadows dance briefly in the predawn dark before I flick on the lights. First in, last out.
The painkillers have basically worn off by the time my boss arrives, and my body seems angry with me for trying to ignore it. She comes in with a stiff wind and a surge of chills freeze me solid. My muscles scream, and it feels like someone’s been playing jump rope with my intestines.
Please leave me alone.
“Hey champ! How’s it going?”
Fuck. I manage a nod and my best smile. Is that blood or snot running down my nose? Too early to check. It’s too far up my nostril—she’ll think I’m picking it.
“Great! Listen: Keep up the good work and this year-end review’ll be a five-minute phone call! Did somebody say bonus?”
Praise be.
My voice doesn’t sound like my own when I talk like that, but I suppose that’s the point of smoke and mirrors.
Satisfied, my boss turns around and strikes up a pleasant conversation with her friend across the aisle. I eavesdrop to ignore how my fingers crunch when I type.
“Another jumper, today. The train stopped dead. We waited for hours while they scraped him from the track. Can you believe it? I left at six and just got in—it’s ridiculous.”
An enthusiastic nod, it really is a problem. I guess they agree on some things.
I blink. Hours pass, tab out, autopilot. In the fifth grade, I asked my crush, Suzie (that was her birth name, not a nickname), to the school dance. She was in the middle of saying yes when I threw up on her new sneakers. They lit up through the pale, viscous paint job. I had eaten Mini-Wheats for breakfast. How would my life be different had I held out for that trash can? What is it they say? Butterflies and cyclones? Circles in the sky. It’s out there. Sorry, where was I? Who’s to say. Not me. I only see what’s just ahead.
Real work.
Our newest model provides superior quality assurance, and now comes with our company promise not to sacrifice you or your children to sentient celestial anomalies. There is a cure for the madness, guaranteed or your money back!
No, not quite. Rewrite.
Aches. Chills. It wasn’t a nosebleed before, but it definitely is now. I grab tissues and a coffee from the kitchen. Silent TV screens predict when the next bubble will pop. One says tomorrow. Another next year. It already has! It never will. One of my coworkers (Susan, I think—she’s been here a while) looks me up and down, almost passes me by. Decides instead to ask if I’m okay.
Yea, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?
I don’t throw up.
Worried about the rumors? Don’t be! Our newest model provides superior quality assurance and adheres to our updated company policy. It’s only dark at night; keep up the good work!
Closer.
More hours. Back in the Prius, fall into bed. I sleep. Something cold and wet, a tongue with pores—no, open sores?—slides up my back. It leaves a snail trail. Eyes grow, consuming light. Not evil, just empty. Space is cold and dark, but this is more than that. There’s something there. At least the sheets are warm. It was a quick one, this time.
Friday! Another week gone. Hours of screen time etched into another tiny wrinkle on my face. Another inflamed vein in the white of my eye. Scars. War crimes on the body. Time for breakfast. Mini-Wheats!
They take my temperature at work. Apparently, something is going around. 108.2. Uh-oh. My boss checks my file.
“Hmm, well what to do about this.” She thinks for a moment as I sway in the breeze of an air conditioner. Shivers. More chills—frost encasing a rogue blade of grass, and a boot poised to crunch it underfoot. It’s turned all the way down to Fuck You and Your Cardigan. Then, “Y’know what? It’s Friday—who gives a hoot? Go on home.”
I don’t go home. I go to the doctor.
“Deep breath in for me.” The stethoscope is warm on my back. Did she use it on someone just before me? “Okay, good. Out now.”
We talk shop. She’s a family friend. Watched me go through school. Broke the news about all my cases: strep throat, Flu B, even the clap. Not as awkward of a conversation as I had thought that would be.
“You’ve got the Mondays on Fire. Have you been feeling stressed lately? Chronic dark circles? Actually, I can see those. How about an acute sense of existential dread? Loss of perception of time, maybe?”
The rest of the day is a blur. I’m not allowed to go home. Two men escort me to what might be a repurposed janitor’s closet. Both wear gas masks, and I wonder about the little boy I sat next to in the waiting area. Wouldn’t a case of the Mondays be far worse for him?
There’s a television on the wall, a remote beneath the chair. I reach under and pick it up. All the buttons are taped over except On/Off, Volume Up/Down, and Channel Up/Down. My mind turns briefly to grandma. Does she still watch static at night? Or has she started during the day, now, too? I still have that glass shard she gave me, tucked away in my bedside drawer. It was always so dark in her house.
Time slips further as I watch too many reruns of an old sitcom. Six friends living in an apartment they couldn’t possibly afford. The episodes bleed into incoherent streaks of light arcing off the screen, drilling holes in the walls. At one point I give my eyes a break and peer through one. Void of black static. Gaps.
Ah, okay.
Knockknockknock.
Another one is at the door. They wear a gas mask, too. Thin wisps of coal smoke crinkle through the face-mounted filter; their voice hides the clanking and shearing of metal. The suit they have on is well-tailored, but their head is full of screws and cogs. I resist the urge to take them apart.
I’m housed in a sparsely furnished alcove-studio apartment—not entirely dissimilar to my own. I didn’t see anyone on my way here, just followed the arrows. A single poster hangs on the wall. Innocence dangles by a thread. Hang in there! Thanks. The only window looks out at a brick wall. Apart from a skinny bed hosting a limp pillow and a rough set of sheets there’s a dresser with uniform sets of white pajamas and a desk with a landline and a laptop.
My laptop. I had left that at home.
There’s also a television, which is good. It’s on; black static roils across the screen. There’s no logo I recognize, just a red ring. I turn it off.
The phone rings—my boss. I wonder how she got this number.
“Hey, Champ!” She’s basically shouting. “How are ya?”
Terrible.
It’s not a lie. I can’t move much; my gait is more of a zombie shuffle than a walk. The light shooting through the window is a blurred mess, its edges stretching into millions of needle-thin rays that stab at my eyes. The word for all of it is…gray. Not exactly a thrilling experience.
“Well, that’s great to hear. So, listen: are ya gonna be coming back in next week? We really need you.”
I think they put me in isolation.
“So, you’ll work from home?”
I hang up. The world wobbles. Though the day is still young, I shut the curtains and crawl into bed, but not before turning on the History Channel. A documentary on the rapid industrialization of Japan. Characters I can’t read scroll across the screen, newsflash style. A translation follows: “Luxury is a waste! Fuck the West!”