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Description

It’s not like an addiction. In some ways it is, but it’s only an analogy, and the analogy breaks down under close scrutiny. When an addiction forms, you start out doing the thing, whatever it is, the stimulus, because it makes you feel something you want to feel again. It feels good, so you do it again. You do it until you get used to it, and then you can’t stand feeling normal any more. Normality hurts. It’s called withdrawal. Some people manage to quit. Someone close to them begs, or they get sick, or the loved one gets sick, and they have to come down again. It hurts, and they push through, and they quit. Some never do quit, and it kills them.
It’s not like an addiction. Imagine trying to quit air. What happens? You hold your breath. Maybe you’re really determined, and you find some way to plug up your nose and your mouth, so that no matter how much it hurts, you can’t take another breath. Your lungs start to ache, and then they start to burn. Your head pounds. Your eyes water. You lose control of your diaphragm, and it tries to take a breath whether you want it to or not. Your lips and your fingertips begin to tingle, and you panic. There’s nothing for it; you can’t help panicking. At that point, you’re not really yourself, any more. You’re a vacuum pump, trying to restock the oxygen before the machine gives out. Nothing matters except air. You forget how to speak, and then you forget how to see, and then you forget how to live. Darkness. End.
It’s not like that, either. I don’t get the darkness. I don’t get the end. I get stuck at the panic point, when everything condenses and distills into one thought, that need. I forget. I forget myself, and I forget how to pretend. Apparently, it looks a lot like rabies. It’s desperation. It’s fear. Animals don’t really need names, so I forget that, too.
It would have happened eventually, but waiting is too slow for him, so he speeds up the process. It’s a knife first, but that bores him quickly, and he brings out his teeth, instead. It hurts even more because I think of Kate, and how her teeth pulled at my skin, and how she loved me. The worst part is that he knows how to use it. He knows how to take control. Every drop I lose builds him up. He is the one riding the high, now, while I am fighting just to remember. It doesn’t take long before my insides snap, and there is nothing human left in my head. He had control of me before, but when he is done, he owns me. He holds a part of me inside himself, and when he twists it, I dance for him.
My new home is like a storm cellar. The walls are cement and earth, living earth, and the door is only wood, but reinforced with his command. I don’t think about escape. I can’t remember how to think, and it is easier to listen to the voice in my head. It never leaves, but that’s good, because being alone with that need would drive me insane. It eats me. They both eat me, the voice and the need. One peels away my skin and seeds dust through my veins. The other makes me sleep and wake and sleep and wake without ever looking at the door. I cannot tell which is which.
A little frog flashes through my life. It is not trapped as I am. When it starves, it dies, and its body turns to stone on the floor. I am turning to stone as well, but this stone can still hear voices above and, sometimes, hearts in the walls. The need clings to those sounds. The voice whispers and turns the burning into sleeping.
I’m remembering, now. It’s not real; I’m remembering. This doesn’t touch me.
I don’t get the darkness. I don’t get the end. I get six years, or maybe it’s seven. Eight?
He seemed nice at first. I mean comparatively. There was really only one likely reason for someone like him to be in a bar so early in the evening, and he seemed to think that my reason for being there was the same as his. He snagged the stool next to mine at the bar and shoved his glass across the counter, asking for “One more, please.” I knew immediately what he was, just as he had known me from across the room, and I silently prepared my polite apologies.
“You’re new around here.” He did not make it a question, but his voice rose slightly at the end, giving me room to reply.
“Only for the w-weekend. I’m leaving t-t-tomorrow.” He would understand, I hoped, that I was not trying to encroach on his territory. I glanced to the side, catching a glimpse through the smoky light of an enormous shoulder, and beyond that a head of close-cropped black hair. There was little I could see of my companion’s face.
“Oh, shame. Thought I mighta finally had a neighbour.” There was a pause. “Wanna go do something anyway? I could show you my side of Austin.”
I knew exactly what sort of something he had in mind and tried not to sound disgusted. “No, thanks. I’m g-going to want a full night’s sleep. Still haven’t p-packed or anything.” It was a true excuse, at least. Even if I had been at all inclined in that direction, I did really have other things to do. He caught on and didn’t press, for which I was grateful.
“Where are you going back to?”
I finished off my drink, making the ice in the bottom rattle against the glass. “Abilene. I’m Lenny, by the way.”
“Sebastian. And I’m from-” he gestured vaguely with his beer “-over there. A couple of blocks down. If you’re interested.”
It occurred to me at that point that I may have miscalculated. It sounded almost as though he was hitting on me. It was uncomfortable, even if it was theoretically flattering. “L-look, I really really h-have to-”
“No, that’s fine. I get it. You have to pack.” His voice was disappointed, lonely. I felt for him, but hardly enough to agree to a hookup, or whatever it was he wanted from me.
I do know what it’s like to be lonely, though. I know how it is to be in a crowded place where there is no one like you, and in some ways that can be worse than being completely alone. I gave myself another half hour. I could spare a half hour to make a new friend.
We talked. He was from Spain, he said. He’d been in Austin for a couple of decades, and Mexico City before that. He was making a living in hypnotherapy, making sad people stop smoking.
“I’m good at it,” he said. He winked at me, in case there had been some chance I had not understood. I did understand.
“I bet,” I said. “Me, I’ve never been g-good at that. I’m in town for the seminar downtown. Texas Science T-t-t-t-teachers’ Association. It’s a good job, steady, if you lay low. Anyway, hitting the seminar c-came with a little raise, so I figured...”
He tipped his head to one side and nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I could help you with that stutter. I do traditional, too. No tricks.”
He was lying about no tricks. I don’t know what he put in my drink, but it tasted tricky. His eyes were beautiful, that night. I knew why, even then, but that did not help me.
Six years. Seven? Eight? I’m still there-here-there.
It’s sort of like an addiction. I know, and it hurts, and I know, but I can’t stop listening. Fighting hurts more.

Description

It’s not like an addiction. In some ways it is, but it’s only an analogy, and the analogy breaks down under close scrutiny. When an addiction forms, you start out doing the thing, whatever it is, the stimulus, because it makes you feel something you want to feel again. It feels good, so you do it again. You do it until you get used to it, and then you can’t stand feeling normal any more. Normality hurts. It’s called withdrawal. Some people manage to quit. Someone close to them begs, or they get sick, or the loved one gets sick, and they have to come down again. It hurts, and they push through, and they quit. Some never do quit, and it kills them.
It’s not like an addiction. Imagine trying to quit air. What happens? You hold your breath. Maybe you’re really determined, and you find some way to plug up your nose and your mouth, so that no matter how much it hurts, you can’t take another breath. Your lungs start to ache, and then they start to burn. Your head pounds. Your eyes water. You lose control of your diaphragm, and it tries to take a breath whether you want it to or not. Your lips and your fingertips begin to tingle, and you panic. There’s nothing for it; you can’t help panicking. At that point, you’re not really yourself, any more. You’re a vacuum pump, trying to restock the oxygen before the machine gives out. Nothing matters except air. You forget how to speak, and then you forget how to see, and then you forget how to live. Darkness. End.
It’s not like that, either. I don’t get the darkness. I don’t get the end. I get stuck at the panic point, when everything condenses and distills into one thought, that need. I forget. I forget myself, and I forget how to pretend. Apparently, it looks a lot like rabies. It’s desperation. It’s fear. Animals don’t really need names, so I forget that, too.
It would have happened eventually, but waiting is too slow for him, so he speeds up the process. It’s a knife first, but that bores him quickly, and he brings out his teeth, instead. It hurts even more because I think of Kate, and how her teeth pulled at my skin, and how she loved me. The worst part is that he knows how to use it. He knows how to take control. Every drop I lose builds him up. He is the one riding the high, now, while I am fighting just to remember. It doesn’t take long before my insides snap, and there is nothing human left in my head. He had control of me before, but when he is done, he owns me. He holds a part of me inside himself, and when he twists it, I dance for him.
My new home is like a storm cellar. The walls are cement and earth, living earth, and the door is only wood, but reinforced with his command. I don’t think about escape. I can’t remember how to think, and it is easier to listen to the voice in my head. It never leaves, but that’s good, because being alone with that need would drive me insane. It eats me. They both eat me, the voice and the need. One peels away my skin and seeds dust through my veins. The other makes me sleep and wake and sleep and wake without ever looking at the door. I cannot tell which is which.
A little frog flashes through my life. It is not trapped as I am. When it starves, it dies, and its body turns to stone on the floor. I am turning to stone as well, but this stone can still hear voices above and, sometimes, hearts in the walls. The need clings to those sounds. The voice whispers and turns the burning into sleeping.
I’m remembering, now. It’s not real; I’m remembering. This doesn’t touch me.
I don’t get the darkness. I don’t get the end. I get six years, or maybe it’s seven. Eight?
He seemed nice at first. I mean comparatively. There was really only one likely reason for someone like him to be in a bar so early in the evening, and he seemed to think that my reason for being there was the same as his. He snagged the stool next to mine at the bar and shoved his glass across the counter, asking for “One more, please.” I knew immediately what he was, just as he had known me from across the room, and I silently prepared my polite apologies.
“You’re new around here.” He did not make it a question, but his voice rose slightly at the end, giving me room to reply.
“Only for the w-weekend. I’m leaving t-t-tomorrow.” He would understand, I hoped, that I was not trying to encroach on his territory. I glanced to the side, catching a glimpse through the smoky light of an enormous shoulder, and beyond that a head of close-cropped black hair. There was little I could see of my companion’s face.
“Oh, shame. Thought I mighta finally had a neighbour.” There was a pause. “Wanna go do something anyway? I could show you my side of Austin.”
I knew exactly what sort of something he had in mind and tried not to sound disgusted. “No, thanks. I’m g-going to want a full night’s sleep. Still haven’t p-packed or anything.” It was a true excuse, at least. Even if I had been at all inclined in that direction, I did really have other things to do. He caught on and didn’t press, for which I was grateful.
“Where are you going back to?”
I finished off my drink, making the ice in the bottom rattle against the glass. “Abilene. I’m Lenny, by the way.”
“Sebastian. And I’m from-” he gestured vaguely with his beer “-over there. A couple of blocks down. If you’re interested.”
It occurred to me at that point that I may have miscalculated. It sounded almost as though he was hitting on me. It was uncomfortable, even if it was theoretically flattering. “L-look, I really really h-have to-”
“No, that’s fine. I get it. You have to pack.” His voice was disappointed, lonely. I felt for him, but hardly enough to agree to a hookup, or whatever it was he wanted from me.
I do know what it’s like to be lonely, though. I know how it is to be in a crowded place where there is no one like you, and in some ways that can be worse than being completely alone. I gave myself another half hour. I could spare a half hour to make a new friend.
We talked. He was from Spain, he said. He’d been in Austin for a couple of decades, and Mexico City before that. He was making a living in hypnotherapy, making sad people stop smoking.
“I’m good at it,” he said. He winked at me, in case there had been some chance I had not understood. I did understand.
“I bet,” I said. “Me, I’ve never been g-good at that. I’m in town for the seminar downtown. Texas Science T-t-t-t-teachers’ Association. It’s a good job, steady, if you lay low. Anyway, hitting the seminar c-came with a little raise, so I figured...”
He tipped his head to one side and nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I could help you with that stutter. I do traditional, too. No tricks.”
He was lying about no tricks. I don’t know what he put in my drink, but it tasted tricky. His eyes were beautiful, that night. I knew why, even then, but that did not help me.
Six years. Seven? Eight? I’m still there-here-there.
It’s sort of like an addiction. I know, and it hurts, and I know, but I can’t stop listening. Fighting hurts more.