To accompany the poem ‘In a Shell’ written by ‘Sad Clown’

To accompany the story ‘Why You Run’ written by E. I. Muse

But she did get attached.  How can anyone avoid it?  One evening it struck her in a flash that she had grown dependent on her mother for the strength she could not summon up within herself since that fatal accident.  It was a dependence that was primordial, an expansion on every infant’s worst fear: that one day when Mother walks away, she really won’t be coming back.

Then followed the anxious projections into the future – years of worrying, always the worrying; each year her mother grew older, Bryony would feel time passing, creeping closer to the day when she would inevitably have to say goodbye to her – and Bryony would panic.

‘How will I ever know anything after you’re gone?’ she asked one day, running into her mother’s room like a storm.  The woman looked at her, astonished, and Bryony explained through choking hysteria.  Somewhere in the midst of the vocal explosions, her mother folded the girl, so close to womanhood herself, up into her arms just like she always did when her daughter was unhappy, and it just seemed to make it worse.  Who will fold me into their arms and give me solace when Mum is gone? the thought flashed into her head.  The tears were as unceasing as the epiphanies: her mother had taught Bryony literally everything.  Whenever an idea or answer lay just on the tip of the girl’s tongue, Mum was the one who pushed the right words out of her mouth.  She was the lone survivor of a family Bryony once happily allowed to slip away from her.  She was her link to the past – after Mother, who could remind her of all the little details of all those stories Bryony sometimes found boring but, with age, grew to cling to as the most important treasures she could possess….

‘But why should it worry you so much?’ Mother asked her in return, and the thought Bryony had been suppressing, casting back to the dark archives of her unconscious for so long, suddenly overwhelmed her: after all, one day I’ll be gone myself, and then why I need to know all these things?

That was when her fear of death really began.

‘We all accept it intellectually,’ she speaks to the man who will one day be her husband, ‘but we don’t really believe it.  Sure, we philosophise about it all the time.  We form it into works of art, turn it into deities and rituals.  On the surface, we’re so preoccupied with it that if an alien came down and visited us, it would think we face death with a brave face.’  The man – Andrew – nods, a faint smile of bemusement glimmering through his eyes.  She’s been harping on about this subject for about two weeks now and he’s hoping she’ll get over it soon, before his bemusement turns to mild irritation.  ‘But masking it in these ways distances us from it,’ she continues, either oblivious to his weariness or just unable to stop herself, ‘and deep down we think it’s something that only happens to other people.’

Andrew nods again, agreeing again – inwardly wondering how many times he will have to agree with her before she gives up on whatever mission she seems to be on.  He does not understand (yet) that the first time it really hit her that she would die, it was like being handed her sentence – like being interrupted prematurely and unfairly – like Kafka’s ‘trial’.  When once she was invincible, all in a moment death loomed right around the dark corners.

He doesn’t understand this yet – but when they’re married with a family and each year their children grow older, Bryony grows more afraid of time closing in on her…oh, he’ll understand then.  He’ll even relate, a little.

‘It’s just the fear of the unknown,’ he tells her now.  ‘We don’t know what happens when we die, and that scares us.’

‘Yes, that’s what everyone says,’ she rejoins, ‘but what if it’s more about the “known”?’  Andrew looks at her with question marks dancing in his eyes.  She explains, ‘Without interpretation, we might just accept death without thought.  But we have all these theories, these explanations, and they are what make it so terrifying.  I mean, some people think it’s best to live life in a dreamy haze and pretend there is no death – as long as we’re cautious and keep ourselves out of harm’s way, we’ll live forever, like Tolkien’s elves.’

‘But not you?’ he finishes her train of thought.

‘Not me,’ she almost grins at him.  ‘I need to be prepared, have a game plan.’  And she’s not ready (yet) to admit it to him, but this need for preparation has led her to imagine her own death endlessly.

The boy – with the age but none of the hard edges of a man – gradually wrenched himself into a sitting position, rested against a skip and looked around.  A dirty alleyway was the stage for this, his latest escapade, its bricks fluffy even in the pained heat of mid July.  He pulled his jacket tight around him and lifted the hood onto his head, shivering quite fervently in spite of the uncomfortable warmth around him.  The sweat stung his eyes and his wounded body.  He spat more blood, wiping with his sleeve a face to which he still could not assign a name.  The boy searched his pockets, finding a half-smoked packet of cigarettes, a handful of loose change, but no wallet.  No identification of any kind.  Cold panic squeezed his throat.  He took a cigarette from the pack and a red disposable lighter, the first drag rushing straight to his brain.  Dizzied, he searched for an answer.

Time passed without event or structure, each minute (hour?) just like the last.  The sky was darkening – or his eyes were closing, easing the boy into a dumb daze – when he heard a voice from the street.  He’d heard hundreds, perhaps thousands, since he came around, but this one was different.  This one spoke directly to him.

‘Hey!’ he called, tentatively at first.  Who could blame him?  The boy wouldn’t be the first junkie to die in front of a dumpster.  ‘Hey, kid, you alright?  Kid!’

He felt his lips part with a dull snap, dry skin cracking, and when they separated he tasted fresh blood.  They mouthed a few words, but were powerless, stripped of the sounds his throat would not allow.  His eyes, sore and gummy, lolled lazily in the man’s direction.  He mouthed again and the words came in a strangled wheeze.

The stranger was approaching now, a solid thick-limbed man around twenty years his senior.  He wore a leather jacket with hacked-off sleeves and a dirty t-shirt the boy couldn’t read.  He crouched nearby, listening intently, as the boy’s lips parted a final time.

‘Help me,’ he managed, before the world swallowed him up in a black, icy sea.

You drink strong coffee to connect the synapses in your brain faster.  You’ve been told it’s bad for you, but you don’t care.  You’ve been there when the sluggishness was coupled with thoughts that surge like breakers, sudden and without warning.  You can drown in it.  Better to be alert and in control, even if it’s the false control of a strong cup of French roast.

You look out the kitchen window on a day that’s filtered through a green summer haze.  It will be hot, so you decide to run early.

You set down your coffee and catch your reflection in the shining glass door of the microwave oven.  You’re grateful for baseball caps that can cover the mass of fraying burlap on your head.  There’s a certain Sad Sack look about you.  You’re not quite sure of yourself, not quite competent, you think, though you’ve been told many times that you are.

“When she sets her mind to something, she really puts herself into it.”  That’s what they say about you.  And it’s true, you figure.  It’s the why of it nobody really understands.  It’s the illness they don’t want to see.  It’s the drive in your own mind to do the same thing again and again until it’s perfect.  It’s never perfect.

You locate your two knee sleeves that keep you from having to be cautious with speed and footing.  You find the ear buds that go to your mp3 player, and then you find the player, select a playlist.  You make sure the volume is up enough to drown them out.  You figure you’ve lost a little hearing because of the blasted thing, but for about an hour, you don’t have to listen to what’s in your head.  The incessant thoughts just can’t compete with that level of sound.

Running shoes, chewing gum, shorts, tank shirt, drink of water.

You stop just for a moment to consider the route.  Which route?  Today you’ll go by the creek on the four-mile loop through the neighborhood.  It isn’t your favorite because you are aware of what lies quietly at the bottom of that creek.  You know because you put it there.

The magazine in question was in the waiting room at the hospital.

I knew all the staff at Stanton Territorial Hospital – not by name, but by face – and when I was there I always tried to keep my head down in a book, pamphlet or magazine so they wouldn’t notice me.  I spent way too much time there and I knew it.  And they knew it.  And I knew they knew.

I didn’t want the nurses to think I was some silly hypochondriac, jabbering on endlessly about my ailments.

I tried to explain it once to my younger brother.  I said, Joe, it’s not that I’m sick.  It’s that I think I am.  He said, Frank, you’re nuts.  I thought so, too.

It was one of the only things we had in common.

It was about a year before this waiting room incident when I finally got the diagnosis.  Every twisted little thing about my 26 years on Earth suddenly made sense: my fear of the number five, my irrational childhood obsession with meningitis and the scary, unwanted thoughts that made everyday life like a nightmare.

Dr. Stevens certified me obsessive-compulsive, gave me some brochures and sent me on my merry way.  It was the happiest day of my life.

You’re mental, Joe told me.

Since then, I’d made a career out of sniffing out ailments, taking them to the kind doctor and having them checked out.  I know 100 per cent of the time they will turn out to be nothing.  There is a rational side to my thinking, you know, and I know when the little monster in my brain is hiding behind my thoughts.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t make it go away.

Like the time we were at the supper table and, in my mind, I was stabbing Joe with my steak knife.  I knew it was the monster creeping up on me, but I couldn’t help but worry that somewhere deep down, I wanted to kill my brother.

After several days of convincing myself I was a serial killer, I brought my fears to Dr. Stevens.  He once again made my world a brighter place by telling me, no, I was not destined to spend the rest of my days grieving with guilt behind bars for the people I’d killed in a rage.

I shut my eyes tight so I wouldn’t read a sentence a fifth time, closed the magazine and opened my eyes again.  After the magazine was back in place I touched each of my fingertips with my thumbs four times.  I counted the flies on the wall.  I counted the people in the waiting room.

Aaron’s face lights up in a way she’s not sure she has ever seen in him before. He leans in toward her as if about to divulge a great secret, his face almost too close to her for her liking. ‘I’m going to the Compulsion Factory today,’ he whispers, and even Marie is impressed.

‘Really?’ her eyes dilate feverishly like a child given the key to a forbidden room. ‘I’ve been wondering about that place ever since it opened, but I haven’t dared try it yet.’

‘Why not?’ ‘I’m not sure. I guess I’m a little scared of it. What if it’s just…too real….’

‘Well…but isn’t that the point?’

Marie is forced to laugh at herself. ‘I guess you’re right. So…what are you doing, there?’

Oh, it’s a good one this time–‘

‘Wait! You mean you’ve done it before? You already know how it works?’

‘I do. And I’ll admit it is a little scary. I’ve heard that’s common when it’s your first time–it gets easier after that. More natural.’

‘So what did you do the first time?’ she wonders, absently touching her nails again.

‘Oh, something really small. You have to start small, build your way up, you know? So I just smashed some glasses.’

‘Wow, they can make it that vivid?’

‘That’s just the beginning,’ grins Aaron conspiratorially. ‘Tonight, I’m going to put my hands on a lit stove.’

Marie almost cries out loud at these words. ‘Aren’t you frightened?’

‘Of course I am–but it’ll feel wonderful to do it, to get that out of my system. You have no idea how hard it is for me to cook dinner–‘

‘Do they include the pain?’

‘Yes, definitely. That’s a legal thing. If it weren’t painful, people would wonder about the real thing and try it outside the Factory.’

‘But what about addiction, you know? People returning again and again to get out the same compulsion, because they doubt themselves, doubt their memories. Or what if people then still want to try it for real, to see how accurate the Factory is?’

Aaron shrugs. ‘I guess those are all valid points. But right now, I think this place is a Godsend.’

* * *

‘Um, listen, Aaron, I know you’re busy there, but I wonder if I could ask you something.’

He holds up one finger to stay her and finishes the page. ‘…10, 11, 12, 13.’ He draws his head from the paper and stares at it for a moment. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he chooses a negligible word and scratches it out of the line. ’12,’ he announces happily. Looking up, he smiles invitingly. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well, that Factory–‘

‘Ah, I knew you weren’t as opposed to it as you said,’ he laughs.

‘Yeah, well…so…does it work for thoughts?’

‘Of course. Isn’t that the idea?’

‘No, I mean like…memories. Things I’ve been dwelling on for years. The kind of thing we’re meant to vent before we go to work. Can the Factory re-enact those memories, so it’s not just in my head?’

‘Aw, Marie, I’m sure they can. What kind of thoughts do you have in mind?’ he grins.

‘Just thoughts. Listen, could I go with you, after work? To the Factory?’

‘Certainly! I’d love the company. To be honest, I’m still a little nervous there, myself.’

Marie says nothing. She just stares back at him, right into his eyes so he has to look aside.

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