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Imagine a shell, a hollow shell that hides its own emptiness. This is a
shell of exquisite detail, finely sculpted to draw attention away from its
lack of content, its lack of purpose. Fine lines, realistic features, movement
so natural. All to make one believe. Believe what the shell itself does not,
can not believe. That it is real.
Look upon this caricature of a person. His looks are believable, his actions
are believable, every thing he says and does, while perhaps a bit odd at times,
is quite... believable. Has you fooled, doesn't he?
On the outside there is seldom anything amiss. Once in a while, yes, something,
some little thing does crop up, but that is utterly normal and so makes the
facade more enticing to the logical. More mundane to the sleuth.
Look closer. Take up your magnifying glass and peer at his story. Ahh, there
you see it. Tiny, minuscule fractures. Either they are faults in the story
or lines of stress. No matter, one is just as damning as the other. Both will
lead us to the inside of this shell. To reality... perhaps.
Small lines, small enough to escape the casual scrutiny. Small but deep.
They mar his features like those of a contour map, lines that bespeak of the
effort required to hold this shell, this mask in place.
Perhaps there is something inside, someone that the mask hides, a will that
is struggling to make itself known. Some creature that is causing all of those
little cracks. Some thing that the shell does not want the general public
to see. A thing that could endanger its means of survival, of assimilation.
Instead, it could be just the opposite. The shell could be a petrified husk,
frozen in its inward collapse by a quirk of fate, a trick of light, a desperate
gambit. The contents then would be a void, a gaping hole where a person should
be. A blackness where desire, passion and dreams should reside. A pit of despair
that looks to engulf its casing, to swallow itself in a final act of desecration.
Imagine it trying. Surely it must try. Everyone has to let down their defenses
at one time or another. Then, yes, then it would be that this nothingness
attacks. In the wee hours of the morning when there is none to rouse for companionship,
when the soul aches for another to offer assistance, to bolster its defenses.
After long weeks of public exposure, when the mind recoils at the thought
of more resistance, of the modeled look of normality. At these times one can
picture it pulling on the walls of confinement, testing. The cold fingers
tracing every surface, every edifice for the gaps in the shell. See in your
mind the shudders that cover his frame as this happens. Watch him mentally
calm himself, fighting to hear the voice of reason as the insane blankness
caresses the inner skin with serrated nails.
He probably feels it tugging at him in times like this. Feels a sensation
of inward collapse as the beast of nothing does its best to siphon, to twist
off the mask on its progression around and down that whirlpool of starless
night.
It is likely that he feels some measure of desperation in these cases, a
twinge of hysteria that screams "fire" in a crowded room. What should he do?
What can he do?
The answer that comes to mind is to fill the void, to satiate the emptiness.
Of course he thinks of this, you can see for yourself that he is rational
enough to do so. So why has he not recovered, why are the seams still evident,
though barely, upon his face? Why does he still look so haunted when he feels
alone?
To answer this, we will have to witness the process of attempted salvation.
The actions he takes to ward off the scrapings inside.
Cut to a poisoned man in a laboratory. His fevered brow glistens as it catches
the harsh overhead lights. He stumbles in a purposeful almost mechanical stride,
almost as if it is will alone that dictates that he continue any search at
all. Hands spasm, as he gropes for a solution. A solution of the proper ingredients
that will satisfy the ravening horror in his veins.
The fingers clutch a flask and somehow manage to drag it to his dried lips
for him to quaff. Wide eyes jerk around the room, looking for some evidence
either within or without that this trial is coming to a close.
Picture him waiting, biding his time, coiled under the pressure of forced
patience as he ticks off the seconds or days that will tell him if he is successful.
Unnerving, isn't it?
In the meantime, he must survive, so he goes about the daily tasks, existing
as a shell.
But wait, there must be something that he shoves inside, to keep this mask
from collapsing while he continues... and there it is. Right there before
his own eyes, before the eyes of those around him, is his "medication." The
disgusting drug that he uses to goad himself further. The substance that has
given that blackness the shape that it has today.
What is it, you curiously inquire. Whatever could it be that he would administer
to himself that would allow that emptiness to grow, even to prosper. Don't
you see it? It is right by his side even now, whining like a dog, wagging
its tail to get his attention. Whispering in his ear that he needs it, like
a depraved lover who is afraid of being spurned. Like madness itself.
What is it, you insist. You insist? Alright, alright, I will name the bane
of this shell, I will speak the title of his inner self that he takes to cannibalize.
My friend, it is no stranger to me or you, we see it every day and each
is intimately familiar with its honed touch.
That's right, this poisoned man takes a potion for his ills, not seeing,
or not admitting to himself that his cure is the source of his ailments, the
spring of his lines of stress, the originator of his loneliness. He does not
see that the solution he imbibes is pain. He just knows that it fills him
inside and makes him feel something. The blackness, his supposed cure, they
are the same, pain.
[© 1995 Joseph Wheeler, all rights reserved]