Blank Slate

  He turned on the light in the bathroom, but it didn’t feel right, so he did it again. That one felt better, but it wasn’t quite there yet. Two more times, and he moved on. He had tried his best.

  His fuzzy outline in the mirror showed a mop of bed-headed brown locks overshadowing squinting cobalt blue eyes. She told him sometimes that his eyes were beautiful, but he could never believe it. They didn’t see enough, and the things they did see weren’t good enough. She loved his eyes and presumably the rest of him, but could she open him up and see what was inside? Could she love a heart that was little more than a mass of blood, vessels and tissues? Who was he? And who was she, really? Would he ever know?

  Wait.

  “Where’s my toothbrush?” he called to the kitchen.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t touch it,” she answered. The voice was faraway but somehow strong.

  “I never move my toothbrush. You must have moved it.”

  “Nope.” She didn’t want him to ask again.

  He sighed and licked his teeth. He was sure that something from his teeth was adhering to his tongue, something stale and gangrenous. With a wrinkled nose, he spread some toothpaste on his finger and worked it around his teeth for about five minutes. He then rinsed and spit multiple times. The finger pulsated with filth afterward, so he rinsed that several times too. 

  It doesn’t have to be this way, he thought. Who really cares about my teeth? If they all fall out, if my gums receded into the hollow maws where my jaw should be and I become unable to eat anything above the firmness of gelatin, who would run to my side? Would she come to me? Would she even understand? Why am I going to this effort, other than to quiet the thoughts that intrude upon me constantly?

  Wait.

  “My shampoo’s missing too,” he shouted. This shout pierced the air a little more sharply. “What did you do with it?”

  “I didn’t touch your shampoo,” was the response floating through the wall.

  How could she not have touched his shampoo? He certainly would never have moved it. To do so would have instilled a discomfort that could not be easily uprooted - not in a minute, hour, day, or even week. His shampoo bathed his hair, which made his scalp tingle, which quieted the thoughts. He could comb his hair then, smooth it and shape it with gel, fretting as he ran the comb again and again. Once the hair was in place, he could go to work and have a tolerable day. She didn’t see the shampoo, that it was the catalyst for making the day work. Not that anyone cared about his hair, of course. She hadn’t mentioned it in a while, either. Did she not see him anymore? Do we no longer see the things we care about, once they become commonplace?

  Where was his shampoo bottle?

  Battling the swirl of anger stirring in his parietal lobes, he turned on the water and made sure it was comfortable. He let the warm water slide over his skin, and tried to feel each drop. Glancing to his left and right, he was surprised to discover that the soap wasn’t there either. What had she been doing? Was she trying to drive him mad? He dared not holler again, for fear of antagonizing her. Rather than use her soap, he simply stood as still as a statue and let the water do what it could. It was better that way.

  After finishing the shower and toweling off, he trudged back to his dresser and began the daily rummaging routine. Half his socks seemed to have disappeared, along with some of his shirts. What did it matter, though? Nobody stared at him as he was working. No one checked on his well-being. Who cares what shirt was on him?

  Hungry and irritated, he went to the kitchen where she was washing dishes. He still hadn’t gotten that dishwasher, but he had promised he would someday. She didn’t turn around as he inspected the refrigerator. It seemed rather sparse compared to the day before. Had she thrown out all his favorite foods? He settled on toast, and he didn’t let it cook long enough. There was no butter or jelly, for some reason, so he choked down the dry bread and tried to chase it with some water. 

  Wait.

  “Where’s my favorite cup? Is it dirty?”

  “I don’t see it over here,” she said to the wall.

  Frustrated, he grabbed a cup he could find and threw some liquid down his gravely throat. He then went to the door.

  “Bye,” he said as he put on his boots.

  “Bye,” she said, never turning around. A cup, no doubt his favorite one that wasn’t in the cupboard, clunked against the stainless steel sink basin.

  He walked outside and got into his car, the one he loved so much. It was a beauty, American, with a leather package. He reached down and picked a stray seedling off the carpet, then gently deposited it outside. The carpet was a matte black with gold trim around where it met the base of the console. His bucket seats cradled their passengers with a tenderness a mother would envy. His after-market radio sprang to life as he turned the key, a futuristic beam of light rolling around its perimeter as it booted up. It synced to his phone, but nothing happened. No songs played for him. He caressed his steering wheel and weighed whether he should stop and fix the connection. 

  Then, he chose silence.

  Perhaps it wasn’t the best decision, as his thoughts crowded his mind. He tried to turn them off, but decided against it. Perhaps it was better to let them slosh about anyway, letting them concuss his brain and press down against his spinal cord. They swam in front of his eyes and rushed past his ear canal, rendering him blind to what he saw and deaf to what he heard. And just like that, he was at work. He parked at the end of the lot, where no one bothered to park and no strangers’ doors swung wildly. As he got out, he noted how fast the trip seemed and how sparse the buildings seemed to be.

  He worked for hours. Many nodded a greeting to him, but few spoke to him. He noticed that the lady who usually offered him mints wasn’t there. No matter. Who would get close enough to be bothered by his breath, anyway? 

  The day did not go well. His tools weren’t there - or maybe they were, he couldn’t be sure. It seemed as though they had slowly begun to disappear, one by one, like so many shampoo bottles. Were they being stolen? Was he misplacing them? The thoughts wouldn’t let him determine the answer.

  Wait.

  “Can I speak to you?” asked He. 

  The approach had been stealthy, and he jumped a little. “Yes,” he said. He hoped his slow exhale couldn’t be noticed.

  “I saw the work you did last week,” He said. “Frankly, I’m a little disappointed. I feel like you could do better. You have done better, in fact. Is everything ok?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “I’m a patient man, you know. I’m not here to come down hard on you. Just pick it up a notch.”

  “Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll try harder.”

  “I know you will,” He said. And then He was gone for the day.

  The cold tremble of embarrassment and anger went down his chest. Why did He not appreciate him more? After all those years working - what had he been working for? Was he not entitled to a little mistake now and then? Even a few mistakes? Who was perfect? What had all this been for? 

  The burning in his chest spread out, lapping up more acreage in his soul, becoming a forest fire. His hands trembled as they attempted to operate and produce. More mistakes were being made - but what did it matter now? He couldn’t please Him. No matter what happened, it would never be good enough. It never was, and never had been. He couldn’t get it right the first time, and seldom the second. When he did get it right, someone was always there to criticize, and sometimes that person was himself. Sometimes it was Him. Many times it was her. There were never compliments, though. Only negativity. 

  Where were all the tools he needed? Did he even truly need them, as he could never use them to truly succeed?

  Why continue to try? 

  Quitting time came at last, merciful but unfriendly. He walked to his car at the end of the lot. Of course, he was the last one to reach his vehicle, but the emptiness of the lot vacuumed some pressure away from him. He turned around to observe the departure of his workmates, but somehow they had all cleared out. There were no vehicles anywhere - not in the lot, nor on the road. Was there an accident? Had he entered a dream for a bit, sleeping standing up in front of the curious drivers? Why should he even care where they were now? 

  He got into his car and realized he was nervous. Something was very wrong with everything. The leather interior looked a bit dull in the evening light. There were scratches on the dashboard that he hadn’t seen before. Each one looked fresh, like it had been made that day, but he knew that was impossible. Was he losing his grip on reality? Who would be there for him, to tell him that he had changed? Who would give him back his tools, or his shampoo, or his soap, or her? Would there be volunteers?

  He felt himself driving fast. He checked his rearview mirror, but he couldn’t see his place of work anymore. He adjusted the mirror, but the mirror was fine. The thoughts washed over him once again, and this time he could see no buildings as he drove. Reality stretched to the left and to the right into infinity, rushing away from him and towards him at the same time. 

  If he could not see it, did it matter?

  He drove for hours. He drove neither home, nor away from home, but rather follow the road that tugged at him. He could not see the homes, the businesses, the schools, the parks. It must’ve been green grass that he passed, but it seemed like one mass of matter, heavily pixilated. He was surprised to find that he did not yearn for the old days. He yearned for nothing at all, took pleasure in nothing, and thought of nothing. There was no wind, no grass, no trees, no animals - simply a horizon.

  Somewhere along the line, though, he found his way home. It didn’t look like home, though. All the decorations were missing. There were no shutters, no welcome mat, no chairs on the porch. He wasn’t even for sure that he could see windows. It did not matter, of course, for he had no need of looking out of them. He stepped out of his car and shut the door, then took a few steps toward his suddenly blank home. It now seemed to him that the home look like a toddler’s drawing, with little feature, except the door and the shape of the roof. He felt for his keys, but they weren’t there anymore. He turned back to see if they were in his car, but to his great surprise his car was not there anymore, either.

  A resigned sigh came out of him, and he turned back to the house. He shuffled his feet up the sidewalk, or what he thought was the sidewalk, and opened the door. At this point he almost expected it. There were no walls, no doors, no fixtures. All of their pictures were gone. He thought he saw her walking away somewhere, but he couldn’t be sure. Space seemed fuzzy at this point, and he wasn’t sure where the boundaries of the house ended or began. He thought he could remember them, but as he tried, he found that the memories stood at the fringe of his consciousness, a hazy outline. 

  He reached out to grasp at something, and he grabbed nothing and everything. Colors fluctuated and swirled in front of him. Atoms formed and disintegrated in his hand. Humanity orbited around him, saying much and nothing. Memories formed solid but indescribable shapes in front of his eyes, then faded away. Who was she? Who was He? Who were they? Why did they forsake him? Was this it?

  Wait.

  He backed out the door, and turned around. A white color stretched out before him into the vast infinity. He looked back at where his house was, and that, too was gone. There was only he. White, the color of all colors, overtook him. The world had become a true blank slate, one that seemed to never have been used. He spun around multiple times to make sure, but he indeed was alone, without any form of anything to accompany him. Seeing this, he felt something he had not felt in a long time. Contentment.

  For the next several time periods, he stood in wonder at the world he had created. His was a world of blissful starkness. No heavenly bodies moved, no luminaries, no stars. There was no dust, nor water, nor fire. There was no cold and hot, no shape, and no senses. There was simply the eternal blank slate. His thoughts were clear, his nerves were merely simmering. There was nothing to organize, to look after, to value. He did not care, nor need to care, about anything.

  I don’t care about anything.

  I don’t care about…

  I don’t care.

  I don’t. 

  I.

  He looked down at his hands and feet, and his phalanges were webbed together. He couldn’t move them at all. His feet felt as though they were stuck to the surface underneath them. He was laying down, hurtling backward and downward, blasting upward into the white void. The nothingness began to frighten him.

  I.

  I might. 

  I might also.

  I might also care.

  I might also care about…

  Wait.

  It wasn’t a jarring hit, but a gentle nudge. He felt sudden volume between thumb and webbed fingers, and he was surprised to feel himself able to move his arms. He lifted his arm to see what had implanted itself in his hand. 

  His shampoo bottle.

  The emotion he felt at seeing the shampoo bottle overwhelmed him. Without blinking, he took in the form of it. It was red, with an artistic swoosh over the brand name. He found himself able to push down one end of lid. The other side popped up, and the familiar delightful scent enter his nostrils. He took in the hints of lavender and berry, along with the stronger, muskier odors that they market to men. He imagine himself applying it to his dry scalp, feeling the molecules interact with his head. He imagined the liquid penetrating his hair follicles, sizzling through each individual strand of brown hair and reinforcing it. He felt the slight slipperiness of the plastic bottle contrasted with the rough surface of the white label. How did they even do this? he wondered. How did someone mix just the right ingredients to create a substance to put on your hair to make it better, stronger? Who made the shape of the bottle, or who invented the way it would be marketed? Who wrote the label? Who came up with the name of the shampoo? Who invented those handy lids? The questions didn’t have answers, but he was just happy to be able to consider them again. He was happy to care about the shampoo bottle again.

  He felt the bump on his right hand, and he knew it was her. He looked up, and he saw her smiling at him. Had she been smiling the whole time, even when her back was turned? 

  “Hi, Grayson,” she said.

  “Hi, Katelyn.”

  “How was your day?”

  Good. “It was good. How was yours?”

  “It was rough. I left my wallet at work and had to double back and get it. That’s why I’m late.” She smiled wearily. “My wallet! My whole life is in there, practically. How could I forget my wallet?”

  “I guess sometimes you never know a good thing until it’s gone,” he said.

  She cocked her head at him. She didn’t understand, and didn’t need to. “Yeah,” she said, “I guess so.”