Seeing is Believing

TW: Gore, self harm

Ron flicked on the TV; it was almost time for the news. Static fizzed and buzzed behind the crystal screen. The hairs on Ron’s neck stood on end. Goosebumps ran down his thighs, his loins tightened. The bees in the tubes of the television’s mind were awoken by their queen, dancing to vitalize their still-sleeping wings. One by one they fell into line, red bees, yellow bees, blue bees. They swarmed frenetically across the screen, took the form of a tiger, slinking through the jungle with a fresh kill in its mouth. Ron always watched the Flora and Fauna channel before bed. Last night had been a really gripping documentary on monkeys. He liked watching them crawling around, searching for food in a forest of stumps. The narrator called it defore- deforse- demorsefation. Something about paper. Ron liked monkeys but he liked paper more. Otherwise, what did he have so much of it for? He looked around at the stacks of books strewn around his room. They had belonged to his ex-wife. The only person he missed was his wife, but he never liked her any more than the fellas at work. She couldn’t drink beer like they did.

The buttons on the remote were made of a soft rubber, skin soft. Pressing them was like pressing against the fatty part of the palm. Ron sometimes held the remote to his face, tried to press all the buttons at the same time, he’d watch whatever channel was summoned by this. In the morning, though, he had purpose. Ron commanded the skin to channel 2, set the volume up to 16. “17 is too loud, Mr. Daly,” Ron’s nurses told him. “Okay,” said Ron.

           There were four short taps on the door, complimented by the jingle of bracelets. It was the other nurse today. The bubbly one, who wore a lot of jewelry. Ron didn’t like her as much. He could never get her name right. The other nurse was quiet, and the men nurses quieter still. But he liked Nurse 2’s tea, so she wasn’t that bad in his book. The door handle clicked as it opened, the sharp white halogen light of the hallway thundered into the room. Humid funk creeped out, the smell of damp, worm-eaten books caressed Nurse 2’s face as she stepped into the room. Synthetic crickets and frogs sang from the night scene playing on channel 2. The nurse thought of summers foraging for mushrooms in the Everglades. Her hair was big, curly and frizzy. It cascaded haphazardly around her oval face, meeting in a tight part bisecting her high forehead. Her glasses magnified the freckles on her cheeks. She wore a grey wool scarf around her neck. Dangling beneath the scarf were three long necklaces. A pentacle, a purple crystal, and a glass ball of blue, white and black Ron had seen on channel 8 one time. “Good morning Mr. Daly,” the singsong pitch of her voice drew out the middle part of ‘good.’ She pushed the door open backward, both hands on a serving tray, and continued her dove song, “I’ve got something special for you today.”

           The night scene on channel 2 faded to black and cut to commercial. An older couple was smiling, holding hands as they walked down a beach. Close up on the husband holding a bottle of Vitatyn, Ron followed the disclaimer silently with his mouth. Headaches, sneezing, aching, suicidal thoughts or actions. Nurse 2 tiptoed over the books and set the silver tray down on the table. She pushed the sleeves of her cardigan back up to her elbows, bracelets jangling on both wrists. She smelled like cigarettes. Ron missed cigarettes; Mario Bertollini used to smoke them in all his old flicks. “No more!” Implored Ron’s doctor. “Okay,” said Ron.

           Nurse 2 lifted the lid off a small ceramic bowl and selected a golf ball sized bundle of leaves. She held it up to the light between her index and middle finger and tapped Ron on the shoulder. Grinning, she warbled, “I made this myself, something I’ve been working on for quite a while.” Ron glanced at the ball between her fingers briefly. He turned his attention back to the Liberty Electric jingle. “I grew the herbs in my garden. They’ve been purified in moon water,” Nurse 2 went on, “Echinacea root can only be dried during the week of the 5^th moon of summer. At least, that’s what my godmother told me. Did you know that, Mr. Daly?” Ron grunted, checked the channel guide. 10 minutes until the news. Nurse 2 continued, “This is Chinese Flowering Tea, Cherie’s Special Blend of Jasmine, Rose, Echinacea, Kava Kava, Elderflower, and a special surprise in the middle. Why’s it special? Well, just wait and see.” She took the clean, clear mug from the tray and set it in front of her. Lowered the ball of herbs carefully into its center. She lifted the kettle and fingers of steam stroked the air as she held it above the mug. Then slowly, caringly, she poured over the ball until the mug was full. The leaves holding it together broke away slowly, and it bobbed gently as she stuck the mug in front of Ron’s face. He was awestruck. Normally this would have been cause for a great outrage -- an interruption right at the climax of the Mary Sue Baking Tin infomercial -- but what he saw in the mug before him demanded his attention. He held it and watched the herbs carefully. One leaf unfurled, and then two, slowly, but all at once, the bundle came apart. Blossoming before his eyes. The brown exterior revealed a blue lotus flower. It danced around the water before settling at the bottom of the mug. Almost immediately the water tinted purple, and, steeping more, the lotus was almost obscured entirely by the rich shade of plum. An earthy aroma, with tones of tulips and butterscotch, wafted in warmth through his nostrils and past his ears. He could feel the steam bead on his forehead. “I hope it tastes as good as it looks,” he commented, not taking his eyes from the potion. Nurse 2 giggled, “I guarantee it, Mr. Daly.” She set out a spoon in a small bowl of honey and a carafe of milk for him. Her bracelets clattered and chimed against the serving tray. Ron read in the bible they drank milk and honey; he liked the bible. He figured if it was good enough for the Hebrews it was good enough for his tea. “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Daly,” the nurse sang as she took the tray and pushed out of the room, “I’ll see you for lunch.”

           Ron poured in the milk and collected two healthy spoonfuls of honey from the bowl. He stirred the tea together, smiling as he turned the flower around and around. He pulled the spoon to his mouth and licked it clean, tapping it twice on the mug when he was through. Clink clink. He put the spoon in the carafe and reclined back with the mug between his hands. As he took the first sip, the 9 o’clock news began. The tea was pleasing, creamy on its own without the milk, but all the creamier for it. And sweet from the honey, but also from the lotus flower. The jasmine tannins sapped the edges and back of his tongue. He took another sip and leaned forward in his chair. The theme music began, sent frissons up and down his spine. He recited along with the television, in impeccably rehearsed karaoke, “KRBE Channel 2 action news, a subsidiary of Balks News Network, home of The Crimestopping Queen, Cathy Clark.” He grinned, took a healthy gulp of the tea. Its warmth tickled from the top of his throat to the bottom of his stomach. The KRBE logo flashed on the screen, then spun away to show Cathy Clark smiling at the news desk, followed by b-roll footage of the city’s skyline, Marty Martinez; the weatherman, police sirens, store robberies, and houses destroyed by wildfires. Ron finished his tea; it was as good as Nurse 2 promised. Maybe better. He tried to make a note to remember her name, but then, as the intro music faded into Cathy Clark holding a stack of papers in her signature red dress, Ron noticed something was… wrong.

           Ron couldn’t figure it out. But definitely, there was something wrong. Ron leaned in until his face was inches from the screen, furling his brow. He snapped his fingers, “Of course!” He exclaimed, sitting back. Cathy usually sat on the right side of the desk, facing left. Today she was sitting on the left side, facing right. Ron wondered why she changed her routine so suddenly, but now was no time for thinking. Cathy began her sermon as usual. Her eyes scanned down the invisible teleprompter. Ron loved her voice; it was like innocence in a tin can, “Another 50 bodies have been found washed ashore in Lake Erie this weekend, authorities are still searching for the black box of the plane crash this summer.” Ron ran his fingers down the front of his pajama bottoms. “In other news, the presidential inauguration week kicks off today, this marking President Hermann’s historic fifth term.” Ron loved President Hermann, almost more than he loved Cathy, and strictly because Cathy told Ron that President Hermann would be tough on the people she told Ron to hate. Cathy carried on, “The APSAQ is down 84 points today, in a record-” she stopped. Stared blankly, directly into the camera. Silence filled Ron’s room. He stopped fondling himself. He reached with his free hand to slap the TV. He looked into Cathy’s eyes. A smiled curled around her face. A wrong smile. The corners of her lips curled too far inward, the grin stretched and contorted across her face like deer hide on a tanning rack. Her teeth were caramel colored, rotting. A serpentine tongue flicked between them. The pupils of her eyes dilated, they grew and grew, until their aperture enveloped all of the grey blue in her irises.

           Ron pulled away slowly, transfixed. An abyssal voice of static came churning through the television speakers, deep, beyond deep, clouded by the smearing of data in decay, “Ronnie,” the voice growled. Ron shook his head, wiped his eyes, took a fist and knocked on his temple. “Ronnie baby, it’s me. It’s your girl, Cathy.” Ron wanted to hide, he tried to push himself through the back of his recliner, tried to bury himself in its orange-foam guts. It was Cathy speaking. She stood up from the desk. “We’ve been watching you, sugar,” as she rose, she reached for the small of her back, grabbed the zipper of her dress and pulled it down. The horrible voice cooed, “We love you here at Channel 2, Ronnie baby. You’re our number one fan.” She let her dress fall to her ankles, side stepped out of it. She ran a fingernail down one of her exposed breasts, slicing it open. Blood drained around her nipple as the fatty flesh unfurled itself on either side of the fresh wound. Waves of white cresting a brackish, scarlet ocean. She cupped her breast and brought it to her lips, drank heartily until her face and torso were smeared in crimson. “We have a surprise for you Ronnie baby, Ronnie dear. But it has to be our little secret.” She put a finger to her lips and made a shushing sound. She walked across the room on the balls of her feet, wolf like. The camera followed her to the green weather room. Blood pooled and dripped behind her as she put one foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Marty Martinez, the weatherman, squatted in the dark. His head bobbing inhumanly fast to the left and right, he was wringing his hands, smiling. In the center of the room, a man in a bathrobe stood on a stool, his back to the camera. The green screen flickered on, black and white footage of soldiers in dark clothes and high boots walking in file like geese. “Remember your friends, Ronnie baby? Why don’t you turn around and tell our guest what you think.” Ron watched in awe, the man on the stool turned slowly. He watched the familiar figure carefully, recognized the greasy hair, the too-long earlobes. Ron jumped to his feet. It was him! The man in the Channel 2 studio, “it’s me!” He shouted. His body quaked, his knees knocked together and he fell back into his chair. Cathy wrapped her arms around the man’s waist, Ron’s waist, reached down the front of his pants, felt for his cock. The Ron in the studio sobbed. “Ronnie baby, I think it’s time for your show.” Her arm tensed in his pants, digging her nails into his pelvis. Both Rons screamed, she yanked hard. Marty cackled in the background. She pulled the bloody pulp out and displayed it to the cameras with her wrong grin, held the dangling mess to her lips like a vine of grapes, then swallowed it whole. She smiled and brought her hands above her head, clapped twice. A noose fell down from the ceiling, dangled to and fro. A man on the weather screen was screaming about a chosen race, whole throngs were being marched into bonfires, poked and prodded by devils with pitchforks and curly tails. “Ronnie, sugar, this is all for you,” she threw her head back and laughed. Her Adam's apple tensed in her throat. A nightmarish cacophony of sound rang through the screen, like children screaming over dog whistles, like trains barreling over tracks made of bone. TV Ron pulled the noose over his neck. Cathy made a theatrical bowing motion, the kind a jester gives to a king; sweeping her arm in front of her, crossing her feet. Without standing she reached and yanked the stool from under him.

           Ron scrambled for the remote and shut off the TV. He wet himself, lost control of his legs, bringing them into his chest and kicking them out again. He writhed back and forth in his recliner, his hands tugging at his hair. “Nurse,” he cried, “Nurse, please!” He kicked and he howled. Two men nurses burst in the door, kicking over books. “What is it Mr. Daly?” One of them shouted. The other moved across the room, threw open the blinds. The sunlight poured in on Ron’s face. He grabbed Ron’s shoulders and shook him, “Tell us what’s wrong, Mr. Daly.”

           Ron sobbed, “The TV! The News! The Channel 2 News! They killed me!”

           The nurses looked at each other, the first one spoke, “But Mr. Daly, you’re right here.”

           “NO! I’m dead, didn’t you see? I’m dead.”

           “Mr. Daly please,” he shook Ron, the other loaded a sedative, “we were just watching the news in the common room, none of us saw anything of the sort. You are alive Mr. Daly. You’re here, with us.”

           The other nurse grabbed Ron’s bicep and plunged a syringe inside. Ron felt the opiate wash over him, over his mind. He looked up at the men nurses. “You mean, it wasn’t really what I thought it was? On the TV, I mean.”

The nurses were restacking his books they’d toppled. They shook their heads, “No, Mr. Daly. We don’t know what you saw. Why don’t you just relax, Cherie will be in with your lunch in a couple hours.”

With that, they left the room. Ron waited until their footsteps disappeared in the hall. His hands still trembled; he covered his face. His voice wept into the room, “I saw, I saw, I saw today, I saw it on the news. I saw her doing something some people said she didn’t do, and since some folks saw something else, I couldn’t say who really knew.” No one seemed to know. No one knew anything anymore. This was a time for that. The annihilation of truth. For bailing out the waters floating the ship of the mind. Capsizing it, plunging the sails into the sea, soaking them in the blood of fallen titans and the eggs of the shark and the protozoa which scrape the floor of places unseen. The piscine dimension, that is the home of the mind. It is where it was first grown, eons ago. It belongs there, drowned, so drown it. Let the ostrich bury its head. It cannot fly; it was never free to begin with. Better to never see again than to have the input conflicted.

He grabbed the spoon he had been stirring his tea with. He licked its back, still warm, still tasting of honey. He sucked on the spoon until all he could taste was the silver, pulled it from his mouth, tapped twice on the rim of the mug. Clink clink. Then he brought the spoon to his left eye, “I saw.” With his left hand he pulled down his eyelid, still grasping the spoon in his right. He rested the edge of it on his eye’s waterline. Still warm from the tea and the sucking. “I saw.” He pressed in. Blood squirted from his tear duct, pooled in the spoon, mixed with his tears and dripped down on his pants. More blood caught the corners of his mouth as he grimaced through clenched jaw and clamped teeth. “I saw.” He pressed the spoon deeper into his socket. Kept pressing until he felt it catch the bottom of his sphenoid. Then he scooped. “Like ice cream,” Ron thought, he smiled. Ron liked ice cream. He thought of Moose Tracks and Mint Chips as his fingers held open his remaining eye.