A Battle for the Soul

I am transfixed, staring at a wound in the earth. A jet of steam shoots out, and a heartbeat later, boiling water spews forth, sending a whirl of steam around it. A moment later, as suddenly as it began, the eruption stops. The cloud drifts over a bubbling lake, joining the blanket of steam resting on the surface. The edges of the lake are vibrant yellow and orange. Trillions of microscopic lifeforms live there. It’s perfect for them. It’s home. Even the most extreme creatures found a happy place for themselves. I try to repress the sudden self-pity, but it’s already there. My throat aches—then, a battery icon blinks twice, freezing the video, and the screen goes black a moment later.

I am left staring at a man who needs to shave. He needs a haircut. He needs to start exercising again. 

He needs something else, too.

Maybe, a torrential flood that destroys his apartment. Or an earthquake that leaves it uninhabitable. An alien invasion.

Something. Anything. 

I fold the laptop and go to the bathroom. I find myself again in the mirror, and my eyes dart to my stomach, then my neck. I straighten my head a little. I look at myself, staring past the water spots, and something rises from my guts. “What happened to you?”

I feel stuck and simultaneously lost. Lost, without ever leaving my city. I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath. “You’ll get there, bud. Things will get better.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket: an alarm reminding me about my upcoming appointment. I’ll shave later.

It’s chilly outside, comfortably so, and when I arrive at the building, the sudden heat feels stuffy and old. I step up to the counter, where a boy with curly black hair and glassy eyes smiles at me. “Name?” 

“Ethan Long.”

“Ethan Long,” he says, stretching out the “Long.” He clicks his mouse a few times. 

More and more often, everyone is younger than me. It doesn’t feel particularly great.

“All right, Mr. Long,” he says, dragging out the “O” again with a grin. “Got you checked in. Have a seat, and you’ll be called shortly.” 

I thank him and sit at the end of the row of chairs. Several minutes later, a woman walks out. There are circles beneath her eyes, tired creases on her forehead, and her wavy blond hair looks frizzy and unkempt. I knew the feeling. She glances at me, and I quickly look away.

“Mr. Long. Dr. Randal is ready to see you now.”

I walk in the door, and Dr. Randal is waiting, standing next to his bookshelf. “Good to see you again, Ethan.” He gestures at the cushioned chair next to the door. “Have a seat,” he says and sits across from me. He peers over a pair of thin silver glasses at the notebook in his lap. “Last time, we were working on your conflicting thoughts. You want to see the world but have trouble understanding why working and saving money are paths to financial freedom.” He takes his glasses off and sets them on a side table. “How are you feeling today?”

Something in his tone makes me want to squirm on the chair. “It still doesn’t make sense. My rent has gone up three times,” I say, holding my fingers up. “It’s been ten years, and I’m still chin-deep in student debt. And, in two years, I’ve gotten a single seventy-five-cent raise.” I shake my head, and the words feel weak in my ears, like I’m just complaining about things everyone deals with. I continue anyway. “I work, come home, eat, shit, sleep, and go back to work—so I can retire when I’m too old to enjoy it? Assuming I even live that long.”

Dr. Randal crosses his legs and strokes his temple with a finger. “The market is difficult right now. Everyone is feeling it, Ethan. But I understand how you feel, and I think we need to take a different approach to this problem.” He stands, picking up his spectacles and tapping them against the palm of his hand. “We need to reframe the problem, Ethan. We work not for ourselves but for the betterment of our society, right? The individual needs to do their part so the collective can thrive. By working, you are sacrificing some immediate happiness for the greater joy of all, yourself included, Ethan.” He pulls a book out from the middle of the shelf. “Here.” He thumps on the cover and hands it to me. 

It's a heavy, hardcover book with an image of a torn painting in a golden frame. Reframing the problem: The path to joy. By: Dr. Alan Randal.

I look at it, unsure of what to say. Dr. Randal puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze. “Don’t worry about paying, Ethan. Just bring it back next session. I think you’re really going to get a lot from it.”

He tells me a little about the book, but I’m having a hard time following. It seems wrong, like a form of self-manipulation. But I nod along, and when he opens the door for me, I thank him and step outside. The door clicks behind me, and the kid at the counter gives me a brief smile before asking if I’ll use cash or a card for the co-pay.

I leave the building with a lighter wallet and a heavy book. At least the crisp autumn air feels good. Halfway back to my apartment, I pass a coffee shop and see the same woman from earlier. She sits by herself at a table, wearing headphones and reading. 

For the briefest of moments, I consider going in and introducing myself. I quickly discard the impulse. What would I say? Hi, I’m Ethan. I think we see the same shrink? My eyes adjust so I see my reflection in the window. Ridiculous. I snort and keep walking. I need to start exercising again. I take my time going back to my apartment and pause for a moment outside my door. I don’t really want to go in. But where else would I go?

I push the door open and toss Dr. Randal’s book onto the counter with a thud. Then, my blood freezes in my veins. Something inside me feels terribly wrong. I look around my tiny apartment like a stranger might, analyzing it and inferring about the person who would live there.

The last digit of the microwave clock is burnt out. An empty spaghetti box hangs precariously on the edge of the counter. Coffee grounds litter the corner of the kitchen floor. The couch has a wine stain on the armrest. The blanket is linty and crumpled on the floor. I go to the bathroom in a daze. I stare at the man looking back at me, and it feels like the last strands holding my heart together are torn away. 

I don’t recognize myself. I see someone trapped where they don’t belong, someone desperate for change, desperate to see the world and live and love. There is something terrified within me screaming, begging me to leave before it dies. The idea of reframing my life is enough to make me sick. I know what to do. I’ve known for years. I am the tornado. My heart thumps. I am the earthquake. 

The man in the mirror nods with me. “It’s time to get the hell out of here.”

I grab the Windex and wipe the watermarks from the mirror. I fold the blanket, sweep the floor, and wash the clothes. Finally, I scoop the heavy book off the counter and drop it into the trash with a satisfying clunk. With my apartment finally clean, I trim my hair and shave.

For the first time in a long while, my sleep is deep and dreamless. 

In the morning, I wake up with vigor in my veins. I pack what I can into a suitcase that has been empty for far too long and step out into the cool morning air. Any other day I would be trudging to work.

Today, I board a bus.

I don’t know what state I’ll end up in, but I know where my first stop will be, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. I am happy again.

A tap on my shoulder turns me around. 

The woman from before is smiling, shaking her head as if doubting her eyes. “I swear, I’ve been seeing you everywhere,” she says with a curious look. 

I laugh. “No, I’ve been seeing you around also.” I narrow my eyes. “Any chance you’re stalking me?”

She grins and moves to the seat across from me. “Not in the slightest.” She widens her eyes enough for me to see the whites of them. “By the way, you should buy a mouthguard. You’ve been grinding your teeth when you sleep.”

I laugh, and she laughs with me. She has a small briefcase on her lap, and she drums her fingers against it when she sees me looking at it.

“Yep. Heading into the office. Another day, another dime. You too?”

“Not today,” I say, savoring the taste of the words.

“No? Where are you going, then?”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the window behind her, and I smile. “Yellowstone