The Man Without a Head

I am 17, and I watch the man across from me as he sits alone at a small, weathered table. The wood is chipped and faded, with hints of its original color peeking through the worn surface. The man’s fingers drum a restless rhythm on the battered tabletop, his other hand absentmindedly tracing circles around the slender neck of a wine glass.

His shirt bears deep maroon stains, resembling dark roses blooming from his chest and trailing downward. Yet, my concern does not lie in his stained shirt or his actions; it does not stem from my ignorance of who he is or why he sits there alone. What unsettles me most is the eerie absence of his head.

I should have kept to myself, left the scene untouched, just an optical illusion from afar. But curiosity overcame me, and I had to investigate, to rule out any mischief. Now, sitting before him, I can confirm the reality of it all, a reality I suspect will haunt me.

The sight of a living man without a head sends my mind spiraling away from the tangible world. It's as if I'm observing myself observe him, detached from my own body. The experience is chilling, unsettling—like floating in a void between realities.

With caution, I extend my right hand. I aim to confirm the absence of the man's head where it should logically be.

"I wouldn't do that."

Startled, I glance around, expecting another person among us. But the surroundings remain eerily empty.

"I can see you, you know."

The voice continues, its origin a mystery. Yet, my instincts insist that it's emanating from the void where the man's head ought to reside—a chilling, invisible presence in the space before me.

I feel a wave of embarrassment, and I hesitate, torn between the urge to reach out for the nonexistent head and the realization that it would only highlight my awkwardness. In the end, my hands hover uncertainly before I reluctantly let them rest on the table.

I wonder what people usually do in such situations, but then it hit me—there are no such situations. Still, I feel an urge to flee.

"Here's to new friendships," the voice echoes again.

I see him lift the wine glass toward me, then toward where his head should be. I watch as the wine spills onto his shirt, realizing now why there are stains. After the rapid drink—or rather, the rapid spill—he places the glass back on the table and says,

"I can finally enjoy cheap wine without the headaches," followed by laughter as if it is a joke.

I don't get it.

Run now! I silently urge myself, but my legs feel rooted to the ground. Despite the alarm bells, curiosity grips me tightly. My eyes stay fixed, drawn to the next move he might make.

"What's your name?" the voice inquires.

"Freddy," I respond, uncertainty creeping into my voice.

Slowly, he raises his glass. I find myself hoping he won't feign another sip—I couldn't bear to see it spill on his shirt again. To my relief, he sets the glass down on the table without a sip, and a wave of relief washes over me.

"That's quite an interesting name," he remarks. "Did you know that Freddy is often a short form of Frederick? Frederick originates from the Old High German name Frithuric, meaning 'peaceful ruler.' Although people used it in the past as a nickname, the name Freddy has become very popular as a standalone, just like yours."

"Uh, okay," I mumble, unsure of what else to say. I never really gave much thought to my name or anyone else's. We all have one because it's necessary, regardless of its significance.

This brief exchange fills me with the courage to ask him a crucial question that has nothing to do with his name.

"Sir, pardon me, but how can one exist without a head?"

His hollow space shimmers faintly, an unsettling void that seems to absorb the light around it. I imagine a gentle, almost knowing smile spreading across his form—if one could call it a smile.

"Ah, a very good question," His voice resonates softly yet distinctly." Many think that a head is essential for life. But I ask you: what truly defines our existence? Is it the brain, the eyes, the ears? Or is it something more profound—the essence that gives us life?"

He pauses, letting his words linger. "You see, the human body is an incredible machine, but it is the heart that powers it. Without a head, I have cast aside the unnecessary, the distractions. I have distilled life to its most fundamental essence."

"But how can a heart exist without a head? Isn't that impossible?" I ask.

"Ah, that's a common misunderstanding! The heart, dear Frederick, is not just a chest-bound organ that pumps blood. It's the essence of our being. It's what propels us forward, what keeps us tied to this mortal life."

He gestures toward his chest where the dark maroon roses bloom. "My heart is the center of my existence—my passion, my purpose, my... consciousness. It's the spark that keeps me linked to the world, even without a head to see or hear."

He pauses again, seemingly offering me a moment to absorb the weight of his words, yet my hands tremble slightly, and I struggle to focus on any of the things he’s saying.

"Some might say I'm incomplete, perhaps even a monstrosity. But I say, I am free. My heart beats with the rhythm of life, unfettered by the noise, the judgments, the endless stream of thoughts that once burdened my mind."

He raises the wine glass and motions once more to the vacant spot. The deep red wine spills over his shirt, turning the maroon stains nearly black. I remain silent.

"For years, I grappled with the burden of a head. Not in a literal sense, of course, but figuratively. The endless chatter, the constant demands, the opinions! It was overwhelming! I was inundated with anxieties, doubts, and a never-ending list of 'shoulds' and 'oughts.'" He gestures vaguely at the empty space where his head once was. "All that mental clutter, -Poof!-gone. Just like that!"

The "Poof!" sound effect startles me a bit.

"Now, I have remarkable clarity. No more indecision. No more agonizing over minor choices. Want cheap wine? Yes. Want a nap? Yes. Want to gaze at the wall for an hour? Yes. The decision-making process is incredibly simplified. Unbelievably simplified."

He pauses and leans forward, as if sharing a secret. "The truth is, it's often the head that gets in the way of truly living. It's always calculating, always analyzing, rarely present in the now. I spend hours pondering the meaning of life. Now? I ponder the ceiling. And I find it just as profound."

As he sits upright, I start to understand his words. I, too, often wish to silence the constant noise in my head—actually, almost every day. Yet, I question if genuine happiness is possible without the ability to think, feel, hear, or see.

"How can you see and hear me?" I ask.

"Ah," he responded quietly, "I don't use eyes to see or ears to hear. I understand the world through vibrations, the air, and the warmth of the sun. My heart senses everything. It's more in tune and genuine than any eye or ear could ever be."

He paused for a moment. "Living without a head has made my life simpler, indeed. But it has also enriched my existence. I am no longer just a piece of something larger, but a complete being on my own—guided by the most powerful force: the heart."

For a while, I remain silent, simply observing the empty space where his face once resided. A strange blend of emotions fills me—empathy, curiosity, and an inexplicable sense of detachment. It's as if I understand everything he has expressed. The idea that life could be centered in the heart, with the mind acting as a cage, resonates deeply, like a faint echo of a truth I've always sensed but never articulated.

Yet, simultaneously, I feel completely out of my depth. His words swirl around me, like a melody I can hum but not fully sing. I try to envision life without a head—no eyes to see, no ears to hear—and struggle to comprehend what that existence might be like.

I gaze at the void and imagine myself in that place—faceless, voiceless, with just a quiet heart beating inside a still shell. Although I can't truly comprehend that reality, I sense a flicker of kinship—an unspoken connection with him.

It's like looking into a mirror that doesn’t reflect my face, but rather my longing to understand something greater—an insight that might always remain just beyond my grasp, like a whisper carried by the breeze.

"Frederick, life might appear strange to you," he says, maintaining a steady and calm tone. "It's full of twists and mystery, yet eventually, you'll realize it's not so much about what we see, but more about what we feel."

He pauses, and I anticipate another spill, but instead, he gently traces his index finger around the rim of his wine glass and carries on:

"I've found a more vivid, genuine existence by letting go of the unimportant. The mind? It's a cage of thoughts and fears. But the heart my dear Frederick, is where freedom lies. It's the true essence of life. As long as our hearts beat, we are truly alive."

I slowly lean back, feeling a strange blend of distance and connection. I realize that some truths are like shadows—visible only in the soft light of emotions, never fully understood, as I think about the strange existence of this headless man who claims his heart is keeping him alive. I wonder if I could find my own heart too—past the noise, past the chaos, in the simple, steady beat of what truly brings us to life...

--

The day has deepened. I’m 32 years old, sitting on a stiff, vinyl-covered chair that squeaks whenever I shift my weight. Across from me, my psychiatrist sits behind a tidy oak desk, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds behind her. The room smells faintly of books and antiseptic. She looks at me thoughtfully and asks, "Freddy, if you truly believe you don't have a head, then how can you explain the fact that you're still alive?"

I let out a weary sigh. The memories of that encounter with the headless man flood back into my mind, vivid as if it had just happened yesterday. The question hangs in the air, challenging the very foundation of my reality. How could I explain it? How could I make her understand?

While trying to find the right words, I am taken back to that worn table, illuminated by the soft light of the late-afternoon sun, and I finally manage to speak...

"Even though I don't have a head, I'm still very much alive because I have a heart. It's not just the physical body that keeps me going; it's the spirit, the heart that beats inside me. My heart is like my oxygen—it fuels the fire of life within me, even without a head.”

"Thoughts and memories are mere tricks of the mind. My heart is where my memories truly reside—feelings, impressions, the essence of my past life. I don't store them in my mind, but within my very soul. I experience them more intensely now. They are no longer diluted by constant analysis. It is a raw, unfiltered experience. When I love, it's with all my heart. When I despair, it's with all my heart. And when I find peace, it's a peace that comes from deep within. And, just to be clear, it’s not Freddy. My name is Frederick "