As Seen On the Internet: A (slightly modified) Compilation

by Jalen Cole

  “Hey…” He said back, “Why are you here.”

  “Listen…I know this is what we wanted from the start, but it just doesn’t work out.”

  “You’re crazy,” He scoffed, moving closer to the ladder, “Emanuel gave this to us so we could fix it!”

  I moved with him, placing a hand on the rung he was aiming for, “I’m telling you it doesn’t work out!”

  “That’s why I’m doing it!” My past self broke my hand away from the ladder, “To get Amanda back, so we can fall in love all over again!”

  “But she won’t! It works, for a while, but it wears off. She’s so much happier with Robby.”

  He gave me a frustrated look, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring and head shaking. I still had the stains of tears on my cheek and shoulder, eyes still red and body still partially shaking, “But I love her.” He said to me, one last plead to reconsider, “We love her!”

  I stared at him again, feeling so distant from myself from just a few feet across, “We want her to be happy.” I said, taking a strong step forward towards myself, placing a time breaking hand on my own shoulder, “All we’ve ever wanted—above everything else—was for her to be happy. And if we fix this,” I grabbed his other shoulder, “if we change who we are and fix something that should stay broken, she will never be happy.”

  Ambivalent tears fell down his face like streams, “But…” His voice was shattered, unfounded, “But I love her.”

  “So let her go.”

  That was the last thing I said to any of my past selves, under any circumstance.

  . . .

  I found myself standing in my kitchen again. Hand still inside the plastic bag, hovering just above the copper and golden orb. Quickly, I pulled my hand away from the ball, closing the bag shut and throwing it across the kitchen. I was so relieved to be back in my apartment, the apartment I had started everything in. I took deep breaths as I sat down at my table again, where I was first across from Emanuel Tigas.

  But memories of our conversation were put on hold when a tremor was sent through my left leg. A buzzing, but not separated by seconds. A phone call coming in. Either Amanda or Robby, the happy couple wondering why the guest of honor skipped out early. That’s when I was reminded of the phone call I made just before I left. Just before I went back.

  Just then, an idea came to mind. I near jumped off and out of the chair and ran for the bathroom. I took a minute to wipe my face, cleaning up any leftovers from whatever alternate world I was in. When I looked half presentable, I ran out of the apartment, down two stories of stairs and down the road. This was the point where I promised myself I’d get a car. But, for now, legging it back to the church would have to do. I ran as fast as I could, tearing through crosswalks, weaving between cars where I was forced to jaywalk to save time. It took a couple of minutes and a lot of stamina to reach the reception, but I finally did.

  I was out of breath and near stumbling when I entered through the doors, trying my best not to make a scene coming back like I had exiting. Careening through the crowd, making my way towards the table Amanda was sitting at, a phone pressed hard against her cheek.

  “Hey.” I said, taking a seat next to her, breathing heavily, speaking in a staggered fashion.

  “Oh, my God, Chris!” She said, putting her phone away, “You scared me!” She slapped my arm with as much frustration as relief.

  “Scared?” I asked, “How’d that happen?”

  “The message you left me!” She shouted, almost smiling at how relieved she was, “It sounded like you were going to commit suicide or something!”

  “No.” I smiled back, “God no! C’mon!” I reassured, “Listen, I’m really sorry about earlier. I don’t know what came over me, but I’m over it now. I just want you to be happy. And I know you and Robby are going to be happy together.”

  “That means a lot to me.” Amanda said, nodding and placing a hand on mine, “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” I smiled back. I still hadn’t mended the relationship Amanda and I used to have. But that was fine. I didn’t have to worry about being a good boyfriend and I didn’t have to worry about any past mistakes. Now I was only concerned with being me.

  R.E.M

  “Mr. Henderson…?” A voice called out from beside me.  As I opened my eyes slowly, I turned towards the murmur.  An attendant with a clipboard shot me a dissatisfied, impatient look as she asked again, “Mr. Henderson?”

  “Yes?” I asked, collecting myself, straightening my clothes, as I sat up in the seat I had slumped into.

  “The doctor is waiting for you, if you’ll follow me.” She said, turning around without waiting for my response.  It seemed to be more of a formality, or maybe she just made it seem that way with her icy glares.  Once I had left my chair and caught up, she had looked over her shoulder at me, “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Henderson?” She asked, another formality, “May I call you Matthew?”

  A more personal question like that caught me more off guard than anything else she had said, “Sure.” I replied, half-heartedly, “I came in because of my sleepwalking.” I said.  It, evidently, didn’t merit a response.

  “Your doctor is right though this door.” She pointed down the hallway.   A straight hallway.  Lifeless, bland, forgettable.  Grey and neutral, vague.  The door shared all of these attributes, with the exception of a small name tag reading “Dr. Scorttes”.

  Entering in, I quickly spotted him flipping through papers, patient notes, and prescriptions.  He looked up to me, oddly, almost jumping from his seat, “Matthew!  I wasn’t expecting you so soon!”

  “I didn’t expect to get screened through so quickly.” I half laughed, “So, looks like we’re in the same boat.” I said, sitting down across from him.

  “You’re here about the sleepwalking then?” Dr. Scorttes asked me, pacing the end of the room he had appropriated.

  “Yeah, I uh…I’ve been having some trouble with it lately.” I answered.

  “Before I do anything, I’ll want to know how intense it all is, so…take a moment and lay down.” He gestured to me, “I want you to relax and think hard about the first time you remember this happening.”

  I didn’t much understand the methods, but complied without hesitation. Laying down across the sanitary paper spread along the chair and thinking back.  I closed my eyes to see if that would help.

  “Good.” Dr. Scorttes continued, “Now…Think back…

  …Henderson

  …Mr. Henderson

  … Mr. Henderson?

  “Mr. Henderson…?” The voice called out again.  Again, it prompted me to wake up.  Only, this time, I shot my eyes open, gasping for breath, flailing, falling from my seat. 

  “Mr. Henderson!” The attendant shouted for me, kneeling at my side as I heaved for air.

  It didn’t take long for me to readjust to the situation.  Getting off the floor and dusting myself off, “I’m fine…” I said while trying to keep a nonchalant tone. 

  She had quickly helped me up, “Bad dream?” She asked, returning me to my seat in the waiting room.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, my voice becoming frantic and unstable.

  “Don’t worry, son.” Dr. Scorttes said, trying to reaffirm me from his desk.  I didn't remember getting into his room.  Maybe his hallway was too forgettable, “You just need to take this prescription to the pharmacy. Then you can take….

  …your pills

  …your pills

  … your pills?”

  Another voice coming from my side, almost as if I was still asleep.  It dragged me from the darkness, pulling me back to an unexpected sight.  I had come back to see myself, in a mirror.

  “I said are you done?” The voice asked again.  My wife.  She had been waiting with the same impatient stare at the door to the bathroom, “Are you done taking your pills?” I had to grip the bridge of my nose before I could refocus on the situation.  The
first thing to come to my attention was the bottle of medication in my hand.  The second was the nagging thought of how I got home.  Or when. 

  “I…” I started, barging into the sentence without figuring a point for myself to make, “How long have I been standing here?” I asked.  I wanted to ask when and how I got home. 

  “You said you were going to take them 15 minutes ago.” She answered, “I assume you’ve been here since.”

  I was thinking a lot. Too much maybe.  Which meant I was blinking in turn.  It must have looked strange from where she was standing, “I’m sorry.” I said, placing the bottle on the sink.  I lied.  But it seemed like the right thing to say.

  “I think tonight you should get some sleep.” She had said, dropping her gaze down in an attempt to meet my eyes.  I had let them fall lower and lower as the conversation dragged on, up until they were staring at the floor, “But, since I know you won’t…do you want me to stay up with you?”

  “No…” I lied again.  Of course I wanted her to.  But I also didn’t want her losing sleep over me.  Silly thing.

  She had left from the bathroom door, saying, “Goodnight” before she left.  I stayed inside for a few more minutes after she was gone, standing with and by myself.  I remember leaving the bathroom.  But I don’t remember laying down on the couch, or turning on my TV.  I remember walking through my hallways before emerging into the den.  Walking down one and turning into the other before I could resume my night.  My hallways are bland, grey, neutral, forgettable.

  I don’t remember rolling onto my back and muting the TV.  But I do remember why.  I wanted to try what Dr. Scorttes asked me to do.  Closing my eyes and focusing on the first time.  Fixating on the one moment that I…

  …I

  …I don’t

  …I don’t remember

  “You don’t remember?” Dr. Scorttes asked me, still pacing on his side of the room.

  “That’s the problem.” I explained, sitting up from the sanitized paper, “My dreams are usually so realistic…it’s hard to know when they even end.”

  “Sounds like that’s why you’re having trouble remembering. Do you remember anything recurring? Anything that could help differentiate between real and not?” He asked.

  “Maybe.” I had spoken without meaning.  It passed through my mind without a second thought, hitting my lips as the next checkpoint.  By then, I tried to stop myself from uttering the word but couldn’t.  I still did my best to hinder Dr. Scorttes from hearing it though.  The word fell off of my lips, quiet but still audible.  Dancing though the air up into Dr. Scorttes’ ear. 

  “I’m no neurosurgeon, but I know someone…

  …who

  …who can

  …who can help

  “Someone who can help?  What, are you gonna be talking to a shrink?” She asked, sitting down beside me on the couch.

  “I don’t know yet.” I said back, sitting beside me on the couch, continuing a conversation I didn't recall starting.  She moved her hand to the side a bit as she prepared her next sentence.  As her ring finger passed through a ray of light penetrating the blinds, a glare shot off of the diamond embedded in her ring.   It wasn't much, but it was enough to snap me out of the conversation.  Drawing my attention away from sentences and reactions that I shouldn't be able to make and back to what was really important.

  “Where…” I started, standing up from the couch I was sitting on and being temporarily blinded by the light seeping in from beyond the window, “Where am I now and what time is it?”

  “Hun,” She started, "Are you okay?”

  My voice stumbled, “I just,” My eyes darted subtly, wobbling as I tried to understand where I was, “I just…”

  “You're starting to worry me." she said, standing up to echo my own movements.

  "I just...need to know where I am.  And what time it is." I reiterated.  I thought it would emphasize the importance of the information if I repeated it again, slower.

  "It's the morning.  You're at home.  You passed out on the couch and I woke you up a few minutes ago." She said, seeming to have taken my tone more personally than I had intended.  She.  She.  She... She... She...It kept cycling through my head.  She was the only word that came to mind.  Not even dear.  Honey.  Darling.  

  "You're my wife!" I had shouted at her, placing my hands on top of my head as I walked away from her.  Her.  Her...Her, "I don't even know your name!" 

  "Okay, now you’re starting to scare me, Eric."

  That’s when I stopped.  Something was wrong. It had to be wrong. Something had to be.  I turned to see her again.  She was still echoing my movements; or maybe I was mirroring hers.  Either way, we were both staring into each other's eyes, crying them dry.  I remember wanting to drop my hands.  To walk closer to her, wrap my arms around her and apologize.  Over and over until the tears stopped and started again.  Joyfully.

  But I didn't.  I did drop my arms and walk closer.  I did whisper, "I'm sorry" as I passed her into the hallway.  Still low, still quiet, still audible as my lips passed her ear.

  I remember walking through the hallway.  My hallways are bland, grey, neutral, forgettable.  Too forgettable.  I remember walking to the end of my hallway to come to a door that I thought would lead me outside.  It lead further inside.  Too far inside.  I don’t remember entering the door.  I remember walking through the other side of it to find Dr. Scorttes flipping through more papers, patient notes, prescriptions. 

  “I…” I had started, still unaware of the situation.  

  "Was just leaving." Dr. Scorttes reaffirmed, "I gave you the card for that psychiatrist."

  This conversation has been done for some time.  I was in it.  I am the newcomer to the conversation.  A piece of me knows I have talked to him about getting help.  A part of me knows he recommended a psychiatrist he knew.  A portion of me knows the business card has been buried in my pocket, underneath a phone I refuse to answer for fear of the wife I don't know.  Another section of me doesn't know any of these things.  Those sections are giving the agonizing screams of confusion and disorientation.  Those sections have resorted to instinct for safe haven.

  "Make sure you tell them Hank sent you." Dr.  Scorttes said before I left out of his door.  A door that I had not closed.  It remained open.  I turned into it, that's what I remember, before the blackness set in again.  But it was shorter this time.  

  Abridged.  Broken.  Sectioned.

  It didn't take quite as long for the voice to drag me from the depths of the abyss, "You’re the one Hank sent. Mr…Thompson! Yes, I’ve been waiting to see you since Hank sent me your paper work.” He almost seemed elated; I wanted to convey the same excitement but couldn’t manage in the groggy state I had fallen into.

  “Seems you’ve had trouble with sleepwalking recently.” He went on, hoping for a response I was unable to give.

  “That’s the least of his issues!” I heard her voice again from the side. My darling. Honey. Wife, “He’s acting like a completely different person. Like he’s disconnected from everything around him.”

  “Given the circumstances…” The psychiatrist flipped through his papers as he passively spoke, “It wouldn’t be uncommon.”

  I reached my hand out from the chair that I was slumped in, it seemed strange to be grasping towards either of them at this point. My memory had failed and I was left without the details I might’ve needed to save the relationship I never had. She noticed my fingers from the peripheral, glancing down at me with a pitiful stare, “Do you see this?” She spoke to him but looked at me, as if I had done something wrong. I wish I could say I hadn’t. He responded, saying something at first that remained inaudible to me in my slump, “…I’m no marriage counselor. Anything besides his condition, you and Eric will have to work out yourselves.”

  Again, it snapped me out of the handicapped state I had been in. My name up for debate. The only thing I thought I
had left as a tether to fact. I stood up between the two, making my voice boom as much as I could with the haze still partially intact, “What did you call me?” I asked.

  “Please, one mental breakdown at a time.” He motioned one hand up defensively, laughing me off

  “Did you just…” My voice wavered as she placed a hand over my forearm, moving it back and forth in an attempt to soothe me. A failed attempt, “Did you call me Eric?”

  Their faces seemed to retain a certain amount of shock from my question. She motioned slowly to console me but I backed away, snatching my arm away from her reach, stumbling backwards into the corner of the room, their eyes fixed scornfully…pitiably on me. My mouth opened but ran out of ammunition, water started to form around my eyes as I shook my head in desperation,

  “No that’s…please that’s not me.” My head had sunken and was pointed towards the floor, I had lifted it to return their stares, “That’s not me.”

  But that was when the third voice came, shattering me and forcing my eyes shut as I refused whichever reality was being forced upon me, “Mr. Henderson? Mr. Henderson, are you okay?”

  I forced my eyes open as I countered, “Who’s that?!” My voice seemed to ring through a small room, annoying Dr. Scorttes as my shout hit his ears, “Jesus.” He flinched, “It’s the card for the shrink you wanted.”

  “H-…Hank?” My voice trembled again.

  “Since when are we on a first name basis?” He scoffed, oblivious to my situation, which I wouldn’t indulge him in for fear of not knowing it myself. I wouldn’t admit that doubt to myself.

  “You—you called me Matthew!” I was elated, I would’ve jumped up from the sanitized paper if it weren’t for the haze I had felt since before.

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?” He asked, almost concerned as he started to notice me more, even if it was only from his peripherals.

  “Isn’t it?” I asked as I shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose as a twinge passed through my head.

  “You’re supposed to be telling me.” Her voice passed through my ears once more. I had reluctantly opened my eyes to see her in front of me again.

  “I.” My words failed me once again as I stared into her pained eyes, tears ready to fall in the presence of my absent mind, “God, please, tell me what I’m supposed to do.” It seemed the right thing to say. I didn’t want to hurt her, so I gave in to the responses I shouldn’t be able to say. It didn’t seem to help the way I wanted it to.