That's The Spirit

The faceless man still crouches there, his papery, ghostly white skin stretched across the sockets of his deformed skull and emaciated frame. His claws scratch idly against the frame of my door.

“Go away,” I mutter.

Ajea, he greets me. He has no tongue, but he has a voice. An older woman’s voice that seems agonizingly familiar, but fragmented and impossible to pin down. It whispers to me now and then. It stings; itches like a spider scuttling around inside my skull, spreading its web over me until the silk of the past and the present are all tangled up.

Moonshine. That’s what the sand-colored label on the cloudy grey bottle says. I pick, twist, and pry off its black cap with my chipped nails. The narrow neck rests against my chin as the liquid rinses down my sandpapery throat. It’s strong and smooth, with a hint of sweetness, almost like corn.

The rain patters rhythmically against the glass. The droplets chase each other, racing down toward the windowsill. I sit cross-legged on an old, yellowed mattress, my back hunched, my crumpled, tattered blanket draped over my bony shoulders. I squeeze my eyes shut, then slowly open them and peer into the corner.

The faceless man hasn’t moved an inch. Of course, he hasn’t, the ugly bastard. I’ve been trying to throw him off my scent for years, but no matter how far I go or how old I get, he keeps following me. Into the hallways of my childhood home, the stall of the girl’s bathroom at my middle school, the back alley behind the mental hospital.

I admire him. It’s impressive how he managed to ruin me without even laying a finger on me. All he does is stand there and yet every inch of my body and my crusty apartment is a testament to what he’s ripped away from me. He replaced my sleep with the dark bags under my sunken eyes. He stole my appetite and repaid me with hollowed, haggard cheeks, and breath hot with the stench of vomit. The phone on the nightstand next to my bed used to buzz with a new text every second. Its quietness is now a constant reminder of the supposed friends who don’t bother to call anymore. The aged cypress door that I used to open to a surprise birthday party on the other side is now nearly always closed.

The faceless man has never told me his name, but he has one, given to him by my first psychiatrist, and all the psychiatrists I wasted my money on after them.

Schizophrenia. Unlike many cancers, its worse symptoms are hidden within, only visible to the afflicted. It’s a tumor that causes everyone to cut off the patient instead of the illness. Like any other disease, it has crippled my kickboxing career.

“If I’m being honest, Ajea, whether you had any opportunities in the first place is up for debate,” my mother used to say. “This constant transferring from school to school has made it hard for you to learn any new skills, find a trainer, and get any sports scholarships. The chances that you’ll become a professional athlete are slim.”

“She only has no chance because you won’t give her one,” my father would counter.

“I’m just being realistic,” she’d shoot back.

I don’t know what he saw in that godforsaken woman. He must’ve been even drunker than I am now when he proposed, but eventually, he even left me to fend off my sickness on my own. I didn’t have enough money for proper medication, so I found a cheaper substitute. One that wouldn’t leave me whether I liked it or not.

I take another drink, longer and deeper. A little droplet leaks out from between my scabbed lips, stinging one of the scabbed, pus-filled sores around my mouth. The rain becomes a downpour. The clouds hang heavier and heavier in the sky and block out the sun, my apartment dims. The hotness of the alcohol pulsates in my stomach, spreading through and grounding me like a tree’s roots into the soil. Usually, it only takes half a bottle for the faceless man to fade, but this time, he doesn’t waver. I scoff.

“You can’t scare me, I’m not a child anymore.”

Excuses, excuses…

“If it makes you feel better,” I lazily swirl the Moonshine in the base of the bottle, “I can fall off the bed and scream. How about I cry and embarrass myself for your amusement?” The faceless man’s claws twitch ever so slightly in a wordless warning, as if he could tear me to shreds if he liked, but he’s holding himself back out of pity.

I gulp down more of the fluid, emptying my supply. I’ll have to get another bottle. I drained two before this one. I drop the translucent shell of my third dose, kicking it under my bed with my heel as it clunks to the ground. The springs under the covers creak as I lean forward. I sigh wearily. The faceless man grows fuzzy, but he remains.

I stagger to my feet, my ankles wobbling, and my knees on the verge of caving in on themselves. The faceless man tilts his head like a mother watching her baby take its first steps, but if the mother had a twisted sense of humor and only watched so she could laugh at her child once it fell. I stick my middle finger up at him.

“I’ll be right back, you ugly bastard.”

I stumble into the kitchen, at last, laboredly placing one foot in front of the other. My head is throbbing. The corridor seems to ripple in front of me. The air weighs down on my lungs, leaking ice-cold through my skin. I think I’m walking through water. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. One foot….The ripples turn into waves.

I stub my toe on the left wall and almost keel over. This corridor is narrower than I thought - where does this corridor lead again? The kitchen. The kitchen? Why am I going to the kitchen? I haphazardly throw the cupboard open, my teeth chattering. It’s in the middle of spring, but frost seems to creep down my spine. I can’t stop shivering. I hate the cold. Why does it have to be so cold? I want warmth.

Warmth. My longing for it takes me back there. The spiders grow louder and louder in the back of my skull, weaving my family, my memories, and my madness together.

My father’s soup is warm. The fragrant spices in the rich broth. The savory, stringy chicken meat. The tender, homemade noodles. The chewy celery, soft carrots, and bright yellow corn. He puts it in my favorite bowl, the blue one with raindrops on it. He gently places his hands over mine to steady them.

“It’ll make you feel better,” he tells me. He’s bald with a bulbous nose, and a bit pudgy in the gut. His glasses are big and round with no hard edges. His soft, chocolatey eyes glow behind them. His beard is well-groomed with no roughness. He’s in a plaid, green button-up shirt and stonewashed jeans; the same outfit he used to wear on my birthdays, and now wears to every one of his visits. Just knowing I’m alive and healthy is already cause for celebration.

“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, “and there’s no use, I’m not getting better.” I’m lying in one of many tiny, cramped rooms in the rehabilitation center. They strapped me to one of the stiff, white cots after a particularly bad episode in which I accidentally smacked one of the nurses in the nose. I was aiming for the spiders smothering the one-way window on the wall behind her.

“You will,” my father replies stubbornly.

“You don’t know that,” I murmur.

“I know you’re creative because your portrait of a butterfly won first place in that drawing competition.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but smile.

“Dad, that was in the seventh grade -”

“I know you’re kind because you used to help me cook dinner every evening even though you had six hours of homework. I know you’re stubborn - maybe too stubborn - because you kept trying to ride a bike even after you broke your nose, scraped your knees, and bruised your elbows.”

“I get it from you,” I quip, raising an eyebrow at my father. He chuckles at that, punching me playfully on the arm.

“That’s the spirit.”

“We’re a real pair of knuckleheads,” I say dryly.

“Knuckleheaded enough to get through this together,” he adds.

My mother sits beside him in an old, plastic chair in an angular blazer, tight pinstripe dress pants, and pointy heels, every inch of her clothing meticulously tailored. Her hooked nose wrinkles slightly at the smell of the clinic, and she keeps checking his watch. She’s leaving as soon as the hands hit two in the afternoon. She’s here for my father’s sake, not mine.

“Ajea, look at me.” My father squeezes my hands before lifting them away. “It’s a difficult fight, you’ve taken quite a few hits, but you’re winning. You’ll go back to school. You’ll finish your degree. You’ll get a great job.” He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re in the final round and I’ll be right there for the knockout.” I’m at ease, more so than I’ve been in years. Then every muscle in my body seizes up.

I’ve forgotten to take my medication.

My father has no face. The fluorescent lights seep through his pale, paper-thin skin, his bones flashing underneath. I tug desperately at my straps. His knuckles crack and split as his fingers elongate into bird-like claws. Spiders scuttle across his wrist, right towards me. The strap breaks free and my arm flies out. My favorite bowl smashes on the tile.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Goddamnit, Ajea,” my mother says sharply.

“Ronnell, stop! You’ll make it worse -” my father starts. He tries to wrap his arms around me, but I wrench myself away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” I groan, knotting my fingers into my greasy, stringy blonde hair and dig my nails into my scalp. A thick, humid, tropical fog descends over the room, sticking to and drenching my shirt.

My father’s speech is low and garbled, almost animalistic. His limbs waste away and snap in the wrong direction. Bones protrude out of his spindly joints as he stalks towards the door of the ward. I swallow back a retch.

There’s no way that disfigured phantom is my father. Or maybe he is. Maybe the jolly man in the green plaid shirt is the hallucination.

I still can’t see his face. I can’t see his chocolatey brown eyes, which lit up with wonder at my butterflies even when I couldn’t color within the lines. I can’t see his glasses, collecting steam as he taught me how to make his special soup. I can’t see his plaid green shirt, with the sleeves he rolled up so he could dab at my scraped knees and elbows with a cotton ball. I can’t see his face.

More muffled, staticky words from the back of the ward. The faceless creature shuffles to the side of my cot again, holding out a bottle and a paper cup. He shakes it. It rattles. The sound cuts through the fog.

Pills.

I squeeze my eyes shut and hold out an open palm. Two tablets drop onto it. I toss them back into my mouth. Someone closes my fingers around the cup. I wash down the medication, now dissolved into bitter powder on my tongue. I sit there in the pitch black, slowly catching my breath. The clock ticks. Twenty seconds. Forty seconds. Sixty. My eyelids fearfully crack open. A clear voice breaks through.

“Honey, can you hear me?” my father asks worriedly.

“What happened?” I rasp, the cup crinkling in my grip. “Mom, did I hurt anyone?” She won’t look at me.

“I asked the nurse to get some medication.” His brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

“I, I think so -”

“Oh, please,” my mother cuts in, pinching her nose bridge. “She nearly scratched your eyes out and you’re asking if she’s okay?” My father rubs my back. I blink in confusion, clutching the cup closer to me.

“Wh-what?”

“Hey, you need to take it easy,” my father snaps at my mother.

“Well, Edwin, maybe you should stop making excuses for her,” my mother says bitterly. My chest twinges with irritation, snapping me out of my trance.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My mother huffs wearily and stands up, tucking her leather purse to her side.

“I’ve had enough of this.”

“Enough of what?” My jaw clenches when she doesn’t turn around. “Mom, you can’t just act like I’m not here.”

“We’re not supposed to leave until two,” my father adds.

“I’m tired, I’ll see you next week.”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” my father scoffs.

“Yeah, but because of her wailing about ghosts that aren’t even there, I have to wake up in the middle of the night,” she throws her hands up, "and my boss is unhappy because I have to keep canceling work to pick her up after she caused a scene in the middle of class, so I’m tired.” My jaw clenches.

“Mom, wait -” My mother is right in front of the exit. “Mom!” I try to leap out of my cot, but my father places a hand on my wrist to hold me back. “So, you’re just giving up on me?” My mother’s shoulders tense. The clock’s ticks seem to echo through the room. Her fingers slip off the door handle.

“I've had enough of you. When you were a child, I still had the patience,” her voice thickens with emotion, “but you still keep pushing us away every time we think we’re getting close -”

“I’m running out of patience, too, all right? You’re not the one talking themselves hoarse to psychiatrist after psychiatrist, drugging themselves on pill after pill, and passing out in the school hallway after going for five nights straight without any rest, but I’m still trying.”

“How can I believe you when you just keep happening to forget your medication?” she asks pointedly, placing her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who’s not even making an effort even though your father and I are paying for all of your sessions -”

“That’s rich,” I spit.

“Oh yeah, what?” my mother bites back.

“Claiming that I’m not making an effort when you don’t even care about me."

"You ungrateful -" she splutters. She waves dismissively through the air and opens the door. “That’s it, I’m not having this conversation anymore.”

"You were freaking out about the fact that I scared the other kids, not the fact that I was pissing my pants out of fear,” I keep ranting.

“Ajea, calm down,” my father starts.

“You’re more worried about your reputation than my health. At least dad actually shows up to every one of my appointments. You only visit me on the weekend so your colleagues don’t find out that I’m in the hospital. You’re embarrassed of me!” I yell after her. My mother lets go of the handle. The door slams closed.

“Ajea, you know that’s not true!” my father says sternly. My chest tightens. He's not hiding his hurt very well. “Your mother and I would never be ashamed of you -”

“Who wouldn’t be embarrassed if they had a psycho for a daughter?” My mother blurts out. She stiffens as soon as she finishes that sentence. As soon as she sees the look on my face. She shakes as she places her hands over her mouth, slumping back into her chair.

“Do you feel better now?” my father asks pointedly.

“Go away,” I seethe. My mother’s shoulders shudder. Remorse brims and glistens in her eyes.

“Ajea, I -”

“Go away!”

They leave like they always do, but this time, I know it’s for good. The door shuts quietly behind them. There’s a draft in the ward. I thought I’d gotten used to the chill, but now I pull the blankets closer around me. I can’t tear my gaze away from the spilled soup on the floor. I wonder if it’s still warm. My stomach growls softly.

I guess I am hungry.

A drink. Right. That’s why I’m here. I want - I need a drink. My hand paws clumsily through the shadowed rectangular space until it instinctually closes around the final flask.

I manage to stand for a few seconds, but the floor liquefies, and I nearly tumble nose-first into the tiles. I tuck my knees into my chest, settling into the corner between two cupboards instead. My shoulder blades, elbows, and lower spine pop as I stretch out my arms and back. Then I twist off the lid. Again. And I keep drinking. Again. It’s stronger, but not as smooth. It eats away at the inside of my throat. My tongue is too numb for me to taste the sweetness of the corn. I gag, but I force it down.

Ice is forming in my lungs. It aches to breathe. One foot in front of the other, I remind myself. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The storm outside reaches its apex. Thunder rumbles in the distance. My lungs freeze over, and I can’t breathe for ten seconds. It melts, I gasp down another sliver of oxygen, and then it solidifies once more.

Lightning slashes through the sky. The throbbing in my head bolts through me, electric as it splits my skull. The spiders are sinking their fangs in, like a tree anchors its roots into the soil. Their venom spreads through my veins. My arms and legs twitch as I desperately wriggle against their web, but the silk is too thick. I’m paralyzed. They’ve poisoned me. More thunder.

I’m face-to-face with the spilled bottle of Moonshine on the floor. The spiders didn’t do this. I did. I poisoned myself.

Feel better? The faceless man asks. I look up, startled at his presence, but not scared. He’s walking through the corridor. Walking. Walking closer and closer. Closer than he’s ever been in years.

I’ve had enough of you. His claws glint. They’re sharper than normal. I have no excuses. I don’t care and I’ve pushed away all the people who do. He must be here to finally put me out of my misery. How will I ever thank him?

His claws swipe through the silk around my limbs, cutting me loose. He’s not strangling me anymore, but I still can’t breathe. Foamy spittle drips out from between my lips and down my chin. Of course, he wouldn’t kill me. If he wanted to, he would’ve slashed my throat open on the day we met, but he didn’t. He never meant to hurt me. Boy, do I wish he did.

“You know what’s funny? No matter how many times I tell you to go away, or I call you an ugly bastard, even though my breath stinks and I have sores all over my lips and I have bags under my eyes...” I laugh harshly, the sound matching the rhythm of my stomach’s convulsions, of my pained gasps. “You’re the only person who’s always been there for me.”

Goddamnit, Ajea. His voice is thick with emotion, with remorse.

“Everyone else leaves me, don’t leave,” I beg. “Don’t fade.” I still can’t see his face, but I can feel him wrapping his arms around me. He holds me tight, but his embrace cannot thaw the ice coating my lungs.

The sky falls silent. The clouds disappear. The rain patters softer and softer until it’s completely gone. A ray of sun filters through the kitchen window and into my apartment. My vision blurs.

“Don’t go away,” I choke out. The man reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I can taste the sweetness of corn, not from the Moonshine. From my father’s chicken soup.

Then I give in to the warmth.