Before the Cult

  Silence fell, I felt Macxermillio’s cold gaze on the back of my head.

  “Okay then,” said Macxermillio, striding to the fire. He sat cross-legged across from me. Macfearson joined next to him.

  He studied me for a moment, for an uncomfortably long time. “Tell me what did you see when that man died?” Macxermillio’s voice was detached and distant, not what I had expected. I thought he would be interrogative and fierce.

  I glanced at Macfearson who signalled my cue. “ Um… was like he was realizing something he had forgotten. Like he forgot to update his will or take out the garbage so his wife won’t be pissed. Just the expression on his face. Like when a women gasps and they put their hands on their mouth…they always seem to widen their eyes like that. It was like he saw something… something and it’s too late to do anything about it. I don’t think it was fear. It was all serene.” I shrugged and shook my head, looking down at my lap. Felt like I was getting an orgasm, it was just that release of tingling sensations wriggling through me.

  “How’d you feel?”

  “Like cuming in his face,” I wept, there was a convulsion of shameful emotions surging in me. Ones I never knew I had and did not want to have, but at the same time it felt homey and right. It was truth that slipped through my lips, strange and unlike me at first but the truest thing I had come to learn about myself. Saying this was as good as letting go of long-held guilt or confession of a burdensome secret you had kept for so long to a loved one. I had never felt better and worse in my life. "I wanted to kiss it, take his picture and cum a dozen more times. Oh… it was beautiful. It was a disgusting thought, but I couldn't help myself…I can't help myself. Like a porn addict who wants to stop. The only difference is that I don’t want to stop.” I paused and wiped my tears with the back of my hand and I could feel dirt on it. I realized I had been unconsciously punching the ground. I could not hold my head up and or face their eyes. The weight of the shame and the pain was paralyzing. I felt like a crack-whore, dirty, ruined and helpless. Hated every inch or thought of my being and my heart more for sustaining the abomination I am.

  Hearts…mindless careless things, I thought.

  Macxermillio unwrapped something, then gave it to me. It was slim and cold in the weather. Unwrapped, it was a razor blade. “Takes the edge off,” he told me.

  The warmth of the fire was comforting like a blanket on a cold night, but the razor blade was better comforter. The first cut across on my wrist burned, the blood slowly seeped out. The most elegant thing I had ever seen. Then the shawl of pain and shame slipped off like the wind blows a hat off. I wanted more and the more I cut my wounds seemed to heal. The five fresh scars on my wrist, oozing, was one of the most enrapturing sights I had seen in the cosmos. It had to just make one happy. I watched, fascinated as each drop soaked the ground between my legs, if I could I would have devoured the soil but I was transfixed.

  “The crop can rid us of all this pain,” Maxcermillio told me.

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  "It is all intuitive. The truth is we don't know in what nature does it exist, but we have seen and felt enough to know it does exist"

  “Like what?”

  “Those man’s eyes, maybe. And how you have always felt a wrongness about you, the world and the not belonging here. Like you are lost. Feeling like something is hidden from you and your every move to find it is hindered constantly because you are constantly watched.”

  “What are the fields or the crop?” My heart hang for the answer.

  “That’s what we need to uncover. I’m sorry I know only what I have told you and nothing more.” He paused and gazed at my wrist. “The blade won’t ever rid you of the pain, it is temporary but still even when most of it is gone the afterglow of the pain can drive a man mad. It might kill you doing it too much and we are not sure yet if that is a way. Watch how much you cut as much as you can, as long as you can, we lost our friend Calvin from the self-harm. He endured to his limits and so can you. You have gotten this far alone, and now you have us.”

  Chapter 5

  1

  We went up the first flight of steps.

  “Remind me, is this our fourth or fifth visit here? “Macfearson asked.

  Looked over my shoulder. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “The agreement was that you share with us what you learn. It’s either there is not much help you are getting or you are being selfish.”

  It was hard to tell what annoyed me the most, the fact that he was alluding to how frustrating the sessions were and how smug his tone was. The gloating kept me from giving up and admitting how wrong I was or how bad the idea was starting to seem now. I simply couldn’t give him that satisfaction. Macxermillio was not bothered by the pace, it gave him time to delve into his notes on the ontology of worlds and beings and to review the sampling and make better sense of the calling. In his leather-bound book, he kept with him, he would scribble and scratch notes almost constantly. With my student card, he accessed a lot of resources and books from the university's main library. Other than that he was preoccupied with filling his time with other habits in an attempt to tame his craving for blood. For Macfearson battling the craving was what mostly occupied him the last few weeks with impulsive bursts of rage, mostly he was irritable. But seeing me fail somehow put a wide grin on his face. In general the despair, pain and faithlessness were sucking the momentum off the rest of us. The suicidal thoughts were pestering and wearisome, it packed an almost demonic compulsion and enamouring promise. Skins were burned and slit, bottles were downed and pillows sunk with tears. The philosophical studies were even more dispiriting, sacking all the hope I had in reason. And when Courtney first talked to me it was saddening, she had said, “Dude, are you alright? You don’t look so well.” Whether the pain carried a scent with it, the many showers I had missed or my downcast demeanour that gave it away was not clear.

  “Seriously, I’m not sure. She hasn’t said much about me, the calling or what’s really going on. She seems reluctant,” I told Macfearson. “I will make her tell me this Friday.”

  We walked down the hallway past a few other silent doors, to the glass double door marked “Counselling Centre”.

  Macfearson pushed it open. “It’s too quiet here. It is quite unnerving,” he lowered his voice walking into the reception and waiting area. “Witches be scheming.”

  The receptionist acknowledged us with a smile from her desk. She was a middle-aged Indian lady, beautiful in that Bollywood film star manner. I often found myself wondering who locked down such a divine creature, and if she was as happy at home or if this was just professionalism. An act. Congratulations to whoever came back home to that.

  “Sandy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You are here for your one o’clock appointment I presume,” her voice could bend a knife and lower the gun without even trying, without even a slight moment of hesitation. There was no telling what men would do if she tried.

  “Yeah.” I forced a smile.

  “Okay, have a seat and I’ll let her know that you’re here,” she grinned, her head tilted in a flirt-like manner, or maybe I saw things.

  For a moment I ogled, pistol whipped. I shuffled on and took a seat, still relishing what I had seen.

  “Don’t you wonder?” Macfearson asked, looking up at the notice board.

  “Wonder what?” I replied.

  “If she really cares.” He paused and turned to me. “I mean it’s her job. What if the whole thing is just a job to her and she has to pretend to care, be interested and invested?”

  We can’t have that, our deathling souls are poured into this project. Yeah, who knows what she really thinks or says when she is with friends and family. What if deep down she thinks I’m just a dumb freak, she does not like me. What if I mean nothing?

  “You mean who exactly?” I stalled. Unnerved by the thought.

  “Your therapist. Cheryl.”

  I quivered insi
de at the sound of her name. "To be honest I do think about it. And by the way, she is our therapist, we agreed I would do this on the behalf of all of us.”

  “Quite troubling thoughts. How many people does she see in a week or a day? It makes you wonder about your significance to her. She is whoring herself. You are just one of many, maybe our situation is blurred and diluted by all the whoring.” Macxermillio added.

  “Look at her,” Macfearson pointed at the receptionist, “nobody can be that happy and nice all the time. Shit’s getting on my nerve. Doesn’t seem like she has an odd bad day at all. Being that happy or acting like that all the time is not normal, or at least impossible. Doesn’t make sense.”

  I studied her for a moment, she passed a bright glance while busy sorting some paperwork. A beep of a smile accompanying it. It was eerily mesmerizing etiquette, puzzling at the same time. It started to make me nervous.

  “If she really is happy how does she do it?” I uttered.

  “Maybe it’s all a courtesy or in the job description,” Macxermillio said.

  “Do they even go to lunch? They are always here. It is lunch now isn’t it?” I replied.

  “Sure,” Macfearson answered.

  “It is weird, it’s like they’re some kind of super-human creatures.”

  "If they are guarding some secret knowledge and expertise in such matters as ours, it would make sense why they devote so much of their time here," Macxermillio suggested. A plausible argument indeed, it felt right.

  “You reckon?” I demanded, despite my conviction. It was good to hear good news one more time.

  “Well, it makes sense. Then again they might be nothing more but lifelings and we could be wasting our time here,” He replied, not what I hoped for.

  “Best we are not on a race against time,” Macfearson sarcastically spoke.

  “Don’t forget the calling is getting stronger with each moment. We are running out of strength,” Macxermillio said.

  2

  Staring at her, I studied her. I figure if I wrote a poem about that moment it would go something like this:

  I, the ink,

  Substance of subjectivity,

  Staining and marking,

  In shapes and sizes,

  Without meaning or purpose.

  You wield and mould me,

  Give me purpose.

  In truth, I am sheer nothingness.

  Perhaps not an embodiment of the moment, but an embodiment of the nature of my relationship with her. I felt it there more than ever. Alone although in company. Why does it even matter? Sometimes I asked myself. There is no company without a bond, Macxermillio would insist. No relationship without trust, no trust without empathy.

  “I have something on my mind,” I told her, sighing. Settled in the chair, stubbed my elbow on the arm and rested my left cheek on my left-hand’s palm. Crossed my left leg over my right. Then gave her the look.

  “Okay,” she gestured for me to go ahead. Her nod attentive and distinct as ever. For an unknown reason, I disliked that. It was quite similar to when a parent offers to hear a child's point of view only to disagree with them or, worse, punish them for their transgression anyway. There was something already decided and made up about it.

  “Me and my friend we used to do this thing. We would fuck each other in the butt. When it was his turn I would hardly feel him in my hole. But I pretended to until he finished. When it was my turn I would zone him. Zone him hard. He would wince and moan,” I paused trying to remember why I was telling her that.

  “Okay,” she frowned. I couldn’t tell if it was from disgust or shock.

  “You see there was trust between us. We continued doing it because there was trust between us. The problem is I don’t know how he could have felt if he knew that I was the one truly fucking him all this time. I used the trust against him, to use him. Any emotion a person invests can always be used for better or worse. Right or wrong. You see … it's because of this revelation that I came across an idea. The idea is that empathy is necessary. Being able to put yourself in the other person's shoes in a way turns you into that person for a moment. Then from there you will know how to treat them fairly or right. When you put yourself in their shoes their problems become your problems, and you helping them seems like actually helping yourself out. You do it out of genuine concern because at that moment you are the one facing the barrel. Do you get that? Am I making any sense?" I said.

  “What you seem to be saying is that in any relationship empathy is important for the parties involved. It leads to healthier more productive relationships,” she replied.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Sandy, seems like you have a lot of insight there. You have been doing a lot of thinking. May I ask why you bringing this up now?” she murmured.

  I shifted in my chair, changing my posture. “Because I want to know if you really care about me. That what you are doing here with me is not just a job for you but you actually are interested and involved, Cheryl,” fingers clenched together I lowered my gaze to her lap. She stroked her pen smoothly, her hands resting on the notepad.

  “I see. If you were me and you had a choice, would you continue seeing a client you didn’t want to see?”

  I imagined. “No. I guess not.”

  “Yeah. There you go,” she smiled.

  I lightened up a little, a smile flickered across my mouth. I blushed. “Have you found yourself having to make such a decision?”

  “No,” she giggled, “at least not yet.”

  So I’m not that special, I thought.

  “How many people do you see a day?”

  She hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

  I sighed, nervous. “I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say or what it will do to our relationship, but I guess I gotta tell you. I like you,” I paused, then continued, “not like romantically,” didn’t sound that certain, not to myself, “but more as a person. I don’t know how it is possible because I really don’t know you. This relationship is sort of one way. When you say that you haven’t, and maybe you see like fifty people a week then I am not that special. I get jealous and concerned. It’s as if you should only see me.”

  “You wonder if you are special to me?”

  I waited a moment. “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  “Am I?”

  "I can't tell you that. From the first time you came in here, you've always thought of yourself as unique. What do you think now?" she replied, professional and warm at the same – a rare mix.

  What are you trying to say? The fact that I’m unique makes me special to you? Is that what you are insinuating?

  “Yeah, I still think I am,” I spoke with disguised exasperation. “But I don’t know what to make of it,” I paused to think, “Scratch that. I honestly don’t think it is a good thing. At least here, in this universe. Have I told you about Kirst?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Well, I met her like two weeks ago in my Psychology class. Well, that’s where I first saw her. I thought she looks cool. She had a nice smile and her hair always tied in a ponytail. She was sweet. Very approachable although she walks with her head down she had an inviting energy about her. So I walked up to her on her way passed the Administration Office. It was around twelve O’clock noon. So I assumed she was going home …”

  3

  From her brisk walk and self-directed focus I guessed all she wanted to do was go home, take a shower, eat and lie down. Yes, these images suited her. The sun was pelting. Beads of sweat started on my brow, drops breaking free from my armpits (deodorant failed). I hurried to catch up with her, licking my dry lips and clenching my armpits tight. My heart raced, before I knew it waterfalls flowed from my hair line. A knot tightened in my chest, a lump rose to my throat and my breath hollowed. Images of me saying hello started flashing, they indicated smoothness, delicacy and confidence. The problem is I knew I would stammer, helplessly so. The
images were a false prophecy I wished would come true. I had no remedy, no hope.

  Fucking go for it already! What is it they said? Without hope, without fear? Something like that.

  She glanced over her shoulder, saw me approaching.

  This is it! Say hello!

  Nothing but a faint whisper within personal earshot escaped my lips, a premature ejaculation-like blunder. Embarrassing.

  Not this again.

  I reached her and, to my surprise I managed to say it. “Hi,” I smiled at how perfectly executed that one syllable word was. It felt as if I got some pronunciation of an esoteric word correct in a spelling-bee contest.

  “Hello.” She flicked her head and smiled. Her skin pale but cheeks rosy from sheer make-up. Her eyebrows artistically shaded and shaped in a delicate manner. It reeked with a bittersweet goth touch, a distinct instance of what defies heaven and hell. Her iris light brown with lightning autumn yellow furrows. Her cleavage, I got trapped in it, glistening and supple, a bosom for a honey heart. All became foggy and I was no longer walking but floating, her presence carrying me. A heady experience.

  “How are you?” my voice sounding foreign to my ears.

  This is my voice isn’t it? Why is it so surreal? I woke up this morning, didn’t I?

  “I’m fine. How are you?” She gave a quick glance and continued looking down, not slowing her walking pace.

  “I’m well. I’m Sandy. What’s your name?” I gave out my hand which went unnoticed.

  “I’m Kirst. You can call me Krissy.” She smiled, offering her hand.

  I wiped my palm on my jeans and shook it. I was weak and gentle compared to her firm handshake. “Why Krissy?”

  “It’s what everybody calls me. Is Sandy your real name or short for something?” She giggled.

  “It’s my real name. Just Sandy. I don’t get why people always assume it isn’t. Doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “It is quite unusual for a guy.”

  Having nothing to say, I resorted to the mundane – the safe.

  “Um... how is Psych?” I asked, faking the enthusiasm.