by Novo Dé
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t really dream anymore, at least not in the traditional sense. And lately, when I actually do get some sleep, I get these weird, like, almost like, visions. At least that’s what it feels like.”
“The fantasies?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s hard to explain. It’s different, uncomfortable, draining almost, but lucid. Last night I found myself dreaming of zeros and ones, just the numbers, as if they were speaking to me.”
“Just zeros and ones?”
I nod.
“Just the two numbers, in a random sequence, just, endless.”
Cohen begins typing in his tablet, noting my statements. Back to his old ways.
“Fascinating – and were they – speaking to you?”
“No, not exactly. But something was there. Something. Not sure what.”
“So what do you normally do when this happens?”
“I just…stay awake.”
“You…don’t allow yourself to sleep?”
I nod.
“Tybalt. Voluntary Sleep deprivation is a slippery-slope. Your health could really go by the way side. I could change your medication intake to help y—”
“Jesus doc.” My voice goes sharp, high. “My health is already fucked. Please, no new meds. I can’t do any fuckin’—”
“No new meds. Got it. Let’s, look at the other choices then.”
“Such as?”
“If you don’t want to look into new medication, an easy approach is with simple lifestyle changes. This may sound a little cliché, but a nice glass of milk and a good read can go a long way before going to bed.”
“Fuck literature.”
“Just like that,” Cohen says shaking his head, a look of disappointment in his eyes. “Level with me Tybalt. Surely an author of your caliber can find something enjoyable to read. Maybe a classic?”
“I’m sick of the classics.”
“Maybe something new then?”
And I laugh.
“Something new? Christ doc, I’d love to find something new. But where? Remember, it’s all the same shit now, it’s all paint-by-numbers. It’s all just the same fucking thing over and over again. Modern adult fiction is written for children. I can’t do the same weathered junk food the same kind of authors churn out every year – I just can’t – but you wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you? Drowning in research journals I presume.”
“Something like that. But you’re right – I haven’t read for pleasure in quite a long time.” Cohen pauses. “Ok. Books are out. How about a favorite movie, a TV show, a sitcom maybe?”
I stare at him with a bored, dull look in my eye.
“Doc, I’m just gonna keep finding myself in the same boat with that shit.”
“Music?” He says with an inflection between the syllables that says ‘I’m beginning to give up.’
And I answer with the same bored, dull look in my eye.
“Got it,” He quickly says back. “VR? AR maybe? Something? Surely you could find something in the gaming industry to –”
“I should just get a fuckin’ NCL too while I’m at it.”
And Cohen lets out a sigh.
“Work with me here Tybalt; just, try and meet me half way. Please. You’re shooting down every idea I’m throwing at you, and I’m beginning to suspect it has more to do with who you’ve become, and how you see the world, and less about a true disdain for all the differing forms of arts and entertainment we have today.”
“I’m telling you doc, it’s all shit. All of it. It’s all fuckin’ shit. Everything I come across is just the same—”
“You see there, you’re doing it again,” Cohen says, with a little more of an aggressive stint to his demeanor than usual. “Your behavior is that of a perspective of ‘anti-’ everything. I bet if we kept going, you’d continue to shoot down each and every suggestion, when the reality is, you probably haven’t even given half of them a chance.”
Cohen pauses to gather his thoughts and then continues on.
“It’s ok to try again. You know that right? To start over. You don’t have to be against everything all the time. It’s ok to try and find yourself in the world again. Try new things, and that even includes the NCL you hate so much. Who knows? You may stumble upon something you may…really fall in love with.”
“Maybe I enjoy hating everything, maybe I just enjoy that; ever think of that doc?”
“Sure, sure I have actually. But ‘hate’ is an incredibly draining emotion. It takes so much mental energy to consistently hate even one thing, let alone, everything. And that’s just not you Tybalt.”
Not me?
“That’s just not you,” He repeats, reading the look on my face.
“So now we’re going there huh? And now it’s my turn to say something like, ‘you don’t know me,’ and then curse at you and make a big scene.”
And Cohen smiles.
“You’re not going to do that today.” He says, shaking his head. “Because, we both know you already know the answer to that.”
I look up to Cohen to concur with my eyes.
“You’re right.”
He knows me. He knows how I’ve changed. He knows who I want to become again. No need for anymore clichéd ‘crime drama outburst’ about my feelings on the matter. He knows me better than most these days, sometimes better than I know myself perhaps.
He’s my only real friend anymore.
Real. Human.
“So now what?”
“So now, you need to put out a real effort to seeing yourself again as if for the first time. And try again.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything at all.
“When you go off on your little tangents, and you rant and rant, on all these different little things, what’s clear to me is that, in the end, you’re just talking about yourself. You just use the guise of a thing or a piece of subject matter to tell the story. So I just let you tell it. But what has occurred to me lately is that you may be ready for change, given some of your behaviors and DRI feed; you simply need the one thing that many people in your shoes desire – permission – and you have mine. Maybe you just need to hear it. ‘You have my full permission Tybalt.’”
I look down and let out a subtle smirk through my lips.
“So then, are you ready?” he says.
And a long pause ensues as I stare at the white walls of Cohen’s office room. Am I ready? Am I? I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Because someone has been waiting long enough. The only real thing that matters anymore.
“I’m ready. I’m read…”
January 3rd, 2052
I can’t stop staring.
I can’t stop staring at her, just the thought of another man inside her, replaying over and over again in my mind, the obsessive thoughts rooting deeper and deeper.
Juliet is performing her evening ritual, her eyes sprawling the letters of a book, her head flexed down, her body comfortable, delicate, legs crossed, this time however at the dining room table, facing me from afar at the other end of our living room.
Her sitting angle, posture, and positioning is almost exactly the same as when I saw her through the large glass window of Tapper’s Tap Room, pulling me through all my memories of the event.
Strange how memory can be connected to so many different things. And how the mind automatically decides to hit ‘replay’ when the connective moment hits its cue, and how such a moment can be so simple, this time with a mere sitting stance.
Unfortunately, I don’t have much to go on; it’s all speculation until I confront her.
But it’s time.
Because I can’t keep going on like this, thinking of what was or could be, the memories now a plague, the possibilities of the event haunting.
I can’t keep going on like this without saying something. It’s gone on long enough. I can’t evade this anymore.
It’s time.
“Hey ah, um, hone
y?”
“Yeah?” She responds, not even looking up to answer yet again.
“Can we talk?”
Again, not looking up to answer.
“If this is about the late nights again, works just been crazy busy; I’m not trying to—”
“No it’s not that. Well it’s kind of that. It’s just. Could you?”
She finally looks up at me as I begin to make my way toward her. As I approach, she actually puts the book down on the table and awaits my arrival. I pull out a chair, opposite of her and sit.
“So what is it this time?” She belts dryly, deadpan.
“Well, I do kinda wanna talk about this, ah, distance, we’ve had with one another, lately.”
“I told you – works been crazy.”
Her go-to line; her stalling gymnastics. She’s just gonna cycle through it all until I lay off. So action must be taken.
“Well, I’m just gonna come out ‘n say it then: I saw you the other day, with some man, at Tapper’s Tap Room and it’s been driving me crazy.”
And Juliet stares.
“Look, your DRI notification said, ‘At Work,’ when you were clearly not at work. Now I wasn’t spying; I was just taking one of my walks, and just kind of stumbled on the two of you. It was…impossible to avoid. It just. It just looked bad…is all. Clearly work hasn’t been that crazy.”
She lets out an audible ‘sigh,’ and begins to shake her head to and fro, a burning rage beginning to develop in her eyes.
“I. Was. Working,” she says, drawing out each word, slowly, painfully, frustration filling in every syllable. “Just because I wasn’t literally at work Tybalt, doesn’t mean I wasn’t working. Sometimes patients can’t always make it to the clinic, so I have to meet them out, at a location that’s convenient for them; we usually meet half way. That happened to be the spot that day. And you should know that there’s not a DRI qualifier to designate my work location for what I do, let alone the freedom to tell you about such an interaction with a patient – That’s a HIPAA6 violation, you should know—”
“So he was just a patient?”
“Yes, just a patient,” she snaps, matter-of-factly.
I can feel her eyes glaring at me, analyzing, her head tilting, shifting ever so slowly.
“I just, I just, when I saw the two of you, my mind just—”
“Wait. What do you think you saw?”
“I just thought, I just thought maybe, you were tired of all this, thought—”
“I was off fucking some guy,” she says surprised but angry, quickly realizing where my mind had gone.
“Now c’mon, I didn’t know what to think. And you’re actions, lately, have just been, speaking louder than your words. I just. You’re just so fucking distant all the time. So absent. I just. I mean, what was I supposed to think? And we both know this kind of thing never happens: I mean, I haven’t known you to even have dinner with a friend, let alone a stranger, and definitely not a patient. How has this never come up?”
“Jesus Christ Tybalt. I can’t talk about work. I don’t know how to make this any more clear. And have I ever given you any reason to think I’d cheat on you? Fuck – You know how I feel about that.”
I try to reply; my mouth even begins to open but I retract.
“And why would I just start now?” she continues. “After all these years, after everything?”
“Couples, people do it all the time, after decades and decades of marriage; Plenty of people have just thrown it all way. And given the circumstances, I—”
“You’re bein’ that asshole again,’ she says, shaking her head. “I deserve better than this; You know better than anyone, I’m not that person. Sure, sure, don’t get me wrong, I’ve definitely needed, a little more ‘space’ lately, but I’m not off fuckin’ some guy. Ok?”
“I, like I said, I didn’t know what to think at the time. Maybe, maybe if you were just here a little more. A little more present, y’know, my mind wouldn’t go off the—”
“I am here.”
I stand up.
“No. I mean, here here,” I say, parading around in front of her, using large gestures with my hands to signify the point. “Present. Like let’s engage with one another once in a while.”
“This ‘ole fuckin’ tune. God, I can see where this is goin.’ Please. I don’t wanna fight tonight. Can we just—”
“No we can’t. I think there’s some things that need to be said. So get fuckin’ comfortable.” I snap, speaking down to her, literally.
“I don’t want to talk to you when you’re like this,” she says, pushing her chair back, about to get up.
“You stay the fuck down,” I snap again, scowling, my finger in her face.
She cowers in shock, rigidity follows soon after, until she becomes completely still.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ I quickly chime, calmly, realizing the magnitude of my words, my behavior, sitting down at the table with her again, our eyes becoming level again.
She lets out a breath and her body melts back into the chair.
“I’m sorry. Can we just? Please?”
She nods and mouths the word ‘ok,’ inaudibly.
“I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little…gone…out-of-it, lately. Stressed, to say the least. With everything. With all of this.”
“So this is more than just the—”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean, it is but it isn’t,” the feeling is hard to describe. “I just…miss you…is all, ok.”
“I miss you too,” She says back, softly.
“I’m not good at this…obviously. I feel like I used to be good at this, but everything’s…” I look around the room, “…changed.”
“I know,” she responds, again softly.
“Look, when we were going through the trial, I was convinced I was going to prison; thought I was going to lose everything, you, the house, my life, everything. But when that didn’t happen, I thought maybe, I could at least, fix this, fix us. I thought, we could, maybe one day go back to how things were. Before I messed everything up—”
“I want that too. I really do. But there’s no going back. You have to see that now. You have to know that, somewhere deep down, I. We have to…well…I don’t really know what we have to do, what we can do, to repair this to be honest, to repair any kind of future we have together. That’s what I’m trying to figure out myself. I’m trying Tybalt, but, but—”
“Is that why you’ve been so…?”
“In part, yes,” she says, nodding. “But also, there’s…”
She stops to swallow.
“When I first heard the story, I couldn’t believe a word. ‘That’s not my Tybalt,’ ‘he’d never…’ I'd say to myself. But when I heard the testimonies of those mothers and fathers, everything hit home. The whole thing…became real. And for the first time in my life, when I thought of you, I was, I was…scared.”
“But Juliet, you know I’d never—”
“Please, let me finish. You said that there are things that need to be said, so let me say mine, ok?”
I nod and mouth the word ‘ok,’ inaudibly.
“I had to do a lot of soul-searching after the trial – a lot – about who I thought you were, who I thought you’d become. I realized I was in denial for a lot of it. But when it all came to a head, and I had to come to terms with this new you, I became…,” She stops to swallow, then takes in a deep breath, looks around the room, then back at me, fixed, “I became legitimately scared of you.” She pauses. “And scared of what you could do to me.”
“You know, you know I’d never hurt you Juliet.”
“I want to believe that, but I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m having such a hard time—”
“Juliet, please, don’t say—”
“I want to believe you. I really do. But it’s becoming so hard to…” She shakes her head, “…help me, Tybalt. Help me understand this. What happened? What happened to you? Is there something I did t
hat—”
“No no. it’s not you. It’s never been you.” I swallow hard. “I’ve tried to find the answer, mostly blaming everything else in the process, but the truth is, there’s no one else to blame but myself…” I pause again. “Look, I see now, I know I’m the one that lost control. I was losing touch, one no-name at a time, and for nothing.
I see now that my entire world was just fading, kind of dissolving away, with that shit. And what’s worse: I think I wanted it; I think I wanted to hurt myself. I’ve been discovering that more and more during my sessions with Cohen.”
Tears begin to take over the surface of her eyes, but you can tell she’s doing everything in her power to keep them at bay.
“But I’ve never wanted to hurt you Juliet. I swear it. Never. Not you. So hearing you say that, just, I don’t know, I just…” pausing, I close my eyes, “…I’m so sorry…” I continue, shaking my head gently, “…I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know you…I’ve never wanted to make you feel that way. So. Can we? Is there a way we can start over? I mean, I don’t know how to make this right, but I know I want to do everything in my power to…” I trail off, entranced in seeing her in a trance of her own, not an update, she’s more...lost in thought, lost in what kind of future we even still have together, and with it, a new kind of fear masking her face.
“Juliet?” I say, trying to break her from her trance. “Are you?”
She snaps to, kind of shaking her head as she comes out.
“Sorry. I. I’m not ready to; I still need time to…”
She stops short again, the trance of her thoughts taking hold once more, guiding her from her chair to the front door like a plane on autopilot.
I follow from behind taking hold of her arm.
“Please. You can’t just keep running away from this.”
“You did,” She quietly remarks, pulling her arm away.
I continue to follow, grabbing her arm again as she approaches the door, this time swinging her around to face me.
“Fuck woman! Stop!”
“Just let me go Tybalt.”