Selfie, Suicide

by Logo Daedalus

  She remembers that she has her own pictures. She decides to scroll through them. She scrolls through her selfies. She scrolls all the way back to her favorite photo of herself. It’s the one she uses as an avatar on her dating apps. In the picture she was twenty one & camping with her college friends upstate. She was in good shape then. All the girls that year had decided to do a fitness regimine together. It had something to do with their anxieties over the end of college. It helped them all feel in control. It was nice. They bonded. In the picture she is wearing yoga pants & an oversized novelty t-shirt for a diner her peergroup had crammed & studied in. She had been taken unaware by an on-again-off-again friend with benefits- he’s married now, two kids, lawyer- & she’s stretching in the early morning sun, her hair elegantly disheveled, candidly captured from her perfect angle, which makes her beauty seem as unaffected & natural as her surroundings.

  She looks at this picture quite often, but can’t disever it entirely from the memories it contains, which include all of the fights & hearbreaks she associates with the boy who took the photo, who she had once believed she’d marry, maybe, eventually, someday. Caleb Turner, she sighs at the thought of the name, then restrains herself from her normal response, which is to stalk his social media, either masochistically regretting & lamenting what could have been- or sadistically mocking & scoffing at the fate she has avoided. He was nice but he was boring- but maybe that’s what she wanted all along. Dependable. Around. Doting. She misses the comfort. He was clingy but he was loyal at least. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t been ready. He was controlling, very insecure. She winced at a memory of him crying when she denied his request for an exclusive relationship. “We’re nineteen” she said. Well, he got what he wanted. He looks forty already.

  She flicks her phone on & off & watches the clock roll into the next minute- five have passed since the last time she checked it. This means she has been sitting in this waiting chair, outside of the bathroom, for nearly an hour. He must have left & he doesn’t even have a phone. No one has passed by who she can ask to check on him. This is how she’s spending her Sunday, she thinks. At least it will provide her some lunchbreak conversation fodder. She rehearses it:

  “He was one of those bohemian types. A bit disheveled, a little shy. We got brunch & it might have given him food poisoning. That’s why I never order anything with hollandaise. He might’ve had the flu, I don’t know. Anyway, we went to the MEH- walked through the Exhibition, saw some video game thing. Then at the Exposition, midway through, he got really sick & had to be escorted out. I waited for him outside the bathroom for over an hour only to realize he’d disappeared. & guess what? He didn’t have a phone! I know! So anyway I ended up having to go through guest relations to prove my coat was mine, because he had the thingy that- you know, the coins they give you? Anyway. I explained it all like, a hundred times until they gave it back to me. Then I went home, ordered takeout, & took a long hot bath. Just another typical weekend in my miserable life!”

  It’s definitely good for a few chuckles she thinks. A hot bath & take out does sound nice…She starts to stand, resolved to get it over with, when she sees a man coming down the hall. He’s wearing a backpack, a hoodie, sunglasses, & one of those chinese medicine masks. Great, she thinks, one of those weirdos. She almost doesn’t, but decides the hell with it. She waves him down.

  “Excuse me. Sir? Could I ask you a favor?”

  -

  Simon LaFeint was not expecting to see her in the halls outside of the first Exposition. It had been an hour since the day’s presentation had ended, & he assumed he’d easily avoid recognition & detection on his way to the second Exposition by means of this auxilary hallway. It is a big day. He’s planned it for a very long time, perhaps his entire life in some ways. The critical panning of Symon’s finale only rendered his plan all the more delicious. He relished the opportunity to further divide the wheat from the chaffe of his following. How else could he choose his apostles? Only the devoted deserved the treasures he’d promised them. Who else could he trust but the most stalwart & unwavering? Considering how much power they would have in the future, well, should all things go as planned… This girl, does she recognize me? He wonders. He hopes not. He hates taking pictures, fielding questions, all these fakely fawning sycophants. He hates these poseurs who approach him on the street, how they take meeting him to be an “opportunity,” divinely granted, to pitch their hairbrained schemes, or else, to get impressions on their social media. Pigs pigs pigs, he thinks, the preamble from his famous sermon in the season two finale. She better not mess me up.

  “Yes?” he says.

  “I’m sorry, this is really weird, but I’ve been waiting for my date here for, like, an hour & I think he’s inside the bathroom, but I don’t know for sure. Could you check on him? Or like, check if he’s in there?”

  “Sure” he says.

  She doesn’t recognize him.

  “Ohmygod thank you so much” she says.

  “What’s his name?” he asks.

  “Cairey. Cairey Turnbull. I think he’s sick or something, or at least, I don’t know, he’s supposedly in there, but I don’t know if he is. I’d appreciate it either way.”

  “Sure” he says, “Cairey Turnbull.”

  He recognizes the name. Fortuitous, he thinks, but he is accustomed to such fortune. He was born with it. He expects it & is never left wanting. Shock is the prick of the unprepared & surprise is the prod of the unimaginative- season three, episode four- he’d written that- he’d said it, revealing that he was the thief who’d stolen the grimoire from the archives of the oligarch.

  & this Cairey Turnbull, well, he’s already gleaned all he could of him from his archives. Since shooting wrapped on Symon, he’s been watching the Expositions daily on the hunt for intriguing characters. & this Cairey Turnbull, well, he just might make a decent thirteenth disciple. There are so few who enter the exposition whose life-patterns boggle his algorithm. He investigates these, from behind the curtain. Sometimes there’s just a lack of documentation, but other times… There’s something like a lost spark, a smoldering ember, hidden beneath the piles of dross. Of course he’s been waiting for me, he thinks. All is prepared in advance for seizure- as he’d written, season three, episode one. He’d said it to the oligarch when they were introduced to each other. He had been posing as a magician in order to gain entrance to an elite party of psuedo-occultists. That was something that the pesky critics still hadn’t figured out- that there really was a grimoire...

  He opens the door & enters. A faucet drips. An airvent whirrs. He checks the stalls. They’re all empty, but then, the handicap stall… He can see the soles of boots in the gap between the divider & the tile. He knocks on the door. “Cairey Turnbull?” he asks.

  -

  Cairey had thought he’d got it together, finally, but he was wrong. He stood, prepared to leave the stall, wash his face, clean himself up, explain to his date that he would have to be going, & then go, straight to his tenement, where he’d leave a note on the door, & end himself, finally, by strapping into that blue helium tank & passing into whatever emptiness awaited him- or maybe, fuck it, maybe he’d go on one last bender before leaving. Why not?- but then he started vomiting again. He felt something struggling to exit his esophagus. It was large, larger than anything he’d eaten, larger than anything that could be left in his insides so thoroughly drained. He thought he was expelling his heart. What a way to die, he thought, what a joke.

  But what came out of his mouth, clattering off the back of his teeth & splashing into the clear water, framed by the vomit-flecked porcelain of the toilet bowl, was a ruby red coin which floated to its surface. He stared at it, confused, bewildered, & horrified. It was impossible. He’d truly gone mad, he thought. He had to check. So he reached into the bowl, flinching back once he realized that it was real to the touch. It was impossible. He reached in again & retrieved it. He inspected both its sides. They were embossed with the number 10.

&n
bsp; He was insane. This confirmed it. He was hallucinating objects now, objects which he could touch & manipulate. He remembered the coins in his back pocket, from the coatcheck. He retrieved them & compared them with the one he’d just spat into the bowl. They were identical in size, color, & shape. 19 - 21 - 10. What does it mean? he wondered. Surely this was proof that he was insane. Surely this was proof that he was in a truly insane & unreal world. Was this a message from God? From the Devil? From Abigail? From Tinfasel? No, no, he’d simply lost his mind.

  He heard the bathroom door open, a man walked to the urinal, pissed, whistled, flushed, washed his hands, tugged at the paper towel dispenser, dried his hands, tossed the crumpled brown ball into the trash & left. He hadn’t noticed Cairey. How could that be? Was there really nothing out of the ordinary? Did no one else know what was going on?

  & what was going on? He looked at the three coins in his hand: 19, 21, 10. 19 & 21, 40. Ok. 40. & 10. 50. Fifty. Five zero. What does it mean? Ok. 21 minus 10, 11, plus 19, 30. Ok. 30. So what? Or maybe, 19 minus 10? 9 & 21. 30 again. Obviously Cairey. Ten away from 40. Ok. What does that mean? Could it be- maybe 21 minus 19- that’s 2, times 10, that’s 20. 10 away from 30… It’s counting down? Time’s running out? What the fuck is going on?

  The panic set in again. There was no escaping it this time. He’d witnessed the impossible. In his hands was a miracle in the shape of a coin. He had proof now that his world was unreal. At least, he thought he had proof. But how would he know? Was he really just sitting there, in this bathroom stall, thoroughly cracked? Whispering combinations to himself as he stared into his outstretched hands which really held nothing? How would he know? He laughed from anxiety- laughed until he hiccoughed- hiccoughed until another coin shot from his mouth, bounced off the wall & rolled across the tiles of the bathroom floor.He stopped it with his foot & slid it toward himself. Another coin. Another ruby red coin. He lifted it & saw that it was like the others, but embossed with the number 4.

  4. 4. 4. 4... 4 & 10 & 19 & 21. 4 times 10, 19 plus 21, 40 & 40. Not this again. Not this again Cairey. 4 coins. The fourth coin is 4. Why? What does it mean? “What does it mean?” he asked aloud. “What am I supposed to do?” The door opened again, & he froze. He felt immediately that he was supposed to hide. He had to hide from whoever this was. He had to hide the coins, so he hid them, back into his back pocket, & perched on the toilet bowl, crouching so his feet were invisible to whatever monster had intruded on him.

  This intruder washed his hands. He splashed water on his face. He said: “It doesn’t mean anything, ok? It was just a presentation. It was just a stupid fucking gay art bullshit, fuck- It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t freak out. You’re fine. It’s going to be fine. You’ll turn it around. You know that. You ARE turning it around. You promised yourself. You said you wouldn’t think about it anymore. You’re fine. Don’t do this.” He splashed more water on his face, then grunted. “How did it know? No. Don’t. Don’t do this again. Don’t think about it. It was a coincidence. It was just an innocent coincidence. There’s no way it could have-” He grunted again. “But how? How did it know about- about-” He moaned. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense! How the fuck did it know? How did it know? How did it fucking know?” He turned the faucet all the way on. “Calm down. Ca-alm down. Down. Breathe.” He was whispering to himself frantically. He breathed, slowly, long deep breaths, exhaling loud enough to be heard over the faucet’s blast. “No one else knows. No one else knows. It was just a presentation. A bunch of strangers. They only saw- they only saw a picture, that’s all. It was a picture. & what was it? What was it? It was just a picture. Ok. He also said WINTER: OCEAN BURIAL but that could mean tons of things, tons of things, tons. It could mean- y’know. It could-” He smashed the faucet off. He grunted, then screamed. “IT HAS TO END! IT HAS TO END! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” Then he slammed his way out the door, & disappeared.

  The silence that followed was interrupted by sporadic drops from the faucet, marking each second that passed. Drip… Drip… Drip… Cairey was still perched on the toilet bowl, like a gargoyle, clutching the sides of his head. The exposition was driving people insane, he thought. He wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just him. Maybe- maybe that’s all, he thought. Maybe- but the coins. The fucking coins. Forget about the coins, he thought. Don’t even look at them. Don’t even think about them. Let’s just get cleaned up & get out of here. He left the stall & looked at himself in the mirror.

  His dirty blonde hair stuck to his forehead in leaves of sweat while the rest of it burst out electrically- like he’d rubbed a rubber balloon on it. His hazel eyes were bloodshot. His pupils were dilated. The rings of his nostrils were caked with dried blood, vomit, & mucous. His skin was pale & flushed at the nose. Right, he thought, I forgot. He hadn’t shaved well & the asymmetrical patches of a pubic beard by his ears & under his chin stood in stark relief to his pallor. He washed his face & blew his nose. He gargled some water, relieving himself of the bitter aftertaste of his expulsion. He scrubbed the caked sputum from his face & tamed his unruly hair by wetting it & combing it with his fingernails. His shirt, a dirty oversized tee with noticeably yellowed pitstains, had somehow avoided further staining. Its logo reflected at him backwards & strikes him with horror.

  He’d bought it from goodwill, on the same day he’d bought his coat, discovering later, after rigourous procrastinatory internet-searching, that it was merch for a defunct irish electropunk band from the 80s called “Les Affinites.” They had released one EP titled “Eyry Nods the Erne.” It had never been digitized, & Cairey’s curiousity couldn’t justify the purchase of the 45”- he didn’t have a record player anyway, so his curiosity was assuaged by this explanation. The name of the band was written in the sort of psuedo-medieval gothic fonts that adorn Cairey’s favored sword-and-sorcery fantasy comics- which is why he’d purchased it. It was one of his favorite shirts. But now, as he’s staring into the mirror, inspecting it, his left arm blocks the final two letters.

  He jumps back from his reflection, then laughs at his reaction, the terrified face which he sees reflecting to himself seems to belong to someone else. I’ve truly lost it, he thinks, I need to leave. So he sets out to, pausing to dry his face with some paper towels. He wonders if whatever-her-name’s left without him. He has no idea how long he’s been in the bathroom. It feels like hours & eternities. He cracks the door open & sees her. He jolts back. He isn’t ready. He’s afraid. He doesn’t know what to tell her. He paces back to the faucets. He looks back into the mirror. He starts to salivate again. Great, he thinks, as he calmly returns to his kneel before the toilet bowl. It’s become routine. Another one. His shirt reflects in the water of the bowl. He sees it again. That name. He wretches.

  -

  Simon knocks on the door again.

  “Who is it?” Cairey asks.

  “Oh, nobody in particular” he responds churlishly, “Your girl out there, she asked me to check in on you. Have I satisfied her request you think?”

  There is no response.

  “What should I tell her Cairey? I’m in a terrible hurry. Tick tock.”

  “I’m- I’ll be fine. Hold on.”

  The toilet flushes.

  “Well then- I’ll inform her.”

  “Wait” Cairey says as he opens the door. “Could I ask you a favor? Please?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Simon replies, “I’m surprising even myself with all of this charity today. Go on, what is it?”

  “Do you see anything in my hand?”

  Outstretched in his shaking palm a red coin’s nesting. Simon inspects it quizzically, tilting his sunglasses down his nose.

  “Is this a joke Mr. Turnbull?” he asks. Cairey retracts his hand & places the coin in his back pocket.

  “I knew it” Cairey replies “Never mind. I’m going insane again. No one else can see it.”

  “Oh I saw it. A coin for the coat check if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You saw it?” He retrieves the coin again
. Simon takes it from his hand & holds it against the light.

  “Number one. The alpha. Perhaps the most mysterious of all numbers. For most of human history it was not considered a number at all… You are not going mad my friend, I have also been driven to insanity contemplating the mysteries of this monad. Here.” he says, returning the coin to Cairey. He turns to walk away.

  “No- it’s-” Simon turns back around, meeting Cairey’s gaze with his green eyes over the perch of his downturned sunglasses.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s that- this came out of me- what I mean is- it came out of my mouth- out of my throat- I don’t- how can I explain it?”

  Simon laughs, “You swallowed this coin?”

  “No! That’s- that’s exactly what I’m trying to say. I didn’t swallow it. No I- it came out of my guts. I was puking & it wasn’t the first one look. Here.”

  Cairey retrieves all of the coins from his back pocket & presents them on his palm.

  “See- it was these two- it was only 19 & 21. They’re the ones I got for the coats. It’s the others. The other ones, these three, they just came out of me. I know. I know that I must sound insane. I’m sorry. I know how it sounds, it’s just-”

  “Hmmm” murmurs Simon as he inspects the array. “That is quite inexplicable, but so is the world isn’t it? If you consider it compared to nothing at all.”

  “Right? It’s driving me- I’m so relieved. It’s a real coin. It really happened. Thank God, I thought I was going insane again.”

  “Again?” asks Simon, looking up from the coins.

  “Yes. I have a history. Mental deficiencies. Drugs. It’s all fucked up. My brain- my mind. It’s-”