The Mind is a Razorblade

by Max Booth III

  And evidently, destiny’s magic involves a confused naked man in a trench coat rolling off the base of a muddy hill and freefalling through the air, bouncing off the lid of a dumpster and landing with a thud against solid concrete.

  For a moment, I am convinced every bone in my body breaks at once.

  My back arches and twists, and my eyes bulge from their sockets as all the wind within me escapes in a storm I can’t prevent. My mouth unhinges like a tarnished screen door being forced open. My vision spins and spirals and a piercing bell rings inside my mind.

  I can’t feel my legs at first, and I fear I’ve been paralyzed. Maybe I will die here like I should have died at the river. Maybe I’m already dead. Then the pain hits my legs, hits my entire body, and everything is white noise.

  Minutes, hours, days pass with me lying beside the dumpster writhing and gasping. After a few years, I manage to sit up.

  I’ll still live.

  I hope.

  I crack my neck and stand up. There is some comfort found in finally escaping the woods. This new area is considerably more expansive than my previous surroundings, and it helps that the rain is now just a light drizzle. I’m in a small rectangle of pavement, the dumpster resting at the end of the area. A narrow path of cement built over a large flatland of wet grass leads from here to an unknown spot up ahead, meandering around various trees and bushes.

  The correct label for this setting is right on the tip of my tongue, yet I can’t quite place it. I know it. Goddammit, I know it, so what is it?

  It’s a...it’s...oh, fuck it. This is just pathetic.

  Screw it. The name won’t help me with what I need. Just more useless knowledge to interrupt my progress.

  I follow the concrete into the night, dripping from head-to-toe. With the rain all but nonexistent now, the petrichor from the slowly drying grass seeps into my nostrils and soothes my senses. It’s a dusty scent, a feeling of calmness.

  Petrichor? That’s a pretty word...

  How can I know the word “petrichor” and nothing else?

  Every dozen or so paces I come across a small, steel mesh wastebasket along the side of the trail with short lampposts sticking in the ground beside them. All of the cans are overflowing with garbage. Most of the bulbs are long dead. Who comes here?

  Here...

  This inability to come up with a name is more painful than anything I’ve experienced thus far. More painful than my head—whatever’s wrong with my head. More painful than the freefall I did onto a dumpster. Okay, maybe not that painful.

  I stop and refuse to budge another inch until whoever’s in charge of this particular torture session decides to let me have just this one.

  Tell me. What the hell is the word? Think, man, just think. You know this. It’s so simple. As soon as you remember, you’re going to feel like the world’s biggest idiot.

  I close my eyes tightly and strain my brain in concentration. It pains my head to think so hard, but I’m too goddamn stubborn to let it go. Think, just fucking think—

  The glass bulb from one of the lampposts next to me explodes. I crouch down, snapping my head around in every direction, searching for the perpetrator of the bulb explosion. But there’s no one else here, at least not that I can see.

  I am all alone.

  And just like that, a word leaves my lips, almost as if someone else has taken control of my mouth:

  “Park.”

  But I no longer give a shit about knowing the word. All I’m thinking about is the bulb that exploded for evidently no reason at all. The bulb that exploded when my brain was just a strain away from having an aneurysm.

  Shit.

  Up ahead at one of the few lamps still burning light, I find a bench complementing its small illuminated territory. I recline on the wooden boards, allowing their cruel toughness to press against my spine.

  I stare at another bulb and concentrate, thinking blow up, thinking shatter, thinking explode.

  Thinking mind powers.

  Thinking psychokinesis.

  Thinking oh shit.

  But the bulb remains the same. Nothing happens.

  The other light could have blown for any number of reasons. Calm down. I didn’t do it. That’s crazy.

  Next to me, written on the bench in bright neon green spray paint, is the word: CONUNDRAE.

  The word leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.

  Sitting under the lamp’s gloomy projections, I wonder why it is that I can have so much trouble remembering the word “park” when other words like “lamp” and “bench” come naturally. How can I know the word “spine” while simultaneously flaking on “park”?

  Maybe because I hadn’t tried to name the bench and lamp. The words were just there, waiting to be picked up by my whirlwind of oblivion as I passed. But “park”, on the other hand, hadn’t been in the same vicinity during my mental mayhem, forcing me to actually stop and think about it. And that pause, that forced act of concentration, had been my mistake. It’s the same reason I can’t remember my name, or any other shred of identity. I’m thinking about it too hard. Maybe if I just sit back, relax, it will all naturally sharpen back into focus. I mean, it’s not like this condition is going to last forever.

  Right?

  I gulp, fearing the cold silence. My toes curl up against the bottoms of my feet. The night seems to drop at least three degrees every five minutes.

  I slide my hands in my coat pockets in a feeble search for warmth and touch the cold steel of the gun hidden inside. It’s amazing it hadn’t gotten lost during my tumble down the hill, or gone off and shot me in the balls.

  But I had shot someone, though. Hadn’t even hesitated.

  Of course, the cop had been reaching for his own gun. I can’t let myself forget it’d been self-defense. I’m not a killer. I’m just a survivor.

  Repeat it, goddammit.

  I’m not a killer.

  I’m not a killer.

  I’m not a killer.

  I’m...I don’t know what I am.

  It’s pathetic. I was given a name. I wasn’t born a nobody. Someone named me. Someone thought I was important enough to have my very own unique title, just for myself and no one else.

  And somehow I’ve lost that title.

  My parents must be so ashamed. If they’re even alive. I know about parents. I don’t know what mine look like but I know I’ve had a pair at least once in my life. They could very well be as dead as the two men back at the river. But if they’re alive, are they looking for me? Are they worried? Is anyone looking for me?

  Should they be worried?

  Sitting on the bench, fingers caressing the steel of the gun, I think I’d have to say yes, they should be worried.

  I sure as hell am.

  My free hand slides into the opposite pocket of the trench coat and comes up with a tiny cardboard box housing half a dozen wet matches. On the back of the matchbox there’s a cartoon of a large breasted pinup girl. The words THE RISQUÉ CABARET are stamped around her in red font.

  The corpse back at the river must have visited this place recently. Maybe I’ve been there, too. Maybe I can find some answers there, someone who knows me. Some peace of mind.

  Now I just have to find the place.

  I return the matchbook and search the rest of the coat. The only other item I find is hiding in the left inside pocket: a medium sized plastic chip. It’s painted a darkish blue, and the word “indigo” comes to mind. That’s what this shade of blue is called. Indigo. But there’s something else about this word, something much bigger than just the color...

  Of course I have no idea. Just a feeling. A real bad feeling.

  There’s a number painted on both sides of the chip: $2000.

  Money. This thing has to do with money. I know money. Money ensures survival. And survival is what we all want. Yes.

  I put the money chip back in my pocket and stand up. My rest here has expired. By now, the police have undoubtedly discovered the bodies at the
river, and I am not yet ready for them to catch me. There’s other business to take care of before that can happen.

  Such as finding this Risqué Cabaret.

  Wherever this place is, there are answers. There is closure. I am sure of it.

  Well, okay, I’m a little sure.

  chapter three

  The rest of the park is much of the same. The cement trail breaks away and I’m forced to walk through an ocean of mud. I march through the slop and follow the darkness. I don’t know where I’m going, but anywhere besides the river will be a considerable improvement. Soon the mud is replaced by the hard concrete of a walking trail, leading out of the woods again and into some sort of alley.

  I’ve found the city.

  The buildings grow taller the farther away they stand from me. They create an intriguing silhouette over the city’s backdrop. Ancient wooden boards are nailed across doors and windows. Maybe one of every four buildings is still in use. There are no vehicles in sight.

  I’ve been here before.

  I’m not so sure I like this place.

  A sea of wet, hot garbage drowns out the petrichor from the park. It takes a few moments of gagging before I am able to stand up again and focus. There’s not going to be any answers in this alley. The answers are beyond, where the tall buildings sit and wait to attack.

  The sound of people erupts from the end of the alley. The closer I get, the louder they are. The sound of life.

  I hurry out of the alley and step onto a sidewalk, leaving my isolation and emerging into reality.

  I wanted people so much—well, I found them. The streets are swarming with massive crowds moving in either direction. The thought of moving forward terrifies me. Instead I back away, consumed by claustrophobia, until a streetlamp bounces me back toward the street. There’s no escaping this.

  I try to count how many people are here but it’s a lunatic’s game. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Some don’t talk, others yell as loud as their lungs will allow. A gargantuan batch of pedestrians pushes themselves forward, heading left, heading right, heading somewhere, heading nowhere.

  The silent ones possess no expression upon their faces. It’s like they don’t even realize they’re awake. Like they don’t even exist. Robots flipped to autopilot. Some push rusted shopping carts, stopping every once in a while to throw in a random piece of junk they seem to consider valuable. Others walk into streetlamps over and over, refusing to try a different direction. Either they’re too stupid to step aside or they simply don’t care.

  But not all of them are so dead inside. Others run back and forth, screaming, shouting, crying. Some punch the walls until their fists are obliterated and drive their heads through random glass windows.

  “Are you blind?”

  “Soon he will arrive!”

  “We will all pay!”

  “Conundrae is coming!”

  “Can you spare some change?”

  Many of these lunatics carry cardboard signs with phrases like “CONUNDRAE WILL RISE!” and “WE ARE ALL FUCKED!” scribbled across them.

  All of them are clothed in dirty rags. Streaks of dirt smear their faces. Hair crusty and eyes grey, all infected with an universal abyss known to everyone except for me. Where are they going? What are they thinking? What do they know that I don’t?

  Apparently everything.

  The word “conundrae” keeps repeating itself wherever I go. The more I think about it, the more my brain aches. What the fuck does it mean?

  Conundrae.

  An image of teeth grinding against teeth flashes in my head. I hear the sound of blood dripping upon concrete and I taste flesh tearing from bone.

  Conundrae. Conundrae.

  What are you, Conundrae?

  And why does it hurt to think about you so much?

  I stand here for a little while, observing the herd of vagrants pass me as if I’m nothing more than a mere shadow stretched across the pavement. I try to speak to a few of them, but my vocal cords are not yet courageous enough to venture beyond a pathetic whisper.

  Maybe they don’t notice me because I’m actually dead. Maybe I died back at the river, and now I’m just a ghost roaming the lands.

  If it wasn’t for the intense pounding in my skull, maybe I could actually believe that. But dead people don’t feel pain.

  The sudden roar of a monorail snaps my attention back to reality, reminding me the world doesn’t take a time-out every time some asshole loses his memory and experiences an existential crisis. My teeth chatter in unison with the rattling of the monorail against the aerial tracks above us, shaking my skin and blurring my vision.

  In a daze, I step forward and plunge into the masses. Wherever all these people are going, maybe it’s somewhere I also belong. They could all have the right idea. Maybe salvation lies just at the end of the road.

  Only thing is, there’s two ways to go for every road.

  Which do I choose?

  One way could lead to all the answers, and another way could lead to absolutely nothing.

  Both ways could have answers.

  Both ways could end with brick walls, too.

  I briefly entertain the idea of taking the gun out of my pocket and shooting myself in the head, letting all uncertainties and anguish pour out through the Bullet Hole of Relief, but I can’t seem to find the strength to reach in my pocket.

  A nude passerby sporting long feathers clipped in his hair stands out among the crowd. He has red war paint brushed across his face. The massive piercing dangling from his grotesque genitalia makes him seem especially interesting, so without another moment’s thought, I start following him.

  “Hey!” I shout, jogging through the crowd and wincing every time my bare feet connect with a rough patch of gravel. I grab onto his shoulder and pull him toward me, saying, “Hey, guy, wait a minute, I need your help.”

  Amazingly, my voice has found confidence.

  The naked man with feathers in his hair stares at me, pushing my hand off his shoulder and stepping back.

  “Wait,” I say, “don’t go. I just need some help. I’m trying to find a place called The Risqué Cabaret. Do you know it?”

  He shakes his head and drops to his knees. His eyes tear up and he clenches his hands together underneath his chin, praying.

  A single word begins leaving his mouth, over and over, in one continuous chant loud enough to be heard over the rest of the vagrants.

  “Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I scream at him, and my voice only makes him cry louder.

  “Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae, Conundrae.”

  This man is crazier than I am, and a waste of my time.

  I step aside and continue walking deeper into the city. Children stumble beside me, their skin tightly pressed against bone, their ribs nearly poking out of their flesh. I guess I’m not the only one who’s hungry tonight.

  Most of the people here are equipped with a shopping cart, or at least some sort of mobile container. The carts are full of random junk: clothing, piping, wiring, jars, animals, infants too young to walk, and a handful of other miscellaneous objects I can’t comprehend. They wear masks of dirt and possess eyes of lost years.

  I sidestep around small mountains of rubble, frequently bumping into others. Even then their monotonous expressions do not falter.

  I know these people, but I cannot remember them, and it is the saddest thing in the world.

  I want to apologize to these familiar strangers.

  I want to hug them and make them tell me everything is going to be all right.

  But they would only be lying, and I would know the truth.

  A man and a woman hold each other as they stand together on the sidewalk, leaning against a wall. When I get closer, I realize they’re sleeping, only standing up instead of lying down. The man balances the woman and the woman balances the man. Together they keep each other from falling.
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  If I woke them up, would they babble nonsense like the feather-haired man?

  No, I could never wake them up. Let them sleep for a thousand years and never reawake to this nightmare. It is my gift to them.

  Maybe I have someone waiting for me, too. Someone for me to lean against. Somebody who’s worried about me. Parents? If not them, then who? I try to think, but it just gives me a sharper headache.

  Hell, I don’t even know how old I am—never mind if I’m sleeping with somebody. Guessing my birthdate is also a waste of time, but the word “Pisces” suddenly jumps out at me just as I give up trying.

  A brief snippet of an image flashes before my eyes, conjuring up an oil painting of two purple fish bound together by their mouths with a short string of silver. I remember (remember?) the painting hanging above the table at that Greek restaurant, and how I’d tried to imagine what life would be like tied to another’s mouth, caught in some kind of demented kiss lasting all of eternity.

  I realize I had used the wrong adjective back then, at that Greek restaurant. It wasn’t demented. It was poetic. Purely poetic.

  Wait, hold up.

  Greek restaurant?

  What the hell?

  The vision hits me hard, and my legs give out as my body comes crashing down to the pavement. Waves of imagery wash through me and I am lost.

  Lost in a painting...

  (i am sitting in a bright orange booth, elbows resting on the table, fingers tapping the back of the menu in my hands as i pretend to scan the listed contents. the pisces painting hangs on the wall directly to my right. i can’t describe the mood it sets, but it’s perfect. so perfect. a woman sits across from me, another menu in her hands. i see hair. red hair. beautiful red hair. so red it’s goddamn intoxicating. so intriguing i can’t remember how to think. and those eyes, those marvelous green eyes—enthralling to the very core. i lose myself in those eyes for a few eons longer until everything begins to shake and pixelate, the redhead’s face dissolving into a grainy partition of oblivion, and the entire restaurant explodes, turning everything into nothing.)

  My body continues to shake in the city streets. I manage to crawl away before anyone steps on me, sitting up against a wall and taking a breather.