The Berserkers

by Roger Elwood

  On Monday, he decided to wear a short-sleeved shirt around the house. He didn’t want to cover up his flowers; he enjoyed looking at them. He enjoyed touching them and stroking his cheek with the back of his hand and arm. He was fascinated by their scent. They were almost up to his elbows by now.

  On the older flowers, the stems had turned pink and the cups were also beginning to take on a hint of color. The shading was delicate, from rose at the center of each blossom fading almost to white at the edge. The rim of each cup retained its hint of bloodlessness. Each little flower seemed outlined by a pale halo.

  He spent long hours just studying them, touching-them and caressing them, rubbing them against his cheek, rubbing them against his nose and mouth. He found himself sucking meditatively on the blossoms, almost—but not quite—nipping them off with his teeth. He would bury his nostrils in them and luxuriate in their fleshy smell.

  When he discovered the rough patches on his shoulders, as well as at the base of his spine, he was delighted. That meant the flowers were not to be limited to just his hands and arms. In the next few days, the patches grew into spines and burst into clumps of pink dichondra. The cups were larger here, more developed. They seemed more rugged than the blossoms that covered his arms now. The flowers spread quickly across his shoulders and down his back. The first patches of roughness appeared on his legs.

  The smell was stronger now. He seemed to move in a cloud of it, but he wasn’t always conscious of the odor. His nose had grown used to it, and it was only when he moved suddenly that he was aware of his smell.

  The scent had the sweetness of decay, but without the cloying pungency of rot. It was a flowery-sour smell —like roses, too many and too ripe. He liked it though. It was part of him.

  Sleeping was developing into a problem though. He didn’t like seeing the flowers crushed each morning. They weren’t hurt by the pressure of his body weight on diem for a night, but it usually took an hour or so for them to resume their resiliency. In addition, the stems were beginning to develop a sensitivity of their own. If pressed the wrong way for too long, they ached like hair that has been brushed against its natural direction and held that way.

  He took to sleeping on his stomach with only a single sheet instead of a blanket. He wasn’t masturbating any more either. He was too intrigued with the taste and texture of his flowers. Usually, he would fall asleep with his nose and mouth pressed against the back of his right forearm where the flowers were thickest.

  The flowers spread to his feet, covering all but the soles and the toenails. They clustered across the top of the arch and two or three even grew out of each toe. He stopped wearing shoes and socks. And when the flowers covered his legs he stopped wearing pants.

  They appeared on his neck and soon after even on the back of his head where they looked like tiny ears. They began to replace his hair. A rough patch appeared on his belly and grew downward. These blossoms were slightly darker, slightly redder than the rest, especially where his pubic hair had been. His penis was surrounded by a forest of curlicue stems and crimson cusps. By then, most of his chest was covered too.

  Oddly, the flowers did not appear on his face. They curled down his ears, like scarlet sideburns, and they crept around his neck like a flaming beard. They capped his brow like a thicket of red ringlets, and they even replaced his eyebrows with minuscule bloomings, but they did not appear on his cheeks and forehead.

  By the time his body was completely covered by the blossoms he was no longer wearing any clothes at all, and he no longer had any trouble sleeping either; the flowers had grown stronger and much more resistant to his weight. Apparently, the sensitivity was only a temporary phase…

  He found that direct sunlight was too strong for him though, and he spent more and more time indoors. He began sleeping later each day and staying awake longer into the night, until after a while he had reversed his previous habits.

  The colors of the flowers deepened now, grew richer. Across his back, they shaded from deep brown to pale yellow, with here and there a hint of red or purple. On his chest and stomach the colors were lighter, but there were patterns of shades, darker where there had been hair, lighter where there had been none. His arms and legs repeated this coloring, the insides of the limbs being paler, the outsides being darker.

  The smell of the flowers was rank now, almost overpowering. He didn’t notice—and even if he had, he wouldn’t have minded. He liked them. He liked their feel and their fragrance. He liked to lose himself in their curls.

  He stood out in the yard each night and bared himself to the sky. He opened his flowers and his pores, and let them suck in the blackness, let them ripple the coolness all through his body.

  There was no moon, and even the stars were diminished. There was only darkness, cold enveloping darkness. He stretched his arms out to it.

  His state was trancelike, disembodied. He floated in the night and waited for the harvesters to come.

  Form in Remission

  Robin Schaeffer

  Suppose your constant companion is a loathsome

  monster? But suppose that this monster is as repelled

  by you as you are by it? Who really is the unfortunate

  one?

  Gentlemen:

  Well, you can imagine my shock and horror to wake in my own humble bed in this strident but serviceable collection of furnished rooms I call my home to find that lying beside me was some kind of loathsome insect the size of a man with strange greenish scales and deep peering eyes all over its body, eyes covered no less by little black eyelids which winked and fluttered at me; you can imagine my increasing fright at this thing, which I find almost impossible to describe because I cannot still completely forget that first emotional reaction, addressed me in a perfectly normal if somewhat bleating and effeminate tone of voice. “Well, Frederick,” it said to me, “this is what your life has become, this is what you have made of your life and I am very much afraid that you are going to have to accept me.”

  The reasonableness of the creature! well there is no way that I can set down these bizarre reminiscences so that you will believe me; let us face the truth, gentlemen, I am ready to face the truth: this letter which you will receive tomorrow evening at the Bureau in my best estimate can only strike you as insane and as the ravings of a madman no matter what tone I adopt but when you understand that all of this is in the context of my irrevocable resignation from the Bureau and all of its devices, you will, I know, at least read on. Compelling and horrid fascination will drive you through these brief pages; if nothing else I was an excellent if overly compulsive clerk and can ill be spared. You will want to know the reasons and to the best of my ability this letter will contain the reasons whether you like them or not. You may mail me my final check including accrued vacation benefits, overtime and sick leave to the address given below, that address being my mother’s; in due course I hope she will arrange to get it to me but you cannot send it to my own address because the insect will not leave me, not for a moment, and I could hardly appear in the lobby before the dismal lineup of mailboxes in such a condition without inciting disastrous events. So far I have been making my way passably through the order and delivery of food and drink over the telephone, shielding the insect with my body as I open the chained door just enough to take in the boxes and pay in cash but I do not know if this will continue indefinitely and some of the delivery boys look at me strangely indeed. Fortunately this neighborhood in which I live will tolerate almost any kind of individual insanity as long as it is self-confined and also I have long had a reputation here as being a little “strange,” so it is possible that I will be able to carry the situation for a while. Perhaps not. It is out of my hands. The insect will make that decision.

  I am talking however of that morning four days ago when I woke up with it lying matter-of-factly beside me; the evolving circumstances here need not concern you. “Frederick,” it continued, “you have lived an ugly, cruel, useless and purposeless life and hav
e therefore brought me upon yourself. There is no one else to blame. In fact, Frederick, I am your life,” the insect said and reached out tendrils to massage and stroke me.

  Oh the horror of it! that clear, ringing, cold touch in the gray spaces of my bed, little patches and snatches of sunlight spotting the floor but leaving us in essential gloom. I again say that I cannot describe this nor is there any reason why I should; certain sensations, gentlemen, cannot be communicated. I tried to rear from the bed but felt myself still locked within that clasp, the creature regarding me from its various abscesses with deadly calm. “You can, of course, never get rid of me,” it said, “I am going to be with you until the end of your life. Nevertheless, we can do this pleasantly or unpleasantly. I suggest that you accept the situation; you have no alternative.”

  At last I was able to tear free from the bed and took up a posture against the wall, clinging to it as if for support. The creature lay in bed, its protuberant surfaces moving unevenly, regarding me without expression I could understand. For the first time then I noted the odor coming from the thing; an odor of mingled exhalation and sweat, foul, moist, corrupt, moving upward in circles from the bed and overtaking the room. My disgust turned to urgency and I felt myself seized and heaving, made my way to the bathroom then where, for a very long time, I poised solitary over the bowl. Finally, able to stand, seeing that I was alone, I made my way over to the basin, gazed in the mirror at the ordinary, humorless, poignant face of Frederick Walker, assistant chief claims clerk, division of the Bureau, and seeing the serenity and limpidity of those eyes was able to convince myself that it must have been a dream, a fit, a wish of some sort: the creature did not exist, I had imagined all of this and that upon returning to the outer room to find it empty and sterile I would make arrangements at once to put myself in the hands of a competent doctor for aid.

  For too long, I was able to admit to myself, I had refused to admit certain facts of my life: the neurasthenia, the loneliness, the failure of human contact, that dim hatred of my mother which had made me fear contact with all women…and found this admission therapeutic; I would obtain medical treatment, I would lay bare the facts of my life, it was not too late at forty-three or beyond to make a fresh start. So thinking I came back to the bedroom where the creature had shifted its position to a chair where it sat, awful litde legs curled in upon one another, waving in the breezes of the air, looking at me. The odor was, if possible, stronger and more penetrating. If 1 did not take some measures at once it would fill the whole building to the sixteenth story and where would I be then when at last an investigation was made? I found a spray cleaner and worked it through the air, hoping all the time that the creature might prove to be fatally allergic. It made no move from the chair, however, continuing to regard me in its sad and solemn way, the cleaner at least working the corruption out of the air so that my apartment smelled no more ominously than a public urinal. At last there were no more tasks to do; I had to face it, I did face it, from the distance across the room. My horror had to some degree abated; there is nothing, gentlemen, nothing the unconquerable human spirit cannot confront if it is accustomed. “Please,” I said to the thing, “please tell me why you cannot leave. You must leave; I cannot bear this.”

  “I am sorry, Frederick,” the insect said, “but I Cannot. For the rest of your life I will have to stay beside you; there is the possibility of another assignment or return after your death, but that cannot be considered at this time. You will have to accept me. You will have to accept this. For neither of us is there any escape.”

  “But why,” I said, feeling myself beginning to gather for retching again but forcing it down with an effort of will (and now four days later gentlemen I do not retch at all and have accepted the situation but you must accept my resignation without protest and forward my check to my mother’s address immediately because any frustration could set me off again) “why are you here? What has happened? Why are you with me? This is hell.”

  “No, Frederick, no,” the thing said sadly and moved in the chair; the odor wafted to me again and for the first time 1 understood then that the creature’s revulsion was as great as my own, that it was filled with horror, that it was maintaining its own control only through access to energies I could not grasp. “No, Frederick,” it said, “you’re not in hell.”

  ‘I’m in hell.”

  Echo

  James Sallis

  A gentle story of madness—and a man with a very

  special condition.

  The door Swings shut and locks. Light comes from a caged bulb overhead; it is dim. The walls are gray.

  “Hello, Lauris.”

  After a long pause; “Say hello, Lauris.”

  The young man’s eyes flicker to the doctor, back to you. Fear is running down the inside of them like rain on a window. He wraps his arms around himself and pushes back against the wall. He is very thin. His eyes slide to the comers of the room and back. There is danger everywhere.

  The doctor steps forward, closer to him.

  “Lauris. What is today’s date?”

  “The…fourteenth.”

  “Of?”

  “May.”

  “Do you know where you are? Where are you?”

  “In…the hospital. A hospital.”

  “What kind of hospital, Lauris?”

  “…A mental hospital.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who I am?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doctor pauses and glances at you. He walks across the tile floor and puts his hand on the young man’s shoulder. The young man looks down at it as though this is the first time he has ever seen a hand; he is trying to imagine its use.

  “Lauris, can you tell me what this means? ‘People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’”

  He looks up into the doctor’s face. “Yes, sir: ‘let he who is…without sin…cast the first stone.’”

  “Very good.” The doctor pats the young man’s shoulder and moves back across the room. “I think he’ll talk to you now. Will you talk to Mr. Vandiver, Lauris?”

  “Yes, sir…I’ll try.”

  “Call me Bill, Lauris,” you say.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Outside, the sun is just now pushing up above the trees. It would be best in the morning, the doctor had said when you called for the interview; they’re all more responsive, more in control, in the morning. A group of patients crosses a patch of grass outside the window, an attendant at each end of the line. The one in front has a volleyball under his arm. All of them have their heads down.

  “Do you know why I’m here, Lauris?”

  Several moments pass, and the patients are out of sight now.

  “I want to write an article about you. About people like you. So that other people can understand.”

  He is still silent; you look to the doctor for assistance. He smiles.

  “Sometimes Lauris doesn’t want to talk. Lauris, you have to talk to Mr. Vandiver.”

  . . Have to?”

  “We want you to. It’s important to us—to you, too.”

  “I…the room…”

  “You have to ignore those feelings, Lauris; I’ve told you that. You have to learn to live with them, function despite them. Would you feel better if Tom were here?” Turning to face you “Tom is one of the attendants, the person Lauris is most responsive to.”

  “Doctor, I—” He shakes his head violently. “I’ll try, I really…will.” He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand; there are jagged scars across the wrist. (“He came to us after his third attempt at suicide. I think you’ll find him satisfactory for the interview: he’s more in touch than the others. But then, he’s still quite young.”) He stares at his hand and says, “My hand doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Don’t talk crazy, Lauris.”

  “But you’re both watching it.”

  “No, Lauris.”

  He puts his hand in his lap
and covers it with the other. He stares at the floor. “I know, Doctor Ball,” he says. “I know you’re not. I…I can’t help it.”

  “Lauris?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve asked the doctor to let me talk to you so that I can tell people your story. So that they can understand what it’s like.”

  He looks up at you. His eyes are empty now, dull like old pennies.

  “You don’t believe that, do you? You don’t believe anyone can know what it’s like. And maybe you’re right. But we can try to know, we can try to understand. If you will help us.”

  He turns to look out the window and in that instant, goes away from you. (“He’ll be ‘clear’ when you see him, though he will seem distracted and inattentive. Try to remember that he’s not always like that; those are his good times. Others, he is totally out of control, not even conscious of what he does. And he knows what’s happening to him. He can feel himself inching over the edge, losing control and consciousness. He’s terrified—all the time. Whatever he does, he’s working through that terror; it’s like a fog all around him.”) The doctor, finally: “Lauris?”

  “Yes, sir;?” He still has not turned his head. He seems to be watching something beyond the window, but nothing is there.

  “Mr. Vandiver wants you to tell him how it feels.”

  “It feels…like I’m dying. All the time…like I’m dying.” He looks up at the doctor as though he should know this. He tilts his head, listening. “They say I’m not supposed to talk to him”’

  “Why?”

  “Because…because he doesn’t understand. They say he’ll hurt me.”

  “You say, Lauris. You know I won’t let him hurt you; I won’t let anyone hurt you. But you must talk to him.”