Michael Seidlinger - The Strangest

Meurks was in the forefront of my mind, forming thoughts and memories I had thought were stolen, things I would never do, things I would never say, but sure enough, they were items that belonged to me. Meurks had been holding on to them for me. Archived, tagged, complete with data on number of likes and comments.

I was momentarily pleased by the amount of activity surrounding Meurks. It was enough to change the way I looked.

“Aww, yeah, that’s the smile I like to see!”

I seldom let it show.

I asked her, “Are you online right now?”

Tilt of the head, “What a silly question.”

“You are?”

“I’m always online.”

I needed to know, “What are they saying?”

“Oh, there’s been a lot going around. Umm …”

Veronica didn’t want to talk about it; maybe she didn’t even know. Didn’t bother to look.

I persisted, “Look up ‘Meurks.’”

Sure enough.

She was quick about it. Clear that Veronica had checked before.

Didn’t want to look at me afterwards.

“Tell me.”

She typed something.

“How many followers do I have?”

Veronica wouldn’t tell me right away.

“It’s like this …”

She told me without looking up from the phone.

It was insulting; she couldn’t stand the sight of me. She only cared to look when she talked about herself.

“Like a day after the party, all of your accounts went inactive.” She read what had been posted to replace my accounts. Federal government intervening.

They had seized all accounts as probable evidence.

Maybe my dad’s sources had done it.

Maybe Veronica did it.

Maybe Meurks was covering his ass.

I felt sick again.

They had all moved on, just like Veronica.

Stomach had been rumbling for sometime. Guess I wasn’t paying attention to me.

Seems everyone else had that under control.

Afterward, I felt better. I usually felt better, but even more ashamed.

Fact that she saw, and what she said next, made it true.

Some of it got on her. A lot of it got on her.

Maybe she deserved it.

“You sick fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Of course she moved on.

It didn’t matter who I was talking to, they were all doing the same thing. They were all thinking the same thing.

Time had a way with jumbling everything.

It seemed I was the only one standing still.

Everyone else made progress.

Everyone else knew who they were.

I saw it all like it already happened, we already spoke, and she had already visited, long ago.

It is only now that I understand that it was the first time.

She is the only person to visit me.

Veronica wouldn’t visit me again.

Back in my cell, night fell before I could fathom what it all meant.

It still didn’t make any sense.

Meurks wasn’t talking.

I feel different. I don’t think I feel different. I think about what would be the normal route, normal reaction.

It hurt to speak but I spoke anyway.

“I am in prison.

“I killed a man.

“The reason was …” but I couldn’t say it. There was nothing to say. Voice wasn’t there.

But I kept talking.

I am talking.

Still talking.

Though I can’t even hear myself speak.

I can hear the thoughts and feel my lips form the words.

I can count to ten and back but none of that matters.

Each line feels like I’m wafting toward something I should have mentioned a long time ago.

I think about Veronica.

She’s doing so well.

She’s an accepted member of society.

I think about Dad.

He has always done well. He built himself up as a businessman.

He is a businessman.

The support network is strong. I think about the crew back at Elite Aesthetics. I think about all the Employee of the Month plaques I never noticed, and the accolades they tried to give me but I refused, mostly because that meant having to give a speech in front of all the investors.

That meant being seen for what they wanted me to be.

I think about Rios.

I hadn’t thought about Rios.

I think about him but the only thing that comes to mind is the way he used to slap me on the shoulder.

Whenever he did that I didn’t wince. In fact, I felt pleased.

I think about today’s visit.

Veronica telling me about everything.

Veronica telling me off. Telling me that I’m sick.

That I’m strange.

That she’s glad I’m in here.

Locked away.

“I should be angry.”

But I’m not.

“I should be humiliated.”

But I’m not.

“I should feel miserable.”

But I don’t.

Veronica said things that maybe she meant. But I believe she was just angry. If someone threw up on me, I would be angry too. I mean I think so.

I think back to beyond the past tense, to those times where I should have been counting on someone rather than counting how many people were in the room and possible considerations.

Then I said, “I don’t fit in here.”

It didn’t give me the grace, the pardon that it used to give. Admitting that I wasn’t used to let me free.

But I’m not.

I’m not free.

I am conscious of that.

I read the titles of the books on my shelf.

In each and every one of them are proposed answers: self-help, religion, politics, and philosophy. But I have no reason to crack open the spines.

I have too much to consider as it is.

The phrase wasn’t letting me free.

It weighs me down.

“I don’t fit in here.”

Everything I was, and may have been, whatever I felt, it settled to the bottom of my stomach. I didn’t feel sick anymore.

I sit here for a long time before lying back in bed. I feel the weight on my forehead. And then I started talking again. This time I won’t stop.

I speak for myself.

Meurks remained quiet.

By morning, I figured something out.

“I am different.”

I don’t feel anything.

Dad called . He didn’t even have it in him to visit.

When did Veronica visit me?

Time had a way with toying with me. Without my phone, time took on its own shape. I can’t be sure when it was, or when I was first brought here.

Things are added or subtracted.

But the number is never the same except for in this cell.

1 and sometimes 0.

All this time spent in my cell, I found out later, when one of the officers told me that they set a date for my trial, I had only been in here for four days.

Four days.

I had little control over what happened next.

And for that reason, I saw most everything as something that already happened; it only took this long to finally hit me.

My incarceration would be my becoming.

Eventually I had to leave my cell. I had to shower where prisoners shower. I had to eat where prisoners eat. I had to work like prisoners worked.

Actually no.

“ You don’t.”

I choose not to — and though recently the officers tried again, I still resisted. They are beginning to understand that no amount of punishment can provoke me into doing what they expect all prisoners to do. I don’t do what the other prisoners do. I don’t have to. I don’t want to.