Michael Seidlinger - The Strangest

“You’re afraid.”

Meurks has a way about not letting things go.

He’s right.

I am afraid.

I am different.

“You say you’re different but it’s really just something to say.”

There is a possibility that I am not sincere.

He’s right.

I am different.

“You say you’re different like you’re not the only one.”

Everyone in prison is different from everyone not in prison.

He’s right.

I am different.

Other people are different.

I don’t care.

“You don’t want to admit it.”

He’s right.

I am different.

“You don’t want to admit that you’re talking to yourself. You can’t get me to stop talking. I won’t stop talking until you start speaking for yourself.”

I talk in the guise of what I’m not. I talk in the guise of a person wronged, a person blamed for something he didn’t do. Well I did — I have agreed to it. But I did not want to do it. It just happened.

And the happening part is the most bothersome.

Nothing is there, to be drawn from; I see only spots, scarred sight like the kind of vision you see when you look around in the dark after not having been in the dark for so long.

He’s right.

I am different.

“You are denying the fact that you think you’re different to spite the fact that they do not care to listen.”

I get like this, sometimes, because I have only the four walls. Three if you don’t count the bars. I have these walls and the few items they gave me.

But I already said that.

I think I have said that.

I have a bed that’s not really a bed, a desk that’s not really a desk, a chair that is not really a chair, and a toilet that’s not really a toilet.

What else must I admit?

Huh?

“You’re afraid.”

I admit that.

“Admit it.”

I … admitted it.

Admit that this bed is really just boards and a thin mat, used pillow, and a bedsheet that smells like somebody else’s body odor?

Admit that the desk and chair creaks with every sitting?

Admit that the toilet won’t stop leaking so I use notepads to soak up the odorous water?

Admit that the cell itself is in position to be the one cell that every prisoner is forced to walk by to and from work detail, cafeteria, and visitations?

Admit that I cannot rest for any longer than two hours before waking up to threats, verbal threats from other prisoners?

Admit that they won’t stop looking, even when they are looking somewhere else?

Admit that I can’t stop hearing you, winding and winded thoughts creating this pain?

This isn’t living. This isn’t even waiting. Not anymore. I feel a lot of the pressure that I had felt before loosen, the sickness no longer really a problem. Stomach settled, the pressure becomes more of a persistent headache dead center on my forehead.

Admit that I feel like someone is always reading my thoughts, even when I am not thinking about anything … always reading … always reading, someone knows, someone has said this before, someone reading and judging and comparing and contrasting and marking up and marking down every little flicker that happens. Every single thing.

Is this a question?

What am I admitting?

And I have to say it again, why do I not feel anything?

I am different.

He’s right.

But admit it?

Admit what?

Someone is reading my thoughts?

Someone is.

Someone.

But it isn’t enough to just listen to Meurks: He must be heard. If I don’t shout these thoughts, they keep going. I keep hearing something. I keep hearing what I don’t want to hear, and often stuff that does not interest me.

They pick at the facts of my arrest.

Murder, that I am most definitely guilty. And that it seems that I am different. The latter of the facts is understandable, but Meurks is not amused. I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking about the admission, “I am different.”

I keep thinking about it and why nothing else happens.

Nothing else has happened since admitting this. Meurks churns different flashes of memory, situations where I was in attendance but did not say hello, did not talk when spoken to, did not react the way I was supposed to. I buckled, winced, my nerves tensing, breath quickening.

I felt about as much as I said.

A single line at best.

Meurks shouts, which means I shout, until raw and then reverts to whispers. The whispers are the worst.

Throughout every single one of these proclamations, I am unsure of how to feel because I don’t feel anything.

It doesn’t sound like me.

I don’t know what I sound like. I hear a voice that seems to be what I want to say, but I don’t know; I don’t know if there has been a time when I said what I wanted to say. What is with wanting to say something? People say things to get a reaction. People say things to get something. People say things to be right there, in the heat of the action. People don’t say anything for much else. I hear my thoughts in Meurks’s words. His voice is shared.

He’s right, every single time.

I don’t know what else he wants from me.

This is my cell and I am guilty of murder. What else?

What you are not is, quite frankly, the entirety of your online accounts. They prove a number of things selected to be misunderstood, or not even experienced. Barred from memory.

It was simpler to agree. It is simpler to agree. Agree?

I agree.

You are unknown.

And I hear him. I hear him, yes.

They do not know you. They see you down the street, walking.

They are people talking to other people. You are barely talking to yourself.

They walk the streets to get somewhere; you walk the streets looking for anonymity. And yet, you walk the streets looking for a destination too. You do not want to ask for the address, but you want to be invited.

You do not want to look for a ride; you would rather walk the entire commute so that you might not have to stand too close to another human being. If this is what it feels like to be alive, what does it feel like to be dead?

Yes. I agree.

I agree.

You are not secure.

At every street corner, in front or somewhere near the back of a bodega, there are machines, machines for dispensing currency. The currency is earned, and in order to live in this city, to socialize and be a part of the community, you must earn a certain amount.

You sit next to someone in a suit riding the subway; you didn’t notice him but deep down you were aware of the suit, the demeanor, the fact that the man was off to fulfill the duties of a salaried position.

He works at a company that pays him in salary, bonuses, and makes sure to let it be known, commonly, that he is valued.

You are valued, but you are not rich.

I agree.

You are poor. You claim to have no need for riches but you will sometimes count someone that looks like they are financially secure as two. You will give them a +1 for the sake of being so confident and accepted.

You are asked every time you meet someone new, which in your case is not often enough, about what you do.

You never answer. You looked down at the screen. You became me and searched for lines to be commented on and liked, posts to be poked through for fun (and short-lived fame).

You never answer and you don’t remember.