Michael Seidlinger - The Strangest

You don’t see it in their faces, how they roll their eyes, how awkward you make them feel, how you come off equally as socially deficient as well as egotistical.

He’s right.

I agree.

You are loved. You were loved. You had a mom. You had a dad. They never showed their appreciation but they were proud. They cared.

You quickly assumed the lack of consistent affection for a complete lack of love. You think, They didn’t want me.

You think that they are ashamed.

You think nonsensical things until you are no longer thinking about your past. You are living plain and in the present. Nervous and self-aware.

But no, you are not self-aware.

You meet people.

You meet people all the time.

You have met someone. She kept coming back. She returned to you even after you took a man’s life.

She was there on principle.

She did not want to be there. She couldn’t stand to be there.

So she did what she could do, which is far more than you would have done. She talked about herself. She thought about recent events, ones you hadn’t been around. She thought about whatever would keep her calm.

She did not want to cry in front of you.

It was all because of those words.

Three words. You would have fixated on the screen.

You would have cradled the phone in your hands.

You wouldn’t have budged from scrolling, and whatever had been said was borderline impossible to possess.

You are too possessed with yourself. Anxious, you are anxious.

She was there to support you.

I agree.

You “agree.”

I agree.

You are not a member of society. You are not a functional member of society. Say it! Say it: You are not a functional member of society!

I am not a functional member of society.

A prison is no place for someone that has found their place in society. This is no condition for someone that believes in humanity, believes in what it means to work, and play, and live. You see them make plans, go out for dinner, camping, a football game, a simple but somehow meaningful stroll in the park, friends together, friends in need. You watch people be people in a city that is a part of a society made up of other social circles.

You watch their ups and downs.

You buy, and take, and use, but you do not remember the moments when what was taken happened to be given to you. They are called gifts.

There is so much more than what is recorded.

There is so much more to explain, and feel, than these whispers.

You watch it all but where are you in all this?

They’ve deleted me.

There is no record.

So it all comes blurring back to you.

I agree.

I am different. I agree. My words, these words, every single one, mean nothing. Because what are they worth to me once they have left my tongue?

But I take it from here. He is talking, still a voice in my ear. I can’t stop it, but it’s my turn. I take my time. Nothing is changing. Log the arrangement of this cell. Nothing is changing. Bed from toilet from desk, books about society for society, principles, religion, and ethics, unread … until now.

I take each book and open them.

Read the first lines, and then the second ones.

By the start of the second paragraph, Meurks is silent.

By the fourth, Meurks starts up again. I move to the next book.

For a time the prose blurs all thoughts.

Nothing registers. I see the words but they read as well as they leave, barely more than a sentence, a paragraph, something to quiet my thoughts.

Eventually it clicks, and I start to hear it. The command: Agree.

This is what I am led to believe; I need to give in, I need to agree. Here where everything, all basic rights, are forfeit, I am Zachary Weinham.

I am Zachary Weinham, but that’s just a name, a name I bet they all use quite a bit now, always with exclamation points and underlines.

I can’t get past it. The simplest question, the one Meurks makes me admit, again and again, until I get it right. Admit it, admit it …

I am different.

More.

I am beyond different.

More.

I am a failure.

More!

I am …

A criminal. I have stolen life and I have stolen material possessions. I have stolen peoples’ feelings. I’ve broken hearts. I may have broken mine; I can’t be sure about that. I ruined more than I gave. I ignored more than I ever cared to notice. I don’t know anything about the man I killed, and I have no interested in learning any more.

Anomic.One of the books had the word and I have it here to repeat it. Distant though I am, I am aware of picking and choosing my words. I know what sounds right versus what is incorrect. If I am anomic, it’s because I am different. It’s because I decide as it happens, rather than decide beforehand, the situation:

I decide by number — how many people.

I decide by considerations — what could go right, what could go wrong, what is expected of me, of anyone.

I make those kinds of decisions. I have difficulty if I don’t.

But this is all just stuff to ruminate about.

It’s easy to admit my inefficiencies. It’s more difficult figuring out how I am supposed to feel about this.

About everything.

Loner.Which is probably a variation of the word, “alone.” I am alone. I was often alone. I am often alone. Here, and back where I was, when I was free to leave as I please, I was alone.

When I was with people, I was alone.

When I was with her, I was alone.

When I was Zachary the employee, I was alone.

Zachary is alone.

I have a number printed to my chest.

That is who they expect me to become. Number #56901.

Loner. When I remember, I feel more like what this is supposed to feel like. I feel something like what a loner must feel. I have more thoughts than there are actions in the day; I have more lapses in feeling, I have more lapses in cognizance than most people have free time to let flared thoughts happen.

I turn everything into a routine.

Everything becomes routine. Number of steps, number of blinks, number of breaths. It used to be number of people, now it’s merely number of possible deaths. If I leave this cell, death will be right there.

Everything becomes routine. Number of words, number of sentences, number of paragraphs, number of pages: The pages of these books I turned to routinely reading to help silence these thoughts.

Silence him.

If I don’t speak, he speaks.

If he speaks, I can’t speak.

The routine makes this somehow different when I understand. I understand. There’s no difference.

We are speaking.

I am stuck in a cell with nothing more to occupy me other than my thoughts and the distant idea that someone is reading them.

Someone is listening.

And I slowly degrade the fears that populate the edge of this cell, my boundaries. Fears keep me here. But I can stomach sticking my arm out, through the bars. I can do this, see? There is nothing, no feeling.

Not even a wince.

I let both arms hang out in the open.

Prisoners walk by and they look right at me.

They look into my eyes and I look back.

I imagine they are labeling me as different. They are free to do so.

I know. I know this. Believe me I know.

An infinite number of times, I know.

I know.