“How did you find me?”
The Nothing stared at the horrible apparition leaning crooked outside his door; ghost-pale and angular, its smile flickered in demonic light emanating from tiny, sinister slits for eyes.
Of course, The Nothing recognized his visitor right away—it was the uglier, more grown-up version of a young troublemaker The Psychologist had once worked so hard to…
But what was with the effortlessness with which those from that past life seemed suddenly able to locate him now that it was forever too late?
“I just got out,” mumbled the visitor. “Had to come find you to set things right.”
The smile worsened.
The Nothing felt his mind being skipped back unwillingly like a mis-grooved needle to its former cyclic routines.
He watched, helpless and repulsed, as years were dusted from destinies self-tagged and stuffed in drawers.
How could “set things right” be taken as anything but a threat?
Yet why did just being seen in the flesh by this old pathetic ghost feel worse than any danger, even death?
Was it that this one too had caught him in his lies, or in the truth . . . or both?
What was The Nothing to do?
What words would be the right ones now?
Why still go through these same useless motions as if any of it could ever even matter?
Stupid.
It was all so stupid.
The only cure The Nothing saw for his stretch of meaningless comfort left was for true nothingness to come and wield at last its pointless end.
What if visits like this had begun a year earlier?
Part of The Nothing was almost gleeful to imagine The Author’s perfect little life being so swiftly trounced by cameos from unexpected criminals lodged somewhere deep in The Psychologist’s skeleton closet.
He sighed, wishing only to will himself not to go on noticing every blatant incongruence.
He wondered why there was no fear, not even for the pain.
“Remember when I promised you acid back when we were teens?” muttered the lost soul at the door.
“No, I…” and the confusion, too, was gone; the Nothing continued, feeling odd combinations of freedoms and indifference like a zombie having broken from its crypt: “I never knew you as a teen, remember? You were my client when I was a psychologist. Danny . . . that’s your name, right?”
“Yep. Old Dan they call me. But prison changes you, buddy.”
Old Dan burst forth in a grating semblance of laughter, which made The Nothing’s skin surge as if fixing to scurry away.
“They tell you what they’ll do to you,” Old Dan went on to say. “And sometimes they tell you you’ll learn to like it. But the way they say it, man . . . you know… I mean, you know they really love you when they tell you. That’s the thing: It’s a different world now. I don’t know if they even…”
The Nothing glared inwardly, wishing not to see where Old Dan was and wasn’t speaking nonsense.
Outliers…
So, so important.
So relevant.
All that special, deep, cosmic wisdom they…
Yeah, yeah.
How meaningful.
How perfectly timed, right?
Just for me…?
That old setup…?
That same old—?
New mixes of thrust-in contempt with thrown-out disgust pooled in motionless rivers as legions of prophecies (and all Ray’s beings) yawned and fell asleep.
Magic was missed for stains on floors and magicians’ slacks as rooms emptied, eyes lowered back to screens, and everyone was shown more of everything both to see all at once and forget.
“Do you have any plans now, Dan?” The Nothing asked, despising the clinical edge he heard coloring his voice [superior] for the first time in however long.
What could this tough guy really do?
Death didn’t seem to matter.
He sighed a different sigh, which became yet another.
“Yep,” said Old Dan. “Had to come here to sort you out first, though.”
Here it comes…
“Here,” Old Dan concluded, reaching behind his back to produce a small plastic bag stuffed with a greenish substance resembling parsley and other herbs, “I’m supposed to give you this.”
Of course it was marijuana; The Nothing had never actually seen any, but what else would it be?
And with that, Old Dan was gone, leaving gaping holes where reasons might pack pads, drawers, desks, rooms, and even whole worlds with stacks on stacks of notes.
The Nothing did not try to think on the bright side.
Yet ignoring the fact that he would have to go on living, spinning in his riches and empty routines, his focus was brought to how wrong he had been about Old Dan’s intentions.
It was fun seeing The Psychologist get kicked in the teeth.
Ah, failure.
I don't know anything 