What Hides Within (8 page)

Clive ran the faucet in his tub. He blocked the drain and filled the tub with lukewarm water. Thoughts of arachnid armies marching in and out of his orifices led to considerable unrest.
They say you swallow a spider in your sleep something like eight times a year or some bullshit
, he tried to rationalize.

It didn't help. Clive couldn't shake the feeling of infestation. He disrobed and submerged his entire body underwater, except for his nose. He felt both his ears pop from the change of pressure, a good sign perhaps. If anything were inside him, he hoped to drown it out. He closed his eyes and prayed for Friday to come quickly.

***

Physics, chemistry, engineering, he didn't have a rudimentary knowledge of any of them. He wasn't learned in architecture, construction or demolition. He didn't need to be. A red-flagged copy of the
Anarchist Cookbook
, borrowed from the Westport Public Library, and some basic Internet research would be sufficient to turn his turpentine into Columbine.

Over the last few nights, he manufactured his products. He obtained parts through both legal and illegal means, visiting hardware stores and digging through landfills. Obtaining the rarer ingredients was more challenging, requiring more devious methods. When all the necessities had been acquired, he assembled and reassembled his amateur artwork until all was ready. And when they were ready, he added gunpowder and jagged metal for some added gratification.

Then he began his testing. Rodents were his first victims, but he graduated to much larger wild, and sometimes domesticated, animals. He never bothered to clean up the mess afterwards, which grew in size with the growth of his skills. He didn't fear detection. There would be no extensive investigation into the murder of lesser, soulless beings. It's not like he lived in Texas, where he imagined they still hanged horse thieves and hog rapists. Or were they hog thieves and horse rapists? He couldn't be sure. Besides, he'd been careful. And his art, though noisy, left little evidence intact.

Somebody should shoot Jeff Foxworthy
, he thought, blaming the comedian for his opinions on redneck Texan pig sex.
Maybe I should make one of these for him
. He grimaced as he forced the end of a torn wire into a flimsy metal box. Black powder dusted his forearms.

Despite his elaborate preparation, he managed to keep everything secret. His family and friends, what few remained, knew nothing of his educational failures, his affinity for explosives or his desire for infamy. He knew his motives would later be questioned, over-analyzed and ultimately misinterpreted. Yet, he cared not for the means, but only for the ends they would justify. Anyway, they could only pick him apart if he got caught. That was never part of the plan.

Start small
, he told himself.
Simple targets that won't cause too much fuss. I still need to perfect my trade.
A Cheshire smile overtook his face, as thoughts of destruction danced across his mind.

Seriousness returned. There was work to be done. He flicked a switch, testing his shabby connections. Dark red numbers began to count sequentially backward. A timer, but for what? He couldn't decide. It was time to make his presence known, to begin his path toward notoriety. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, his future was susceptible to greatness. And he felt ready to seize it.

Friday morning came, and Clive's nerves were shot. He awoke at 4:10 a.m., having slept on-and-off no more than three hours. The humming in his head had been equally on-and-off the last few evenings, although his daylight hours were relatively unmarred. He drank to make the noise and all his worries disappear. Although his intoxication did lessen his stress, it did nothing to alleviate that annoyingly melodic resonance.

Clive's appointment with Dr. Allen was still five hours away. He reeked of vodka and jock sweat, desperately in need of some cleansing before his trip to the ear, nose and throat guy. The heat made the air stale and humid, every breath a challenge. He jumped into the shower and held his head under the cool, spurting water. The droplets massaged his scalp, gently soothing his still-inebriated mind almost to the point of sleep. Eventually, he pulled himself away, wiped himself dry and yanked up a pair of
Underdog
boxers, his lucky pair.

Should I try again?

The idea sent a chill up the back of Clive's neck. He had managed to rationalize his circumstances, persuading himself that there couldn't be anything living inside his head or he would have felt it walking around. Still, he wasn't entirely convinced. The thought of digging around in his ear with a Q-Tip had lost its appeal after what had happened the last time.

Cleanliness is next to godliness
, he reconsidered. Soon, a stranger would be poking and prodding inside his ears. Clive wanted them to pass ordinary inspection. His vanity outweighed his logic, and he reached for a cotton swab. Knowing that perhaps his choice hadn't been the brightest, he carefully scraped the outermost portion of his ear canal.

He winced in anticipation, yet he felt no pain. But the humming in his head grew louder still.
Come on
, he thought.
Give me a freaking break. I barely even put it in there.

The sound continued to increase in volume. Segments began to sound unique, distinguishable, almost recognizable.
Are they syllables?

Clive concentrated on the clatter, straining to make out each intonation. Instead of dispelling the noise like he'd previously desired, Clive's focus enabled him to increase its clarity. With just a bit more concentration--

Mmmm Mm-mmm mou moron.

Clive turned around, startled. It sounded as though someone were trying to speak with a hand over her mouth.
It's not behind me. Around me? No. Inside me?

The mumbling continued. Was it forming a pattern? A speech pattern? Clive began to make out words.

"What?" he asked the mumbler, clueless as to what would or could answer him.

I said, will you quit doing that already, you deaf son of a bitch?
a barely audible voice began, first as a whisper but amplifying quickly.
It's not going to work.

"What's not going to work?" Clive asked, confused but surprisingly not yet hyperventilating. He stared at his reflection as though the man in the mirror were not him but some evil doppelganger. He awaited its move.

Ah, the mongoloid can hear, after all.
The Q-Tip, jackass. Haven't we been through this nonsense?

Clive removed the cotton swab from his ear. He eyed it suspiciously, rotating it between his fingertips for inspection. He conjured images of a hidden microphone buried in it, perhaps a miniature person, an alien, something, anything. Clive's thoughts ranged from the wildly insane to the downright perverse. He didn't know what to expect, so his mind tried to prepare him for the unexpected.

Instead, he found the ordinary. He examined the swab thoroughly, finding no cause for concern.

What are you doing?
The voice sounded insulted.
Do you take me for a Q-Tip?

"Who are you?" Clive's uneasiness escalated. "
What
are you?" he hesitantly asked, his voice hushed as if the question itself were evil, not meant to be spoken.

He scrutinized every groove in the ceiling and stood on his toes for a glimpse into the ceiling fan. He peered up the faucets in both the sink and the tub and peeked down the drains. He tore the hamper from the wall, not knowing what he'd find. Still, he found nothing out of the ordinary.

"What do you want from me?" he shouted at the light bulb.

I'm not up there, either.

"Then . . . where are you?"

Clive already knew the answer. He just didn't want to accept it. Maybe his roommate was playing some sort of prank. His roommate, who never even wanted to make eye contact with Clive, had now decided to show him some attention? Clive held on to a modicum of hope, adverse to the alternative explanation.

I'm in you, Clive. In a way, I guess you could say I am you, in a matter of speaking. I know everything about you, everything that you know. Even everything you once knew and have since forgotten.

Clive swallowed hard, choking on his own desolation. He hesitated to ask, but there was one question to which he needed an immediate answer, one question that consumed his every thought and exasperated his fright. It was the same question he had just asked and had answered, but he needed to hear the answer one more time in plain language before he'd believe it.

"Where are you?"

Now, Clive, we both know that you already know the answer to that question. But if you insist on fighting the truth, I'm okay with that.

"Am I insane?" he asked his reflection.

Isn't that a relative question?
Clive heard the voice respond, but the lips he saw reflected in his mirror weren't moving.

How should I know? I'm no psychiatrist. However, if you're merely referring to the fact that you think you're having a full-fledged conversation with yourself, then no, that doesn't make you insane. Besides, some of the greatest geniuses in world history talked to themselves. Of course, so did Hitler, but let's not be so judgmental.

"What are you?" Clive persisted. He needed answers, but the circumstances seemed unfathomable.

What's with all the questions? I've been screaming at you all week, and now, you finally choose to acknowledge me? Well, forgive me if I'm somewhat less than receptive.

"The noise I've been hearing, that was you? What do you want with me?"

Oh, Clive. You're beginning to sound like a broken record. You need to relax. You're much too young for a heart attack. Consider me a blessing, the outer--well, I guess this would still be inner--expression of your subconscious mind. Call me your conscience, your intuition or whatever else makes you feel better.

"Are you alive? Are you something living inside me?"

The idea of some ugly parasite making a living room out of Clive's skull crippled him. He pressed his forehead against the mirror, his eyes losing focus until his reflection cyclopsed. His rational thoughts told him he was being irrational, but his irrational thoughts prevailed. Clive's horrified look cast a ghastly pale reflection under the low-wattage light. A wayward trail of mucus ran from his nose. His eyes swelled.

Don't be so dramatic. You'll see. Having me around is a good thing.

"I don't want you around!" Clive yelled in defiance. He pounded his fist against the wall. "I'm going to the doctor's today, and he's going to fix whatever is wrong with me. That means he'll get rid of you."

If you say so, big guy. Good luck with that. It's getting late for me. I need some rest, so try to keep it down. We'll talk later when you're more rational.

"Wait." Clive's voice turned as beaten as the rest of him. There was little more he desired than to have the voice disappear forever, but not without it granting him a resolution. "You never answered my questions," he whined.

It was no use. The voice in Clive's head had gone. He hoped it had gone for good.

After taking a moment to regroup, Clive readied himself for his appointment with newfound conviction. With still a few hours to go before he needed to leave, Clive distracted himself with the likes of Regis Philbin, Kelly Ripa and their guest, Miley Cyrus. Even being sucked in again by the low-grade entertainment value of that she-demon pop singer and no-talent actress was better than dealing with his own demons. Clive welcomed the fluff. Regardless of how hard he tried, he couldn't rid himself of the thought that sanity was deserting him.

***

The drive over to Dr. Allen's office was uneventful. The voice didn't return, and Clive wondered if he'd daydreamed the whole unnerving ordeal. He hadn't been sleeping much lately. Combined with his drinking, perhaps his tired psyche had decided to spark things up a bit. He hoped so, comfortably assuming the delusion for the moment.

Ironically, even his right ear worked better. He thought maybe his problems were drawing to their conclusion. The morning's events may simply have been their climax, the peak before the fall.

Clive sat alone in the office's lounge, quietly filling out answers to an array of invading and often irrelevant questions.
What does my affinity for yellow Post-it notes have to do with anything? Who cares whether I wear ankle or knee-high socks? And my sexual preference? I'm not gay, and that question still offends me. What bearing does my constipation twenty-five years ago have upon the issue of whether or not something is living in my head today? Did something crawl into my balloon knot when I was a teeny-tot, temporarily clog my anus, then slowly work its way up through my body to my brain over the course of two decades? I'd understand the sexual preference question if this questionnaire pertained to my constipation.

Fuck it
. Clive grumbled to himself. Heresisted the temptation to answer randomly and breezed through the questions as quickly as he could.

When he finished, he glanced around the waiting room. He was still alone, even after the forty-two minutes it took to complete the paperwork. And even though he was alone, it took another forty-nine minutes for his name to be called.

"Mr. Menard?" a comely nurse asked. Or was she an administrative assistant? Clive couldn't tell, but he was convinced of one thing about her: she was an idiot.

Do you see anyone else out here, sunshine?
Clive faked a smile. "Yep, that's me. Clive Menard."

"Dr. Allen will see you now."

That's nice of him. I was rather enjoying watching the wall. Captivating stuff.
Clive put down a four-month-old copy of
Entertainment Weekly
, which he hadn't bothered to open. On the cover, Miley Cyrus was prominently featured, and Clive briefly wondered why he hated her so much.
Ah yes, a lot younger than me and a whole lot richer. That'll do it. Fuck the Olsen twins, too.

He followed the nurse-secretary into the office's inner sanctum, a place where only staff and the sick ventured. Pastels turned to whites as he ambled into a room the size of a walk-in closet, minus the shoe racks.