As you organise
your desk and prepare to go for lunch, one of your coworkers walks by and you
engage in the necessary curt-yet-friendly small talk. Your peers at the firm
seem to like you well enough. They laugh at most of your corny jokes, invite
you to parties, and today, like most days, you are about to go out for lunch
with a small group of them. However even as your co-worker politely wishes you
well and walks off, those dreaded feelings creep back to the front of your mind
- emptiness, blackness, and a feeling of total disconnection from your peers.
Although they appear to think of you as a rather social person, regularly
engaging most of them in friendly conversation, in your mind it is a completely
different story. Every conversation is a battle, firing off canned responses
and joking remarks in a desperate attempt to appear to be someone worth
associating with, someone who 'fits in'.
In your mind, it
is as though you have a book of the premade phrases, and every conversation
involves hurling them at an uncaring, oblivious wall. You are terrified of the
possibility that the book will come up empty, and you will be left silent and
helpless as the judgement of your peers descends upon you. They have grown used
to seeing you as a decently chipper person who always seems to know what to
say, and the idea that they could discover the pathetic person behind your more
pleasant persona terrifies you. Needless to say, this gives you no small amount
of stress. You have your solutions though, methods of relieving the anxiety
caused by such a large disconnect between who you think you are and what others
may expect.
Although you
would be embarrassed to admit it, one of the most effective ways you've found
of calming these emotions is a sort of group therapy session. It functions more
like a prayer circle however - you and a group of likely equally troubled
individuals gather weekly in the basement of a local community centre and
engage in various 'rituals'. These range from simple meditation to incense
baths and using crystals to "cleanse your chakras." Personally, you
think the whole concept of spiritual energy and chakras is utter nonsense, but
you can't question the results. After a session you are always noticeably
relaxed and much more friendly, genuinely so. Daunting social interactions even
seem to take less out of you, which you consider the largest benefit.
It's been nearly
a week since the last session, and you have been feeling progressively more
uncomfortable at work over the past few days. Luckily, the next meeting is
scheduled for the coming evening. With that happy thought in mind you trudge
through the rest of your day, sketching peeling skin, forcing out pleasant
conversation, and trying to avoid being invited to any social outings after
work. Finally, after what seems like an eternity people begin to pack their
bags and leave for the day. You slowly put together your things, feeling
completely spent, and somewhat depressed. You manage to squeeze out a last few
terse - and hopefully still friendly enough - goodbyes, and quickly head home.
When you arrive
home you waste no time preparing for the evening ahead. You fish your
aromatherapy candles and incense out from behind your dresser, tuck your
kunzite necklace into your jacket, and head out the door. The walk to the
community centre is blissfully uneventful, the headphones lodged in your ears
making sure to discourage any potential conversationalists. The weather seems
to match your mood: grey, overcast and lifeless.
Finally you turn
a corner and enter the squat red brick community centre, and hurry down the stairs
into the basement. The lights are dimmed as usual to facilitate energy transfer
and meditation, and in the middle of the otherwise featureless room is a large
wooden table. Tastefully arranged on top are various pastel coloured candles and bundles of incense sticks. Some of the
members of your group have already arrived, and you take a seat as far from
them as possible, avoiding eye contact. The majority of them do the same, save
the occasional quick glance to see if anyone is looking at them. You pull out
your candles and arrange them on the table, completing the complex pattern
formed by the others. Slowly the rest of your group drifts down into the
basement, save your leader. She is more a leader in a spiritual sense, serving
as a mentor and guide, speaking rarely and always willing to listen. Simply
being around her makes you more relaxed, and you view her almost as a saviour
of sorts, rescuing you from the myriad stressors of everyday life.
Eventually you
hear her descending the stairs, slowly and methodically. Her cane's plastic tip
taps on the linoleum floor with each step. She slowly works her way around the
table, passing by everyone seated. As she passes you catch a whiff of
patchouli, and the stress of the day already begins to fade. She rests her cane
against the table and hauls her hunched, shrunken old body up onto it.
Her voice is dry,
quiet and rasps just slightly, reminding you of autumn leaves skittering across
a sidewalk. "Everyone appears to be present... let us begin. James, if you
would please." In response, the man to your left pulls out a small book of
matches and begins to light the candles. You let your eyes unfocus, aimlessly
gazing through the dancing flames. Behind them the old woman, your spiritual
saviour, softly places her hands on the table.
"I believe
that we are ready to try something new. You've all been prepared for a while,
and I think it's time for the next step." She coughs weakly, and links
hands with the people beside her. Silently, everyone at the table does the
same, forming a circle. You barely notice as James' hand gently slips into
yours, and the heavy-set woman to your right does the same. You are already
fully absorbed by the atmosphere of the ritual, focusing only on your leader
and the flickering lights. The heady scent of the candles fills the room, and
your mind begins to feel hazy. You don't particularly mind, and treat it as
welcome relief from your typically overactive brain.
"The time
has come. Yes. We will begin." Between each short phrase the woman coughs,
louder each time. If your mind had not been dulled by the candles, you may have
noticed a thin rivulet of blood emerge from the corner of her mouth. She begins
to emit a low hum, and you recess further into your mind, calm sensations
washing over your body in waves.
"Together,
fear disappears. Combined, stress is non-existent. Anxiety is but an
inconsequential twitching of the isolated consciousness." Your saviour
coughs again. It sounds wet and painful. Despite this your eyelids sag, and you
lose yet more awareness of what is occurring around you. Slowly, wrinkles turn
to seams on her sagging skin and it begins to curl back, sloughing off like a
rotting fruit. Foul vapours emerge from within, yet only the pleasant scent of
the candles reaches your nose. Dozens of tiny marbled red tendrils peek their
way out from under her skin, and begin to work their way out and around the
circle. One makes its way from James' arm to yours. As the sinuous feeler
brushes your skin you shiver with excitement and chuckle softly. Whether you
actually made any sound or not, you can't be sure. You certainly didn't know
your mentor could do this.
More tentacles
begin to probe your flesh, and ever so slowly begin to worm their way under
your skin. You do not mind, in fact you barely notice. Under your flesh they
knit together, anchoring themselves to muscle and bone. You've never felt this
relaxed in your life. The tentacles swell and twist, and your body begins to
move on its own. It reminds you of being carried by your parents as a small
child. With a muffled crunch, one of the tentacles snaps both bones in your
forearm. Your head is twisted to the side, and for a moment you catch a glimpse
of James. Bulbous tentacles writhe within his mouth and eye sockets, all slick
with blood. You feel so happy for him. He was one of the more troubled members
of your group. The view doesn't last long, as you feel a pressure begin to
build from behind your eyes. There is a feeling of release as a pair of gentle
pops leaves you in the dark. Your body continues to contort, and you feel
yourself twisting towards the floor. Your mind clouds over, and with your final
independent thought you thank your mother for this gift. This gift of
belonging.
Days later the
police find you. The scent of ripening blood had finally overcame the scent of
lavender and made its way up into the yoga studio on the main floor. The
officers who were sent to investigate, despite years of experience with violent
crimes, wretched at the sight. A great wreath of flesh. Nine bodies, barely
recognizable as individuals, wrapped together by mangled flesh and broken bones
into a ring. At its apex, still perched on its chair, a mound of sagging,
wrinkled flesh. And on the table, written in molten wax and blood, an inscription.
"Everything
I did, I did for them. They deserved better, because I love them. Because I
love you all." The mass of flesh heaved, and emitted one last gurgling
cough.
