Never Satisfaction

“Never Satisfaction”
Johnathan MacGregor          

         Mrs. Faustin knocked a few times on the door, just out of habit.  It was an old door, just like the rest of the building.  Solid wood that was stick with vanish.  After a polite pause, Mrs. Faustin pulled the keys from her purse and unlocked the door, pushing it open with an effort, as if there had been a foot of snow behind it.

         Stepping into the front room of the apartment, it became clear to Mrs. Faustin there was no snow, or anything else piled behind the door.  Or piled anywhere else, for that matter; the apartment was in immaculate condition.  Almost as if her son had cleaned up before her visit, and the more she thought about it the more she figured that was the case.

         Moving past those thoughts, Mrs. Faustin looked to the kitchen table to find the note Richard had left for her.  The apartment was a simple affair, with a short hallway leading from the front sitting room, through the combination kitchen and dining room, then ending in the bedroom.  Supposedly there was a bathroom somewhere between the kitchen and bedroom, but Mrs. Faustin couln’t see that in the dim light.  It was a shock to be reminded just how old and beatdown this apartment was, in spite of a few obvious attempts at modernization.  The air condition unit stuck in one of the windows, for instance.  The bright ground-fault outlets by the kitchen sink.

         Picking of the folded slips of notebook paper on the kitchen table, Mrs. Faustin sat down in a chair she remembered coming from a thrift store.  Once settled, with her coat off and reading glasses on, she began to read the small book her son had left her.

***

Hi Ma,                                                                  Wednesday, February 11 2005

         I’m sorry to put you out like this.  I know it has to be a drag to come all the way down from Fairfield just to look after an apartment in Hyde Park, but I think you’ll see pretty soon that I didn’t have much close.  I guess a mother’s job is never done, right?

         I’m also sorry I didn’t ask for your help sooner.  The entire time I lived here, all I could think about how hard I had tried to prove I didn’t need your help, or even your advice.  Every time I tried to make myself give you a call, or stop by the house, all I could think about was how I hadn’t even let you come with me to buy furniture.  I guess it was my first run-in with shame, but what’s done is done.

         I should have realized something wasn’t right the first time I checked out the apartment.  The landlady was acting strange, and while it took me a couple months to realize it, it’s something I’m sure you would have picked up on right away.

         “I just want to warn you that this place makes a lot of noise, since it’s an old building and all.”  She was talking really fast, like she was trying to rush something out before she had to stop.  “That’s normal.  But if I were you, I’d be a little worried whenever there isn’t any noise.  Maybe take a walk when that happens.” 

         She kept looking up and down the staircase, to the other levels, while she said this.  She also kept looking at cracks in the walls, and gaps between the doors and windows we were walking by.  I didn’t have any idea what she was looking for, and she didn’t offer any explanation.  It was really creepy, and I almost bailed right there.           

         Luckily for her sales quota, the landlady only did this for a minute or so, but it felt like a lot longer, Ma.  Once she stopped…looking, or whatever it was, she looked over at me like she expected an answer. 

         “Yeah, sure,” I agreed with her.  “No noise is bad.  Peace and quiet is awful.  Why would I want a full night’s sleep?”

         I was making an innocent joke, but it must have struck a nerve with her somehow.  I didn’t understand it then.  All I knew was she got this look on her face, like Aunt Silvia when someone makes a racist joke.  Like she was reminding herself that I couldn’t know how hurtful I was being, so it was best not to comment.

         “That might be a bigger problem than you realize, young man.”

         Another sort of creepy comment that should have made me cut things short, but she used this authority tone on me…and you know how I am with older women, Ma.  After that, though, she was a normal landlady trying to rent a room.  No more creepy stuff, and the excitement kicked in.

         You know the rest of that.  I liked the place, I signed the lease, I moved in.  I know I kept you out of a lot of those details, still trying to prove I could do it on my own.  The details really don’t matter right now, probably won’t ever, but I’d still like to fill you in sometime.  It could be a while, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

         The important parts happen later, after I’m moved in but before classes started.  Late August, those really hot days.  The nights were even worse, since I didn’t have central air condition like I did back home.  The heat of the day just sat in the apartment like a bad smell.  I started waking up in the middle of the night, out of breath. 

         I thought it was because of the heat and humidity while it was happening.  It took a while to remember that every time I woke up like that, I was under a blanket.  Not just under a blanket, but curled up in a ball.  Not exactly how I’m used to sleeping when it was so hot.

         Like it does, the weather got cooler.  Falling asleep got easier because school was so tough.  (I know you weren’t happy with that quarter’s grades, but you’ll understand soon.)  Since falling asleep was easier, I almost didn’t notice that I kept waking up.  It was the same routine: suddenly jerking awake, out of breath.  I’d wake up panting, and a little sore.  It took me a little while to figure out what I mean by sore, and the closest I came up with is one of my Scout campouts.

         You probably remember this one, the Klondike Derby we had at John Bryan.  The wind was blowing hard all weekend, and the temperature started around thirty degrees.  I spent so much time shivering I started to ache with tired muscles.  That’s how I started to feel at night, like I was sore from shivering.

         This kept up for a long time, through the holidays.  Well into winter quarter.  You remember getting the bill for Doctor Frist last month, I bet.  I had finally gone to see him, thinking maybe I had some form of sleep apnea or something.  This is how it went down, as best I can remember.

         “So when did this start?”  Dr. Frist had just sad down, looking oer the clipboard the nurse handed to him.

         “September, I think.”

         The doc flipped a few pages, looking back in time.  “Nothing before then?  Not even isolated incidents?”

         I paused, thinking.  Then shook my head.  “No, not that I can think of.  I’ve always been a sound sleeper.”

         “Hrm.”  Frist started to tap his pen against the clipboard, then looked up at me.  “Why did it take you three months to come in?”

         I shrugged.  “I dunno.  It wasn’t really a big problem, just annoying.  I thought it’d go away.  I guess it’s just started to catch up with me though, ‘cause now I’m tired a lot.”

         The doctor kept looking at me, nice and steady, like he was expecting me to mention my new cocaine habit or something.  At least, that’s how it felt.  You know I’ve always had a guilty conscience.  “So.  You moved out of your mom’s house, started college, and those are the key life changes?”  Haven’t started smoking, no new job with chemicals, anything like that?”

         I shook my head again.  “No even a chemistry lecture.  Though I’d call those life changes pretty big stuff, personally.”

         Dr. Frist smiled, tapping again at his clipboard.  “Without sending you down to the sleep center for a few nights, I’m not sure if I can see anything wrong here.  My gut reaction is this is just stress.  I’m not even sure your insurance would cover a sleep stay with this much data, to be honest.  If I thought they would, I’d pack you off just to cover my bases.”

         I’ll admit it, the idea of trying to sleep at some strange place while hooked up to monitors that people would be watching all night was pretty creepy.  Creepy enough that I abandoned the idea before it could start moving.  “I really don’t think it’s that bad, Dr. Frist.  It’s not that big of a deal, and I think you’re right about the stress.  I took a pretty big course load, trying to get done in three and a half years.”

         The doctor sighed, probably relieved.  He nodded, and clapped me on the arm.  “Good.  I might rethink that plan if I were you…if you can’t relax and get out, what’s the point?  Having fun is a pretty big part of staying healthy.”

         I’m getting writer’s cramp, but I can’t really afford to take a break.  The pain in my arm is another reason I should’ve just gotten over the creeps and done the sleep center visit, because if I had you probably wouldn’t be reading this right now.  That’d save me the trouble of writing this.

         The sleep center would have found out there was nothing wrong with me.  Physically, anyway.  No apnea, no skipping REM cycles.  Psychologically would be another question, but I couldn’t have pretended that my body was just a skipping disc.  I would have had to look a little deeper.

         But that’s what could have been.  As it was, my one call for help was a bust.  I got a little frustrated that night, and didn’t go to bed at my normal time.  Or at all, really.  I sat up, watching some rerun hockey game between Pittsburg and the Blue Jackets.  I was drinking a beer a friend of mine had brought over, thinking it might knock me out.  The beer was more than a small part of why I didn’t totally lose my mind when I saw the ghost.  I thought I was a little drunk, and twisting some shadow out of proportion.

         I’ll explain.  I took a leak, since the beer went right through me.  Coming back out of the bathroom, I took a peek into my room (just to see that everything was ok).  I saw a shimmery, transparent, fuzzy-around-the-edges woman sitting on the edge of the bed.  It looked like she was trying to find something in the bed; I realize now she was trying to find me.  I was up way past my bedtime, and normally I would have been there to greet her, so to speak.

         I did a double take, and on the second look she was gone.  I was relieved, but sort of disappointed.  I feel weird writing this to my mother, but you need the word story.  I was turned on by the sight of that ghost hunting for me.  It trigged all sorts of thoughts.  For a partly formed figment of my imagination, she was pretty hot.  I managed to talk myself out of believing what I saw, and went to sleep out on the couch.  Crisis averted.

         I almost forgot about the ghost woman.  I was busy, with school and work and everything.  The waking kept happening, and I started to feel more and more tired.  I figured I was just getting woken up in the middle of a sleep cycle, giving me a full night of useless, broken sleep.  But something else started happening besides just getting woken up and being tired; I started to anticipate the waking every night, just like when you wake up at the same time every morning.

         Eventually, I was awake when the ghost visited.

         I’m not sure I can put the experience on paper, but I decided to try.  You deserve at least that much.  The first thing I realized as I lay there was how cold it suddenly became.  It was as if I’d just thrown the window open.  That roused me the rest of the way, and I half sat up while I looked around, expecting to find a broken window or something.  What I saw instead was a white orb, floating about four feet off the floor, coming through the wall across from the foot of my bed.

         It was just like a nightmare.  I wanted to scream, turn away, to do anything.  But I could.  I was totally frozen.  I watched at the orb slowly morphed into the woman I had seen the week before, except with sharper edges.  I got a better look at her this time, and she’d put any swimsuit model to shame.  I was still terrified, but I was also turned on.  It was the most bizarre sensation.

         The creature slowly floated to me, over the end of the bed and gradually up to where I was still half sitting.  I felt words coming off of her.  Soothing thoughts, I guess, and I started to relax.  It was as if I didn’t have a choice.  I discovered I could feel her touch when she started to pet me.  It felt so good, better than any girlfriend I’d been with.  It made sense; since I’m sure the ghost had decades, or maybe more to practice.

         Her kiss sealed my fate, I guess you could say.  It was then I realized what had been waking me up, because while she kissed me I couldn’t breathe.  I was wrapped in an icy blanket, being suffocated.  I was still feeling intense pleasure from her touch, and even the kiss that was fantastic while it was killing me.  I started to feel the shivers, and the dull ache.

         The ghost had her way with me, I guess (sorry Ma).  The details are fuzzy after the kiss, and I guess that’s from the lack of oxygen.  Near as I can figure, I had been getting raped by a ghost for three months.  I’d just never been awake enough to realize or remember.

         The next morning, I felt horrible, terrified.  But I also couldn’t wait for night to fall again, so I could be taken again.

         All this happened only two, maybe three weeks ago.  Once I’d experienced the ghost, I was hooked.  I craved her, her touch, her thought-words.  I guess it must have been like heroine, because it was all I could think about.  I started skipping class to stay home and “nap,” and never went out at night.  The sooner I went to bed, the more time I could spend with the ghost.  There was a catch, though, one I didn’t realize till just a day or two ago: each time with the ghost was killing me bit by bit.

         You remember the ache?  It started getting worse each time.  Until it was stronger than the pleasure.  Until I realized I didn’t have the strength to go to class anymore, or even to the grocery store.  I don’t know (how can I really know any of this?) for sure, but I think the ghost was somehow feeding off me, like a bad vampire movie.

         I know you’ll think I was crazy, or on drugs, or whatever.  You can’t accept this for the truth.  I don’t care.  You’re going to have a mess to clean up later, after I’m done writing this.  I won’t let her have the satisfaction of finishing me off.  I owe you an explanation to go with all the trouble I’m causing, and here it is.  Beyond the explanation, it’s not my problem.  I’m done.  You can believe me, or not.  You can figure out something to do, or not.  My part in this will be over in a few minutes, and I’m so glad.

         I’m sorry, Ma.  I know I goofed this up.  I think I could have handled a normal apartment on my own, but I guess the fact I didn’t realize this wasn’t normal means I wasn’t ready after all.

         I know you’ll forgive me (you always do!) even this. 

Take care and all my love,

RICHARD

***

         Mrs. Faustin sighed to herself, wiping her eyes.  The landlady had warned her about what was in the letter, so she had been able to read the letter from her son more clearly, without being hung up on the fantastic claims in it.  Raped by a ghost, what’s next?  The landlady had also warned where Richard had hung himself, from an exposed beam in the bedroom closet.  Mrs. Faustin was especially grateful for that warning.  She had no desire to see her boy like that.

         Before Mrs. Faustin even had the chance to consciously ask herself the Question, she started to shiver.  Without realizing it she pulled on her coat, and stopped with her left arm halfway in the sleeve.  She felt a chill coming from inside her as she glanced at the letter on the table.  Finishing with her coat, Mrs. Faustin calmly stood up and turned back towards the bedroom, just in time to see a small white form—maybe a body, maybe a sphere—walk into the wall.

         It was then Mrs. Faustin answered the Question she hadn’t even asked yet, and broke into tears.  As she fought to contain herself (the landlady was coming back, with the police), Mrs. Faustin wasn’t sure whether she was more angry, frightened, or horrified that her baby had to face such a thing alone.

         Richard wasn’t the only one who had thought he could handle an apartment on his own, and he also wasn’t the only one who failed to realize this wasn’t just an apartment.  Now that she had answered the Question so promptly, Mrs. Faustin had a feeling she would need quite a bit more time deciding if she could forgive herself for not seeing the white form much, much sooner.