His thoughts burst into a thousand little pieces when a man entered the room. He was no doctor or nurse. He appeared to be in his mid-20s and wore a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His short, brown hair was meticulously styled to give him the appearance of someone who doesn't care how his hair looks. Otherwise, he looked disheveled. His jeans were frayed, and two days' worth of stubble grew on his chin. He brought with him a faint smell of alcohol.
Their eyes met, and relief washed over the man's face, like his prayers had been answered.
"How are you feeling?"
"I've been better," said the younger boy. "So are you my brother?"
"So you heard already. Sorry about that. I wanted to tell you myself when you woke up, but as far as everyone around here knows, I'm your older brother. I've been worried, and it was the only way they'd let me see you."
"Who are you, really?"
"I'm the guy that found you in that alley."
"Oh."
"What's your name?"
The younger boy paused for a moment, as if putting a serious amount of thought into the question.
"Kafka," he replied, taking the name of the protagonist of his lost book--the other boy who'd run away from home to find his place in the world and who had a mother somewhere that he could not remember. It seemed like a fitting name. They were practically the same, anyway.
"I'm sorry. I meant your real name."
The younger boy was once again silent in thought, straining for an answer.
"I saw the Murakami in your bag, kid. You aren't the only one that's read Kafka on the Shore," said the man. "Is that it? Did you run away from home, too?"
There was no response.
"Listen, if you did, that's fine. I'm not here to rat you out to the cops. I just want to help you for some reason that I can't even begin to explain. Besides, I've already lied for you. As far as they know, your name is John and you're my 15 year old brother."
"I'm 14."
"Well, I had to make a guess. At least I was close. But come on, just tell me your name. You owe me that much."
"You were right. My name really is John. Good guess."
The man smiled and pulled a chair from the opposite wall to the side of the bed. As he sat down, he rubbed his chin, absently taking note of how overgrown his stubble had become.
"So did you run away from home, John?"
The boy nodded, defeated. His game was over.
"Great, now we're getting somewhere. Why did you try to kill yourself?"
"I don't know."
"Is that I don't know like I'm honestly not sure or like I don't want to talk about it?"
"Both, maybe," said John. "Are you a psychiatrist?"
"No, just a concerned citizen."
"Then how about you tell me something about yourself first."
The man checked his watch, and then the white clock on the white wall, and grimaced.
"I have to go soon, but I'll try to come back later tonight, if they'll let me. It may be morning, though."
The boy nodded. He tried to absorb everything that surrounded him--the words, the shapes, the smells and tastes. The sensory information was rushing quickly to his brain, which, unfortunately, was still having problems processing everything. He was scared and confused, and he couldn't completely hide it.
"What's going to happen to me?"
"You're under something called Emergency Protective Custody. They're keeping a close eye on you just in case you try to, you know, finish the job. My guess is that they'll try to get an actual psychiatrist in here to see you. They're trying to determine what to do with you once you leave this room, and that includes shipping you off to an institution. I might be able to talk them out of it, though. Just don't blow my cover, okay?"
"Sure. Thanks, I guess, but I'm still not sure why you're helping me."
"Neither am I. Not yet, anyway. That's why I need you to talk to me."
The boy sighed and threw back the bed covers. Though his arm was numb, he could feel some distant traces of pain, like echoes, that ran back and forth across his forearm. He was hesitant to move it much, afraid to open the stitches he was sure he now had, and now that he was here, coherent and safe from the troubling lights, he had no intention of harming himself further. Using the elbow of his other arm as a prop, he slid upright with the back of his head resting against the wall and repositioned a pillow to make himself more comfortable.
"Fine. What do you want to talk about?"
"How about the reason you tried to kill yourself?"
"No offense, but I don't think you'd understand."
"I think you'd be surprised at the things I understand."
The boy drew a deep breath and rubbed his eyes hard, leaving circular impressions of light against his closed eyelids. "Fine. It was a lot of things, really--stuff I can't completely explain. Like, when I did it, I was stuck in this feeling of being totally overwhelmed, and I didn't see any other way out. Everything just seemed so bright, and... looming, you know?"
The man nodded. "Big cities can do that to a person."
"Not like this, they can't."
"So what else was overwhelming you?"
"I don't know. I've got a lot on my mind, I guess. I'd put so much of my faith into a bullshit concept like destiny, only to find out there's no such thing. Life is just a bunch of coincidences, all thrown together in a jumble that makes no sense, and that's all there is. It's just one big tease by an eternally bored universe."
"So does that mean there's nothing worth believing in?"
"If everything means nothing, then I guess not. It's all pointless. It's all empty."
"You're kind of a nihilist, you know," said the man.
The boy smiled, perhaps for the first time in a long while. "Yeah, I guess I am. But more than that, I think that I'm not right, somehow. I'm not a normal kid."
The man nodded and reached down toward his feet, grasping at something laying in the corner where the bed met the wall. It was the boy's backpack, which he lifted briefly and set carefully back in its resting spot against the wall. "I see you like to read."
"Yeah, maybe a little too much."
"There's no such thing as too much reading, believe me. I was the same way when I was your age. I still am. Nothing this complex, maybe, but still."
"Oh yeah? What did you read?"
"Anything I could get my hands on. I was a pretty big sci-fi fan in those days, I'm embarrassed to admit," said the man with a smile.
"There's nothing wrong with a little sci-fi."
"Thanks. Alfred Bester was my favorite author, especially The Stars My Destination. There was just something about that story that got to me--really sunk in, made me want to see the stars. You ever read that one?"
The boy nodded. "'Millions for nonsense, but not one cent for entropy,' right?"
"Wow. Yeah, that's the one." The man raised his eyebrows, impressed, and scratched at his almost-beard.
"I liked it, too."
"Do you believe that?"
"Believe what?"
"That quote. Do you believe what he says?"
"Yeah, I think I do," said the boy. "It's just like the real world. Everyone's spending their money and their savings on frivolous trash that won't outlive them, and we're so caught up in our own selfish entertainment that we don't even notice the fall of society all around us."
"So you're a nihilist and a pessimist? I don't know, you sound like a normal teenager to me."
"Thanks, that makes me feel much better."
"So you don't want to be normal, is that it?"
The boy stumbled for words. "I don't know. I guess not, but I don't want to be as strange as I am, if that makes any sense."
"It's starting to. Look, John, I've got a confession to make. After I found you, I picked up all your things and brought them here, and I was struggling to make sense of why you would do that to yourself. So I read your notebook."
"Oh." What was left of the color in the boy's face drained away.
"Yeah, big invasion of privacy, I know. I'm sorry, but I had to find out who you were. To be honest, I'm glad I did. You've got a lot of potential as a writer, you know."
"Is that the nice way of saying I suck?"
"It's the nice way of saying you have potential."
"Oh. Thanks."
"You just need to focus yourself, you know? You've got thoughts all jumbled up and speeding through your head at a thousand miles per second. You just need to get organized." He tapped a forefinger against his temple. "And I want to help you."
"Are you a writer, too?"
"Not quite, but I know a bit about the creative process."
"So, the stuff you read in my notebook--"
"Interesting stuff. Gets kind of dark and incoherent toward the end, though."
"Yeah, well, I did try to kill myself."
"I noticed."
"So you read about me seeing things--weird things, and yet you haven't gone to the cops or the doctors or whomever else and convinced them to commit me."
"Now you're using that head of yours."
"Sorry, I'm still kind of woozy, but why?"
"Because you aren't alone, John. You aren't the only one that's seen things from the corners of his eyes. It gets easier, I promise. You'll be able to turn it on and off like a light switch, and when you step back and take a look at the whole picture, you begin to understand. You begin to realize how incredibly beautiful the whole thing is."
The boy didn't stir. He simply stared with glassy eyes and let the words spill softly from his mouth. "Who are you?"
The man smiled and reached into the backpack near his feet, grasping something and pulling it up to the same level as his eye. He opened his hand to reveal the small vinyl figure, standing in the palm of his hand. "See this? I made it. My name's Evan Grayson. Now tell me, John, do you still believe there's no such thing as fate?"
Their eyes met, and relief washed over the man's face, like his prayers had been answered.
"How are you feeling?"
"I've been better," said the younger boy. "So are you my brother?"
"So you heard already. Sorry about that. I wanted to tell you myself when you woke up, but as far as everyone around here knows, I'm your older brother. I've been worried, and it was the only way they'd let me see you."
"Who are you, really?"
"I'm the guy that found you in that alley."
"Oh."
"What's your name?"
The younger boy paused for a moment, as if putting a serious amount of thought into the question.
"Kafka," he replied, taking the name of the protagonist of his lost book--the other boy who'd run away from home to find his place in the world and who had a mother somewhere that he could not remember. It seemed like a fitting name. They were practically the same, anyway.
"I'm sorry. I meant your real name."
The younger boy was once again silent in thought, straining for an answer.
"I saw the Murakami in your bag, kid. You aren't the only one that's read Kafka on the Shore," said the man. "Is that it? Did you run away from home, too?"
There was no response.
"Listen, if you did, that's fine. I'm not here to rat you out to the cops. I just want to help you for some reason that I can't even begin to explain. Besides, I've already lied for you. As far as they know, your name is John and you're my 15 year old brother."
"I'm 14."
"Well, I had to make a guess. At least I was close. But come on, just tell me your name. You owe me that much."
"You were right. My name really is John. Good guess."
The man smiled and pulled a chair from the opposite wall to the side of the bed. As he sat down, he rubbed his chin, absently taking note of how overgrown his stubble had become.
"So did you run away from home, John?"
The boy nodded, defeated. His game was over.
"Great, now we're getting somewhere. Why did you try to kill yourself?"
"I don't know."
"Is that I don't know like I'm honestly not sure or like I don't want to talk about it?"
"Both, maybe," said John. "Are you a psychiatrist?"
"No, just a concerned citizen."
"Then how about you tell me something about yourself first."
The man checked his watch, and then the white clock on the white wall, and grimaced.
"I have to go soon, but I'll try to come back later tonight, if they'll let me. It may be morning, though."
The boy nodded. He tried to absorb everything that surrounded him--the words, the shapes, the smells and tastes. The sensory information was rushing quickly to his brain, which, unfortunately, was still having problems processing everything. He was scared and confused, and he couldn't completely hide it.
"What's going to happen to me?"
"You're under something called Emergency Protective Custody. They're keeping a close eye on you just in case you try to, you know, finish the job. My guess is that they'll try to get an actual psychiatrist in here to see you. They're trying to determine what to do with you once you leave this room, and that includes shipping you off to an institution. I might be able to talk them out of it, though. Just don't blow my cover, okay?"
"Sure. Thanks, I guess, but I'm still not sure why you're helping me."
"Neither am I. Not yet, anyway. That's why I need you to talk to me."
The boy sighed and threw back the bed covers. Though his arm was numb, he could feel some distant traces of pain, like echoes, that ran back and forth across his forearm. He was hesitant to move it much, afraid to open the stitches he was sure he now had, and now that he was here, coherent and safe from the troubling lights, he had no intention of harming himself further. Using the elbow of his other arm as a prop, he slid upright with the back of his head resting against the wall and repositioned a pillow to make himself more comfortable.
"Fine. What do you want to talk about?"
"How about the reason you tried to kill yourself?"
"No offense, but I don't think you'd understand."
"I think you'd be surprised at the things I understand."
The boy drew a deep breath and rubbed his eyes hard, leaving circular impressions of light against his closed eyelids. "Fine. It was a lot of things, really--stuff I can't completely explain. Like, when I did it, I was stuck in this feeling of being totally overwhelmed, and I didn't see any other way out. Everything just seemed so bright, and... looming, you know?"
The man nodded. "Big cities can do that to a person."
"Not like this, they can't."
"So what else was overwhelming you?"
"I don't know. I've got a lot on my mind, I guess. I'd put so much of my faith into a bullshit concept like destiny, only to find out there's no such thing. Life is just a bunch of coincidences, all thrown together in a jumble that makes no sense, and that's all there is. It's just one big tease by an eternally bored universe."
"So does that mean there's nothing worth believing in?"
"If everything means nothing, then I guess not. It's all pointless. It's all empty."
"You're kind of a nihilist, you know," said the man.
The boy smiled, perhaps for the first time in a long while. "Yeah, I guess I am. But more than that, I think that I'm not right, somehow. I'm not a normal kid."
The man nodded and reached down toward his feet, grasping at something laying in the corner where the bed met the wall. It was the boy's backpack, which he lifted briefly and set carefully back in its resting spot against the wall. "I see you like to read."
"Yeah, maybe a little too much."
"There's no such thing as too much reading, believe me. I was the same way when I was your age. I still am. Nothing this complex, maybe, but still."
"Oh yeah? What did you read?"
"Anything I could get my hands on. I was a pretty big sci-fi fan in those days, I'm embarrassed to admit," said the man with a smile.
"There's nothing wrong with a little sci-fi."
"Thanks. Alfred Bester was my favorite author, especially The Stars My Destination. There was just something about that story that got to me--really sunk in, made me want to see the stars. You ever read that one?"
The boy nodded. "'Millions for nonsense, but not one cent for entropy,' right?"
"Wow. Yeah, that's the one." The man raised his eyebrows, impressed, and scratched at his almost-beard.
"I liked it, too."
"Do you believe that?"
"Believe what?"
"That quote. Do you believe what he says?"
"Yeah, I think I do," said the boy. "It's just like the real world. Everyone's spending their money and their savings on frivolous trash that won't outlive them, and we're so caught up in our own selfish entertainment that we don't even notice the fall of society all around us."
"So you're a nihilist and a pessimist? I don't know, you sound like a normal teenager to me."
"Thanks, that makes me feel much better."
"So you don't want to be normal, is that it?"
The boy stumbled for words. "I don't know. I guess not, but I don't want to be as strange as I am, if that makes any sense."
"It's starting to. Look, John, I've got a confession to make. After I found you, I picked up all your things and brought them here, and I was struggling to make sense of why you would do that to yourself. So I read your notebook."
"Oh." What was left of the color in the boy's face drained away.
"Yeah, big invasion of privacy, I know. I'm sorry, but I had to find out who you were. To be honest, I'm glad I did. You've got a lot of potential as a writer, you know."
"Is that the nice way of saying I suck?"
"It's the nice way of saying you have potential."
"Oh. Thanks."
"You just need to focus yourself, you know? You've got thoughts all jumbled up and speeding through your head at a thousand miles per second. You just need to get organized." He tapped a forefinger against his temple. "And I want to help you."
"Are you a writer, too?"
"Not quite, but I know a bit about the creative process."
"So, the stuff you read in my notebook--"
"Interesting stuff. Gets kind of dark and incoherent toward the end, though."
"Yeah, well, I did try to kill myself."
"I noticed."
"So you read about me seeing things--weird things, and yet you haven't gone to the cops or the doctors or whomever else and convinced them to commit me."
"Now you're using that head of yours."
"Sorry, I'm still kind of woozy, but why?"
"Because you aren't alone, John. You aren't the only one that's seen things from the corners of his eyes. It gets easier, I promise. You'll be able to turn it on and off like a light switch, and when you step back and take a look at the whole picture, you begin to understand. You begin to realize how incredibly beautiful the whole thing is."
The boy didn't stir. He simply stared with glassy eyes and let the words spill softly from his mouth. "Who are you?"
The man smiled and reached into the backpack near his feet, grasping something and pulling it up to the same level as his eye. He opened his hand to reveal the small vinyl figure, standing in the palm of his hand. "See this? I made it. My name's Evan Grayson. Now tell me, John, do you still believe there's no such thing as fate?"
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