Chapter 1
“My father was a Norweigan who came from a small town near Oslo. He broke his arm at the elbow when he was 14, and they amputated it.”
Roald Dahl
Don’t kill yourself, it’s not worth it.
That’s what the voices told Ramey Sheldon. Each second he found there was a second when it all made sense, but who was he kidding? He was a loser. Someone with a dead weight job with no other way to describe it. Filing records for Cravenrow hospital. It wasn’t great. He had to deal with death all the time. He was trying to find ways to kill himself. He asked on whisper, “Poll: What’s the worst way to kill yourself? In the bathroom stall at work or at Christmas Eve just before you leave work?” He didn’t mind that he thought about death all the time. He hated the world, and he wished that God had killed him a long time ago. He survived Cancer, but then again, how many people did? His stupid DARS counselor, Brenda Sharp, set him up with this job because he didn’t have to deal with people. They loved giving him things to do. He hated people so much that he wished someone would just kill him with the intent that they just killed him. He was the type of person who could see something wrong with a beautiful Christmas tree, and he relished in everyone’s hatred. He hated that his family was proud that he was working. He hated working for people who didn’t care whether he was alive or dead. And he had been at Carmichael Therapy Center for three years.
Only he had these voices that wouldn’t stop talking to him. He had been treated for Schizophrenia, but even then, it made him depressed. He wanted to know that there weren’t voices. But sometimes he was so lonely that he didn’t have a friend in the Cravenrow hospital. People would have never noticed he worked there.
He spent all day living in misery, and giving up on his dreams. He had forgotten what they were. Apart of his schizophrenia is that he didn’t remember what it was. He couldn’t even tell time or make a clock.
Just kill yourself already.
That’s what he had to hear everyday. He didn’t want to hear this, but he hated the way he had to live in solitude. No one would talk to him. He lived life in a hole where no one ever thought he lived outside of work. But he did his job. He slaved away at minimum wage, and worked every weekend at Hollanders Nuclear Waste facility filing papers for them. Luckily he got almost every other weekend off, but then again, what was working when you had to do it for a living. It didn’t mean he was special. Just because he worked didn’t mean he was a hero. He didn’t make a difference in anyone’s lives.
He recently had a breakup that was beyond his realm of confusion. He didn’t even know how he was at work. He didn’t date at all, but he missed Kate. Kate, his only girlfriend in his twenty eight year old life that had given him any kind of peace—except she was a downright bitch. She didn’t shower. She thought she was a princess when she never took part in becoming a queen.
Just don’t date Jewish women, that’s the rule. He couldn’t go back to Catholic girls either. They didn’t give it up at all (forget it, girls withheld sex like it was forbidden fruit). At least they showered. But he didn’t care. Another pointless woman wasn’t going to make him happy. He was just another faceless number in the world. His own badge didn’t even have a face on it. That was how pathetic he truly was.
He hated filing, because it didn’t make sense for him. He was wasting his life. He was just another number, and he didn’t fit. He had no religion that fit the build. He despised Catholicism, and thought every person that believed in it was just another sheep trying to fit in. But again, he loved them because they were his children, lost and alone, all trying to fit in. Ramsey Sheldon knew it wasn’t his own fault that had caused him to loose his religion. It took him longer, and maybe when he didn’t deal with people, he felt his own guts start to revolt. He wanted blood to crawl through buildings. He wanted to destroy all the churches he could, and make them fear his righteous hands.
But again, who was he? Just some loser that couldn’t even hold a girlfriend. The jobs were his only reasonable commitment he could make. He couldn’t live with his parents anymore. He had his own place, which wasn’t his own way of saying that he didn’t need his parents. His parents wouldn’t talk to him after a while. He was depressed, and didn’t have enough moments when he would yell and scream just when he was eating. Not because the food tasted bad. He needed to watch what he did. He already had complaints from his neighbors that his screaming woke up his child. Sorry, and he bet they didn’t know that he masturbated four times in one day.
Go outside and wait for a car to hit you.
Wasn’t a bad idea? He kept filing, knowing that he wasn’t destined to do anything. He knew that his life was just called into some cosmic horror that wasn’t apart of his own reconciliation. He wanted to keep filing.
Just throw them on the floor.
He didn’t want to do it. It was just something that couldn’t possibly be done. He wasn’t five. He had to work. As much as he wanted to cut his own wrists, dreamily, wishing he were in some romantic place where he didn’t have to work at all, he still felt it was his own fault that he didn’t have his life in order.
How wasn’t he working for the money. At least, he did enjoy being richer than his girlfriend. Off at college and enjoying herself, like some dumb cunt. Yes, he loved that word as well. It was like something you give to a man and he just eats it up, or a lesbian. If chocolate were substituted for cunt, it would be acceptable today. He whispered it as he filed away the dead.
“Ms. Ida Turner. Cunt.”
He dropped the file in the cabinet under T. She was officially dead.
“Ben J. Corso.”
He walked over to C, pulled it open, and flipped through the massive layers of files. The hospital never seemed to want to convert to digital, so everything they did had to be handled by hand. Thank God his part of America never had the courage to go digital. All the kids in the local town just huddled around the closest Mcdonalds with the nearest Wi-Fi. Even that was his closest stint to a vacation. Largely, if he lived in the middle of nowhere, he lost a signal even when it became apparent that he didn’t have any time for a social life. He had become so enwrapped with his game life that he even missed out on seeing his cousin, Unger, and his young cousin, who was “afraid” of his own father but blamed it on his sisters husband. “I’m afraid of everything.”
She was already a young girl, and nothing felt easier to give up another person. Survival techniques.
Just quit and throw all the papers on the floors.
It’s always the voices. They never stop saying everything he can’t. He knew he had to give into his own temptation, and know that benefits were what he looked for.
You were meant for better things. Give it up.
He had to disagree. He knew that he had to keep filing, or they would take money from him. What a thankless life Ramey lived.
Get out while you can. You were meant for something else.
He had been a slave since he was 22 to money. It made him responsible. He had given up on college, and just went and got a job. He just wanted to be respected for the money he made. But he took it up the ass everyday, and nothing else made sense everyday. There’s an old filer’s saying, “just keep filing,” because when it happens, you start to think about the life you are missing. He wanted to die knowing that he wasn’t just the only one who was wasting his life. He thought that if he was drunk, he could still do his job.
But he was without friends at the hospital. He liked to be alone. His roommate moved out because he screamed too much. He experienced isolation more than anyone else in his job.
Flip off your co-workers.
No. He kept filing, like some unimportant gas attendant. No one thanked him for any of the work he had to do. Just thankless filing. His cart was the closest friend he had.
Cut yourself.
Sometimes he had to stab himself in the arm with a sharpened pencil. He never pushed it in, but it released some tension. He made everyone nervous. Ramey seemed lost in his own unimportance. He kept taking advantage of the time he had between filing. The days throughout his twenties blurred together. He had cut himself also, but Cravenrow boss forced him to “quit” because it was “unprofessional” except that he did all his work. It helped him relieve tension, except when it came to his professional life. He didn’t actually have to get an education to be a filer. He also could move, but being stuck in a small town meant that he didn’t have to do anything with his life. Nothing made him feel better than to be a stooge, someone who just followed orders, because he wasn’t emotionally strong enough to fight.
People past him in the halls, and he had headphones in his ear. He didn’t like the way things had been for him. He hated his co-workers. They always talked about how he “should have quit.”
He had no other options. And he always had suicide as his last option. But he knew his life wasn’t that sad. His friend, Sarah Joyce Polks, had called that she would leave him. As the only half polish and black girl in the state, they would often find each other as companions. Even though they had never considered themselves partners in a sexual way, she had always relied on him in emotional states, and they often did drugs together on the weekends. Sometimes they had sex, but that never bothered them. She worked with him at the Cravenmore hospital, and even so, it gave them both equal pleasure to carpool to work.
She had been there through many of the failed relationships with him. Sarah was always a slut for attention. She always remained that she was a “sassy latin” because of her nose. Well, maybe two percent of her genes, but she was always seen for her darker complexion even though she had a white mother, and her father was African American. She had been his friend since they were both in the same grade school, and she was walking through the halls even when she wasn’t doing anything. She placed the top of her pencil against the bottom of her lip. Something provocative was seen in her movements. She seemed to create some sexual tension with a bull frog. All the men tried to have her, but she was always free. She couldn’t be contained, and when Ramey Sheldon took his time, he always heard the fateful knocks. She gave it a light tap, and they saw each other.
Her hair was straightened, but naturally, it was curly. Black with some hints of grey. She seemed like she was scaling a catwalk across a skyscraper, and she never feigned a reason to look down.
There was a slight knock on the door.
You’re pathetic. You should just drive your car into the ditch, and light yourself on fire. Then stick a fake pussy around your cock, and show them how pathetic you are. You disgusting vile vermin.
He opened the door.
“Goddamnit just keep me out there for fucks sake.”
Sarah had files pressed against her chest, and she took a deep breath.
Ramey just stared at her.
“It’s like we work with a bunch of assholes.”
He stared, as if he knew the answer. There was enough between them; they didn’t need to say it.
“Of course they are,” she added before she could hand him the files, and pushed it against his chest, “but that means we are better than them.”
“You’ve been saying that since the fifth grade,” Ramey took the files and looked them over, “they’re all dead.”
“No shit, and I’m alive,” Sarah pulled out a small flask.
“Now?” Ramey narrowed his eyes.
She returned the glance, and gave him the finger. “It’s nearly five o clock, and it’s Friday, I want to just go home and take off my pants, and get naked.”
Ramey just stared at her, bewildered.
“What, you’ve seen me naked.”
“You’re overwhelming at times, but I love you.”
She unscrewed the flask, and took a long sip. It was like tasting the next ingredient to a career. Her brew was always the best.
“That’s nice. Is that since fifth grade?” Sarah said, and walked towards him. They had no personal space. The line was still over while they were holding dynamite in their hands. They just never lit the primer. But inside this small room, she just laughed, seeing his eyes worry, and becoming slightly intimidated.
You deserve to die. You don’t know how much I have had to live inside this body. You are the only reason I can laugh. You should just die, and kill yourself, so I can be free.
“Don’t worry,” she kissed his forehead, lips still tasting like bourbon, and her spirit fresh on her breath. “I’m always here for you.”
He ran his fingers up and down his arm.
Don’t listen to them. They are going to ruin your life. You can’t do it. You know that this isn’t the only reason why you should stay alive.
Sarah held the flask below his lips.
“Stop it.” Ramey said, and he squeezed her thin hips.
“Ouch, don’t do that,” Sarah licked her lips and saw the storage room. “Wow, I feel really sorry for you.”
He smiled, and narrowed his eyes at her; half smiling half in love with the blood in the ground.
“Why,” he kept cleaning up the room, shuffling papers into files, pretending to be busy, seeing Sarah’s eternal presence shining amongst the slings of his barbaric depression, files slung like arrows among the angry dead, “should I be worried.”
“Yeah,” her honey bee fingers held the flask below her lips, “because this place smells like shit.”
“We’re at work.” Ramey kept working through the files, like he pretended to work. He could just remember the way his kindergarten friend kissed him. Like tasting the last peace of knowledge he could ever want.
“What, it’s ten minutes, let me curse a little. It’s fucking Friday, and I want to have some fun. My co-workers are bitches. As you know. It’s like sucking the dirty farts out of the underwear out of everyone’s minds, and they expect you to smile with shit in your teeth. Sorry guys, I got to have some self respect. Being a nurse is a thankless job.” She took a longer sip, and she just shrugged at the banality of the room. CravenMoore Hospital knew how to destroy lives. It was the most untrustworthy place. It’s like stepping into a hospital in the middle of Fallujah, and a bomb exploded. She kept sipping, taking her time to let the gin clean out the smell of her taco salad she destroyed. “Anyways, we are stuck in a shit town and everything we know has gone to shit. Good thing we have each other.” More files were stuffed into drawers, and Ramey just shrugged, without shame or glory. “Anyways tonight’s going to be fun. We’re not going to do anything that will remind us of you know who.” She didn’t even need to say it. He just kept filing, a man without a future, just filing in more dead, who didn’t care about the world, and the dust of those fingerprints became apart of the national registry of the dead. “How are you?”
“Really. Are you going to ask me that now? After all day of being in this room. I need to get high. I really do. That’s what will calm me down.” He kept filing trying not to look at her. He couldn’t let him see her cry again. It was constant, always.
“Well, shit man, you just need to get fucked. I’ll hook you up with someone.” Sarah kept slowly drinking, meditating on some higher notion of acceptance, when she felt her own loins turn inside out. Feel for a new life, yearn for a new dependency, seek out a fortune of ruined promises. “Just get high, and everything will be okay. Because I know I have to clean my underwear too.”
“Gross.” He stopped shuffling. He wanted to remember a time when Sarah wasn’t a potty mouth, but knew that she was born of a sailor in some past life. Like him, they were both doomed and unloved children of holy sodomy. There was a weight between them. Like unexplained miseries that kept creeping in between conversations.
Do I need to tell them about your size?” Sarah said, smiling as if she wasn’t touched by a million men, and she only had eyes for Ramey. She was harlot of many men’s eyes, except she blew him a kiss.
“Kiss rejected.”
She scoffed. “A lot of guys would love to be in your position. Living with the hottest woman in the state.”
“I know.” He wrapped his bag over his head, and then he shut off the lights to the office, and they left.
Leaving the hospital made him nervous. They had a psychiatric ward inside the hospital. They could hear the screaming as the night staff came in. They said, “Great, the crazies are acting up,” and some glanced back at Ramey, who kept walking. It wasn’t easy being the town freak. It was hard having to be the most cultural person in the state. Numberless, and without a moral rectitude. It didn’t help that the hospital was facing a major renovation. Everyone could just calm down. But the walls made it interesting. They were starting to feel the crawling sensation that something lived inside the walls. He had to keep it interesting. He knew that if he didn’t have some fun with his psychiatric problems he might just loose it. But then again, he thought he could see the end of the world coming to an end, but it wasn’t just his own problems that he faced. The bathrooms were like the inside of a sanitarium, where he didn’t have much humor to spare for it. He kept focusing forward, and didn’t mind that when it came to his own self-sustaining attitude, he knew that life was always easier at the end of the day on Friday.
Give it up. You aren’t normal. You never will be.
Sarah kept noticing that Ramey Sheldon kept looking up at the walls, and she wrapped her arm through his. His skeletal arm. The arm that felt so much pain. She could feel his pain. Sarah knew his pain more than anyone. They saw the parking lot, and she pulled out her flask, turning around, and before she took a sip said, “You’re driving.” Ramey grabbed the keys, and just shrugged.
“Every time.” Ramey Sheldon said.
