It’s midnight on the coast of Maine. The fog is thick, and only a lone streetlamp is nearby; its light bleakly shining through a wooley vapor. The sound of the ocean lapping on the shore is all that can be heard above the ominous, wailing hums and drones of Meitei’s Kwaidan. Is something crawling towards us from the darkness? Or is that seawater gurgling through the dead seaweed stranded on the shoreline? Are whispers wrapping around the streetlamp? Or are they crashing waves? Sea foam collects below the bluffs along the beach—white froth that is repeatedly swallowed and recreated by the waves. No, those were definitely voices: frenetically insisting we join them. Their tone is playful, excited, and confident as they prepare our fate. There is a figure! Blurry and hunched, it slowly approaches, well beyond the feeble light cast by the streetlamp; stopping, then starting again, its tottering gait resembles an eager child tip-toeing towards their parents, preparing to startle them one last time before they put their ornery one back to bed and resume their own eternal sleep.
The disembodied vocals of Oneohtrixpoint Never’s Garden Of Delete are as cold as hospital mattresses: their sheets freshly removed after another lost cause is disposed of, any condolences quietly sent to teary eyed souls who are ushered out the building. There are countless skid marks along the linoleum floors, tallying each failed attempt to pull another body away from a pool tended by a lone, forgotten, caretaker. Her back arches in defiance as she lays on the cold, often final, place so many passed on. Nurses, numb from sleep deprivation, rush to catch her body before the seizures resume, the bags under their eyes swollen with enduring tragedies—overlapping folds that only the most dedicated therapists could unravel.
Outside the patient’s room sits her spouse, desperately managing his emotional state amidst the turmoil of his wife’s illness. His sweaty palms clench and relax, attempting to settle his heart rate. A figure sits next to him. “Your spouse is in room 312? Urgent care?” The man nods without looking at the stranger. “I heard the patient in 309 has a similar illness. They generally assign rooms numerically, based on urgency. If there’s a need for surgery, they’ll receive the operation first.” The husband’s eyes fill with tears and he covers his face with his hands. After a while, he feels weightless, hovering in place above the bench. The figure disappears. Along the streaked floor, the husband floats towards room 309. His heart beating against his temple, a primal rhythm masking any coherent thought.
Everything about me is true: Christmas at home, the volunteer work, loaning my car to my sister. The strobe light flashes to Karrime Ali’s Night Echoes, dazzling and disorienting everyone on the dancefloor. Someone at the bar is interested, so say anything at all. Tell her specifics, they love specifics. My brother fought in Iraq and I’m super emotionally detached from politics. I mean, I didn’t go to war and I don’t care for our two party system. Their eyes are uncertain and scanning the room… No, wait, after he was discharged, I flew from New Mexico (yeah, New Mexico) to pick him up from the airport and I still volunteer during election years. I live in a condo in New York City, so I don’t drive. The family is in New York, too. Did I say New Mexico? My bad. I think we were discussing your Mexican accent and I tried to tie things back. Where’s my brother now? I have a sister. Oh, you’re referring to my step brother! Yeah, he died when I was six, and we were best friends. Tremble my lips and wipe tears from my eyes right after hesitating at the word “six”, perfect. Oh, you want to join your friends over there? Where? I don’t see them. Hey, if you need someone to drive, then I’m your—yup, OK, been driving since I was old enough to—you’re leaving? Mind if I swing by, introduce myself, or whomever they want to know? Can I get you anything, anything at all?