By Omer Kazmi
He heard a whispering outside of his open window. It was more than the wind, less than a human voice. It sounded like a ghost trapped between this world and the next, and when he cocked his lupine ears in the void-like darkness, he could have sworn it was saying his name.
He himself was trapped between this world and the world of illogic, the dream-world. Furthermore, he was trapped between the sheets of his bed, and he dared not venture out in the cold January night to verify, empirically, what he had heard. To be sure, he was uncertain whether he was awake or dreaming, and this Cartesian doubt was preventing him from any form of rest. There it was again, a cold shudder in a silent night, a vibration running at 220 cycles per second (if his ears did not deceive him), a honey-sweet tremor, a near comforting sound. He could have sworn it was saying Nathaniel. He could have...
This was not the first night that the whisper had plagued his sojourn between worlds. It began on his twenty-third birthday, but since he was trapped between the worlds of sobriety and drunkenness, he imagined that he had imagined it. He eventually had fallen asleep, a sort of blissful sleep that could only lead to a nightmare. Lying in his bed now, suffocating under his comforter and sheets, he remembered vividly the dream he had that night.
He was looking at himself from above himself, omniscient and confused at the same time. He wore a starched brown jacket, starched brown pants that were knee high in length and ended where pure white stockings began, and the stockings ran down to plain black shoes with a silver buckle. He had atop his head a black hat with a small brim, and a silver buckle encompassing the barrel of the hat. Though his jacket was buttoned, he knew that he was wearing a pure white shirt underneath, for the cuffs of the shirt billowed out from the sleeves of his jacket. He knew, in his omniscience, that both the shirt and stockings were cotton, that the hat and shoes were leather, the buckles silver, and the pants and jacket were suede. Everything he was adorned with was simple and pure, and he knew, in his omniscience, that he was a puritan.
He was also within a cabin which was safe and warm, a fire in the hearth warding him from a cold winter night. But Nathaniel was summoned out immediately by a whispering of his name, and why he chose to follow the whisper—even his omniscience did not know. The murmur had led him to the edge of the town where the road led into a forest, and from which he received an ill-feeling. His omniscience (now his conscience?) instructed him not to go in, but ever-transgressing, he did not listen. He stepped into the forest, a world trapped between the mystical and the material, and though regretting his decision immediately, he could not ignore the summons of the whisper.
After following the sound, he came upon a clearing with a fire in the center, but a noticeably different fire than the one that blazed at his hearth—though, in his omniscience, he knew that the fire in his hearth had burned out. This fire, this new fire, was of a bluish tinge, and, as in deference to its color, was colder than the fire he missed now. Nymphs were dancing around it, and it threw a blue tinge on them, and wolves yipped and barked and pranced around it as well. Some satyrs were also about, playing strange wind instruments that gave the dance a modicum of festivity, but a strange, alien festivity that seemed to send chills down Nathaniel’s spine (whether in joy or in fear, he was not sure which). The festival seemed to reach a feverish pitch as Nathaniel approached the fire and stared into it. He began to sweat as he got near, but in his wonder he did not notice the radical change in temperature. When he was an arms length away from the fire, he thought he saw himself laughing and singing within the fire, but it was so blurry that he felt he needed to come closer. Then he felt the push, and he felt himself dissolving in a passionate burn, and the pain was unbearable and real. He saw the satyr that had pushed him in, and the satyr was laughing for a seeming infinite amount of time.
That’s where the dream ended. Nathaniel thought back on the dream, now, hearing the whispering susurrate through the open window. After that bizarre night, he did not hear the whispering again for a long while. Maybe a month or two. He could not remember. It returned on a sober night, and it brought back the vivid memory of the dream. Nathaniel had thought it to be only the wind, and even though he kept hearing through the night, he eventually fell asleep believing thus. Then it would come and go, like women talking of Michelangelo. He began to hear the whisper of what he believed to be his name on more and more nights, and just this past week he heard it every night. He was convinced that it was really something, and not merely the wind. Last night he did not fall asleep because of the sound, incessant, dissonant and yet harmonious, a hypocrisy of trembling. He knew it was someone, and yet...
He got up and shut the window.
It was strange how the simplest solutions never seemed to occur to him. It was as if he was cut by Occam’s Razor and wanted to forget the pain. The whispering was silenced, and he soon found himself asleep.
He also found himself trapped between the sixth and the seventh level of hell. There was screaming and burning, and what he imagined would be the sound of the sun had space the ability to carry sound. Through the blue, white, orange, and red—which could not seriously be called fire, but some kind of smoldering mist—he saw Virgil’s face and a seemingly detached arm, palm outstretched, fingers grasping at nothing, at him, a plea to follow. Virgil, whom he only knew in his omniscience, was speaking, his mouth formulating words in mimicry of a bass reeled in, a slow coughing at a ubiquitous and destructive oxygen. It looked as if he was saying, "Rome wasn’t built in a day," but Nathaniel was not sure. Nathaniel could hear not but the boiling and broiling, and understood not but the feeling of torture. Virgil’s face faded away, and that’s when Nathaniel escaped.
The next morning Nathaniel got up, got to the telephone, and dialed work. A female voice answered, somewhat hushed. He could hear the office buzzing in the background, he must have awoken late. Nathaniel was very attracted to the female voice and the woman behind the voice, one of the secretaries in charge of some project that he knew very little about. He did not know what really happened in the office that he worked; what he even did there. He just knew he got up, went, killed time, and came back to his home to either fall asleep or listen to his name being whispered outside his window. He did not even remember the secretary’s name (Leanne? Stephanie?). He did know he was attracted to her.
"I’m not going to make it in today." He did not at all feign any sort of physical illness.
"Who is this?" She was so pert. He imagined having sex with her in some bedroom in the middle of nowhere, nothing. He shook the momentary illusion.
"Nathaniel." He never went by Nathan.
"Oh, okay Nathan, I’ll let the boss know. Get better. We’ll miss you here."
"No, you won’t." And then he hung up.
He then picked up the receiver again and dialed his psychiatrist, immediately regretting the decision. He scheduled an appointment to meet with his doctor with the fat, decrepit secretary, whom he found himself staring at in the uncomfortably small lobby later on that afternoon. She did nothing, she rarely spoke, she only stared at the guests who were foolish enough to come too early. There were no magazines. Just a sofa, two chairs, and the secretary’s desk. Her name was Margaret.
Nathaniel tried to envision his dream clearly to relay to the quack that somehow got a doctorate degree in psychology. It never helped speaking with him, a Dr. Oshner or something, but he scheduled appointments regularly now because he was addicted. Dr. Oshner or whoever would prescribe various medications which he never took. The first thing that the doctor would ask was:
"So did you take your Thorazine?"
"No."
"Your problems will never be ameliorated unless you take your medication."
"I had another dream of hell." Nathaniel ignored that psychobabble.
"Look, if you just take—"
"Why didn’t you just tell me to shut the window, you prick?" He wanted to kill his psychiatrist right now. Unfortunately, nothing sharp was available, probably a lesson learned from a previous unstable patient that had to stare at Margaret for two hours.
"Because the voice is in your head." There was a pained expression on Dr. Oshner’s face, as if he himself was an inhabitant of Nathaniel’s dream.
"When I shut the window, it stopped. I fell asleep and I dreamed of hell."
Before an objection could be voiced, Nathaniel went into his dream in great detail, explaining Virgil known through omniscience, Rome not being built in a day, the outstretched arm, and then—for kicks—Nathaniel having sex with Stephanie. Dr. Oshner feigned interest poorly, and, instead of analyzing this dream, began writing on a pad of paper.
"It’s like I’m trapped between worlds, doctor—"
"Since you haven’t taken the Thorazine, maybe some Lithium will calm you down." Dr. Oshner handed Nathaniel a sheet of paper ripped from the pad with black chicken scratch on it. Nathaniel took this as his invitation to leave. He got up, saw Stephanie unzip her jumpsuit in his mind’s eye, and left. He threw the prescription in the waste basket next to Margaret.
That night, as he tried to fall asleep, this time with the window closed, he thought he still heard his name coming from outside. He double-checked the window, to make sure it was sealed. Surely, the voice was fainter—a whisper of a whisper, but he could still detect it, and it truly bothered him. As he lay trapped in his room underneath covers that provided no comfort, he stared at the ceiling blankly watching Margaret and Stephanie’s face meld together in the stucco. Then he saw movement in his peripheral vision, fast enough to be a thief, and Nathaniel jumped up. He thought he heard his door slam. He ran, brown pajamas billowing, to the front door. For a moment, silence. And then, the whisper, louder than in his room. Nathaniel opened the door, and stepped out into a cold January night. It was not until he reached the gate of his apartment complex that he heard the whisper again. He opened the gate, stepped out, and instinctively turned left. And there he was.
The man was standing about ten yards out. Even from that distance, Nathaniel noticed his eyes. They were a yellowish green, and they glowed like a cat’s. Nathaniel thought that it was just the reflection of the street light the man was underneath. Nathaniel approached him, believing that this man was in his apartment.
"What were you doing in my home?"
"I was not in your apartment. I have been waiting here patiently, ever so patiently, for you to come out and visit me."
Nathaniel was finally close enough to make out the features of this strange man. He was of average height, but somewhat skinny. He was clean shaven, with the exception of a goatee that made him satyr-like. His face was soft. The man was neatly dressed, in a fine Armani suit of various colors, which seemed to shimmer in the pale light of the street lamp. There were fine Italian loafers that cushioned his feet, and if Nathaniel did not know better, it appeared the man was not quite touching the ground. What struck Nathaniel the most about his dress was the red tie that seemed to bleed onto a black shirt. Upon closer inspection, the man’s eyes appeared to be those of a snake, a slit that acted as the diameter of yellow irises, and his eyes seemed to have a glow that was intrinsically their own—not merely a reflection of the dull light of city property. The man’s voice was comforting, though affected.
"Would you like to join me? I was just on my way for a stroll." Nathaniel began walking.
"Who are you?"
"You know me. You know me well. I am one of your friends."
Nathaniel could not remember the last friend with whom he had spoken. Nathaniel wondered if he even had any friends.
"Were you the one whispering to me all of those nights?"
"Yes." The s was lengthened to a soft hiss, an alien whisper. Nathaniel shuddered.
They walked in silence for a while. It was oppressive, and Nathaniel occasionally glanced at his friend’s eyes to see if they were still glowing. He wondered if he should have actually taken the Lithium. Then, like a lump in his throat, he felt the beginning of the urge to tell this person the things he could not seem to convey to this psychiatrist. The lump grew in the silence. It continued to grow until Nathaniel was choking on it, and he began: "I’m trapped between worlds!"
"Everyone is. Go on."
Nathaniel explained how he was stuck between waking and sleeping, logic and illogic, comfort and torture, Stephanie and Margaret, work and doctor’s visits, isolation and friendship, drink and sobriety—he kept going, feeling the need to unload augment as he was unloading, his face becoming red as he spoke, seeing the glint of the snake eyes flash in seeming acknowledgment and understanding. Nathaniel stopped talking to inhale. He saw Stephanie’s smile in his mind’s eye. Nathaniel just realized where they were.
"Where are we?"
"At the edge of the forest, but you knew that."
"What are we doing here?"
"I want to show you something. But do go on, you have so much on your mind."
Nathaniel continued speaking as if he had lost control of his tongue. He talked about killing the psychiatrist and fucking Stephanie. He spoke of those sleepless nights, and how he had nothing to show for himself after all these years on earth, and how he had gotten drunk by himself when he turned twenty-three because there was no one to drink with. He talked about his life being a living hell, comparable to his dreams, and how nothing really seemed to matter anymore. He continuously talked, not being able to stop because the lump in his throat was killing him. With every word he spoke the lump seemed to get larger and larger, insatiable. They were deep into the forest when Nathaniel realized, with shock, that he was no longer speaking words, but simply voicing meaninglessness. It awed him more as he realized that he was speaking in tongues. Just when he stopped to inhale, the two friends came upon a clearing.
There was a fire in the center with a bluish tinge. There were people around, laughing, singing and dancing. It seemed rather pastoral.
"Come," and Nathaniel followed his friend into the clearing. Nathaniel was given drink, and he began to feel comfortable. As he drank more, he felt the need to laugh, and to sing. Time seemed to stand still, as he was perpetually given cups of more drink, a sweet, nectar-like fluid that only seemed to make him thirsty for more. Nathaniel was dancing with some of the women, tripping and stumbling and falling. Men were playing instruments that sounded strange in this new state of his, but he liked it. He felt at home with this strange men and women, and he kept looking at his friend who sat on the outer edge of the circle, smiling. It got to the point where Nathaniel was ecstatic. He wanted nothing more than the drink and this infinite moment; he had never felt better in his entire life. He felt so good that he called out to his friend.
"You indeed are my friend! I have never felt this good ever!" He exuded emotion.
"Oh really?" His friend was suddenly behind him, and Nathaniel temporarily—though brushing the thought off immediately—wondered how he got there.
"Yes! I think I now know what it feels like to be a god!"
Nathaniel did not feel the push until after the fire was upon him. He saw his friend laughing with his tongue out, and within the fire it looked like his tongue was forked. In his omniscience, he realized that that was not a person at all, and that that non-person was not his friend. He then realized that he was not omniscient, but it was too late. As he burned, hardly feeling anything but pain, he turned and saw Virgil, mouthing the words he knew he did not know.
