I kept a confident, positive look on my face as the Governor of Louisiana, Alicia deVray, prepared to sign the document that would enact the first free drug community in the world. She turned and looked at me, I nodded encouragingly, she looked at the horde of reporters holding cameras, phones, recording devices and signed. There was a long moment of silence, then a round of weak, tentative applause from the legislators. Alicia wasn’t looking her usual ebullient self as she chatted with legislators, supporters and opponents of the controversial free drug community. CNN asked me to say a few words and I praised the Governor and the state legislators for their forward thinking in pioneering a solution to end the criminal distribution of drugs. Fox News accused me of destroying the fabric of America by giving away free drugs. I smiled politely and said:

“We will end drug crime in America,” then I followed Alicia to her office.

As soon as we were alone, she murmured:

“This better work, M, or they’ll lynch us on the biggest tree in Baton Rouge.”

“Don’t worry, Al. You’ll dangle a lot prettier than me,” which made her giggle.

The day we met at first year Tulane Law, she said: ‘Call me Al’. I replied: ‘Call me M’, and our friendship was born. We became best friends through school, stayed close as her career soared in the Orleans Parish District Attorney’s office, elected D.A, the State Senate, now in her second term as Governor of the Pelican State. Despite our entirely different directions, mine starting in the Orleans Parish Public Defender’s office that led to our occasional clash in the courtroom which she invariably won, since most of my clients were obviously guilty to judge and jury alike. But as Al climbed the political ladder, I started a foundation using my trust fund until I could raise money whose express purpose was to legalize drugs so we could end the criminal drug trade that was polluting and corrupting America.

Once Al got to the State Senate we didn’t spend as much time together, but we texted, phoned and skyped regularly. When I came up with the idea of a planned community where drugs were free she teased me unmercifully. Her attitude began to change when a benefactor donated five million dollars and promised more. I immediately hired a Nobel prize winning economist, a criminal psychologist, a statistical analyst and a software developer. We started by reviewing the bulk of the literature on drugs and crime, which was extensive. My particular focus was on criminal profits, drug cartels and the cost to the nation for drug related arrests, trials and incarceration. When the cost to society passed one hundred billion dollars a year I started thinking about solutions.

Al laughed at me when I first proposed a community where drugs were free and everything else resembled a normal community. There would be a police department, fire, sanitation, EMT, courthouses, stores, shops, restaurants, three levels of housing dependent on employment and income, or subsidy. For those who didn’t want to work but wanted to use drugs there was basic housing, food allotment, health services and a monthly stipend. Al stopped laughing when I showed her the cost of operating a free drug community of 5,000 population was between 70 and 75% less than a regular community with drug crime.

“What do you want from me, M?”

“If I can’t get another state to let us start a demonstration project, let me do it here.”

“You know how controversial this would be. It would start a firestorm of righteous objections.”

“Sure. But we know that prohibition never works. The 18^th amendment, Volstead Act, banned booze, then gave birth to organized crime. The drug trade is international, poisoning our country and much of the world.”

“Why couldn’t you commit to saving the environment?”

“Because I didn’t want to spend my life fighting the fossil fuel industry.”

When we finished our first demonstration model I asked my benefactor for ten million dollars to fund the construction and staffing of the community, with the goal of its becoming economically self-sufficient. He promised the money and I began searching for the right state to start our project.

I didn’t try Nevada because the gambling industry was a negative element in the American way of life. The Governor of New York was publicly outraged, but wished me luck privately. The Governor of California thought I meant a drug-free community and offered help, until an aide whispered in his ear what I intended. I got a very polite farewell. The Governor of Florida kept asking where I’d get my drugs and derided my explanation that we’d buy them on the international market.

“You’ll be supporting the drug business,” he insisted.

“That’s a byproduct, sir. We’ll demonstrate that when drugs are legal the related crime and corruption will disappear.”

“It sounds like a hippie idea. Not interested.”

Arizona, Massachusetts, Indiana and North Carolina wouldn’t even give me a hearing. Which led me back to my pal Al, in Louisiana. I found a struggling town upstate on the bank of the Quachita River that with an infusion of capital would be great location. I visited the mayor and gave him an overview of the project, then operational details. His biggest concern was with the extreme addicts and the possible threats to the townspeople.

“The neighborhood of new housing will be separated from the rest of the town, with most of what they’ll need right there. People will be selected so we’ll know they are basically content with their allotments. If they want better houses they’ll have to work for it. Your police department will be supported by a highly-trained, ex-military group who will patrol 24/7 and peacefully resolve any problems. We’ll install a sophisticated camera and monitoring system to support law enforcement. The money we’ll bring in for construction, services and operations will bring your town back to life.”

“We have 1,800 citizens who would have to approve any project.”

“If you and your main supporters approve our project we’ll only need a good size majority, say 1,400 to 1,500.

He grinned. “You make a good case. I’ll arrange for you to meet with some concerned citizens. If they approve you can present it to everyone at a town hall meeting.”

“I’ll bring my experts.”

One evening two weeks later we met with the town council and prominent citizens. They were dazzled by my Nobel Prize winning economist, fascinated by my criminal psychologist and impressed by my director of security, a former Ranger Lieutenant-Colonel and a childhood friend, Paul Morein. A few citizens were afraid of being known as a drug town, but the promise of the infusion of lots of money won them over. Only the Sheriff was resistant. I won him over with a single statement.

“The supplemental security force will cooperate fully with your department and provide new cars and equipment.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Do you hunt?”

“Not any more, sheriff.”

“Do you fish?”

“Not for a while.”

“Are you related to Jean Dubonne?”

“He was my grandfather. Did you know him?”

“I met him a few times when he was Attorney General. A good man.”

“A very good man,” I asserted.

He gave me a big grin. “I’ll support your project, son.”

I smiled back. “Thanks, sheriff. That’ll make things a lot easier.”

The town hall meeting a few weeks later was a study in local politics. Everyone important spoke out in favor of the project and almost all the citizens approved. The usual opposition of conservatives wanting things as they were, a few evangelicals and some scaredy cats objected vigorously, but to no avail. After an intense, short campaign the vote was 1,726 against 53, with 21 abstaining. So with the town’s approval and with the Governor’s signature we were ready to establish a legal free drug community.

Now that the town committed to the project, I sent them summary copies of the contract that each applicant would have to sign to participate. I had drawn up a complex document that would protect the town and the project sponsors from legal repercussions, which included a short series of rules:

1) Abstain from all criminal acts.

2) Do not operate vehicles, machinery, or any dangerous equipment while under the influence of intoxicants.

3) Possession of weapons is forbidden.

4) Abide by the laws of the community.

5) No resuscitation from overdoses.

There were more rules but there was time to refine them as we started the recruiting process for approximately 3,0000 candidates for the program. The next goal would be to finalize the planning of the community with housing, stores, restaurants, a drug dispensing building, security building, social services… The list went on. Everything was outlined in the project proposal. Now we would have to construct the new town while we selected the population.

We had decided on initial recruitment efforts in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Shreveport,

Metairie and Lafayette, assuming word would spread to the Parishes. Of course if we didn’t get enough free drug wanters from Louisiana, we’d expand the search to neighboring states. I was walking on air. Years of hope and effort were about to become a reality.

The next step of implementing the plan was to acquire the land which was easy with the cooperation of the town authorities. They wanted to remove one holdout with eminent domain, which I rejected. I went to see the crusty old farmer and told him his new neighbors would be busy, but wouldn’t impose a threat to him. When I told him I was happy with his remaining there and opposed eminent domain he became friendly and invited me to go fishing with him. It was obvious we didn’t have to complete all the new living facilities at once, but we had to have all support services ready when the first… I had to find a name for them… Accords. I’ll try that.

I went over the list of the services that had to come first and a supermarket and medical services were still the priority. We had been negotiating with several supermarket chains who were interested in opening in… Accordia?… Now we’d finalize our choice. They would be guaranteed a minimum of two years of earnings by the Accordia foundation. We’d have time to work out the economics of the community so people could start paying for their purchases. It was easy to get nurses who were well paid and delighted to work in a new well supplied, well equipped facility. We made our arrangement to hire medical school graduates as interns, who would work under the supervision of two local doctors.

I was going to throw a party and invite all my friends, the project planners and of course my favorite Governor, AL. After all the project was officially launched. It could take a year or more to see the proof of the theory that free drugs did away with related crime. So it was time to celebrate the beginning of the dream scheme come true.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theatre. He has also been a tennis pro, ditch digger and salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction, essays and plays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. His traditionally published books include 45 poetry collections, 18 novels, 4 short story collections, 2 collections of essays, 8 books of plays and 16 poetry chapbooks. Gary lives in New York City.

You can find more of Gary’s work here on Ink Pantry.

“Hey, Steve!” Brad hailed him from halfway down the steps of the college library. “Man, you look hacked off. Sharon still holding out on you?”

That was what Brad would inevitably think of. “No, nothing like that. But damn right I’m hacked off. Wahlgren’s latest assignment, I just can’t seem to get a handle on it. Why do we have to study all this historical garbage, anyway?”

Brad adjusted his glasses, as if to see Steve better. “Guess you need to know how political institutions developed in the past before you can understand modern ones.”

“Yeah, maybe. But this French Revolution stuff! Even they’ve moved on from there. They stopped guillotining people years ago, and this Macron character seems a pretty smooth operator.”

“Maybe we haven’t anything to learn from the French. Then again, maybe we have.”

Damn Brad, always sitting on the fence. “How are you making out with this?”

“Slow, but it’s coming along. And it’s worth a lot of marks, so I need to give it my best shot. Hey, tell you what, as a friend.” Brad held out a notebook. “Here’s a good reference, it’s in there –” he indicated over his shoulder “– up on the third floor. From 1965, but it’ll give you a start.”

Steve copied the reference down. “How d’you find this?”

“From Dismal Denise, no less.”

“Didn’t know you were such buddies.”

“Nah, heard her talking to Katrina and Elle about how she’s nearly pulled the assignment together. She’s got smarts, even if she is the shape of a basketball.”

Steve laughed and shoulder-punched Brad. “Well, thanks, man. Do the same for you, one of these days.”

Brad was right, this was a key assignment, an overview of European political systems between 1775 and 1850. And with a lot more Ds and Cs than As and Bs, he couldn’t afford to screw this one up. No time like the present. He climbed the library steps, took the elevator to the third floor.

#

After an hour and a half, he was mainly aware of the depth of his ignorance. Luckily, the author had avoided quoting sources in foreign languages, but it was still hard going. He needed some more ideas. Brad might help, but he was no smarter than him, just a tad more conscientious. His class paper wouldn’t shake the Earth either. He had to find something better.

Recalling Dismal Denise Durocher’s name brought her image into his mind. Brad’s comment was a tad unfair, even though – short, plump and owlish behind thick spectacles – she wasn’t anyone’s idea of a sex symbol.

So she’d almost completed the assignment. He knew it would be good; she was one of the two top students on the course. But why on earth would she want to help him when he’d scarcely given her the time of day?

Desperate situations called for desperate remedies, though. That evening, he spruced himself up and hit the student hangouts.

At the third one, he found her sitting on the edge of a group, a glass of Coke before her, smiling nervously at the general joshing that passed for conversation. He took a seat near her¸ nodded and smiled. She smiled back, and he slid to within easy talking distance.

The obvious topic of conversation was their course, and their talk flowed smoothly. She was smart and well-informed, and what she had to say was surprisingly interesting. Maybe she was making an effort; she wouldn’t often get the chance to spend time with one of the jocks. They turned away from the group, forming a tête-à-tête.

Their conversation shifted toward the personal, and he became aware of her eyes, vibrant blue behind her lenses, focused tightly on his. Her hair, dusky blonde – previously, he’d have called it mousy – shone palely under the subdued lighting. Her teeth when she smiled, and she smiled often, were even and pristine white, her lips full and pink. Her shape – how did the word voluptuous spring into his mind? Surreptitiously, he checked his phone, astonished to find it was after ten-thirty.

“I’d better be going, Steve,” she said. “You know what tomorrow’s schedule’s like.”

His mouth turned down in disappointment, and she noticed. “But –” she hesitated, casting her eyes down “– if you like, you could walk me back to the dorm.”

When they were out of view of the others, he took her hand. She moved close, and he put his arm around her waist. The outcome of the evening was certain, and his groin tingled at the thought of sex with Desirable Denise.

Her room, clean and tidy except for the litter of books and papers on her desk, was as anonymous as any other on campus. She drew the shades, turned and stepped toward him. He bent his head, and their mouths met in a full kiss.

Then their hands were everywhere, releasing buttons and zips and hooks until they stood naked. Tentatively, she touched his erection, drawing in a sharp breath. “Oh, you’re so big! Please be gentle.”

It probably wasn’t her first time, because she didn’t cry out with pain when he entered her. Wide-eyed and smiling beneath him, she was beautiful, and he cursed himself for not noticing that earlier. All too soon his passion surged and overflowed, and he collapsed panting across her generous body.

“Oh, my God!” she breathed. “That was great. How was it for you?”

“Awesome.” He’d never spoken a truer word.

They lay in silence. Presently her breathing became soft and regular, a slight trill signaling that she’d fallen asleep.

Her papers are on her desk. Among them, no doubt, was the class paper she’d nearly finished. If he was quick and quiet…

Moving cautiously in the near-darkness, he located a sheaf of typescript. He carried it and his cellphone to the bathroom cubicle. The first words he read told him he’d picked the right thing.

Photographing the sheets was the work of less than a minute, and not even a click of the shutter to disturb her. He re-stacked the pages and returned them to her desk.

Denise stirred, murmuring “Steve?”, her voice clogged with sleep. He turned to her, and she stretched out her arms, lacing them around his neck as he bent over her. The sight of her ripe breasts spilling from the covers did the rest.

“I’d better go now,” he said afterward. Her moue of disappointment made him add, “I’ll see you after classes tomorrow.” That would give him time to invent an excuse. Brad and the other guys would rib him mercilessly if they found out he was dating D.D.

#

Which excuse he duly gave, pangs of conscience stinging him as he lied to the trusting girl he’d seduced under false pretenses. Her face crumpled, her “Oh!” of dismay cut short by a sob. She turned away abruptly and hurried off, head down. Crimson-faced at his duplicity, he fled the scene too.

In his room, he checked the images on his phone. Exactly what he wanted: clear, concise with some nice turns of phrase. Written from a French perspective, but old Wahlgren would like that. He’d need to alter it a little: change the sequence, simplify the language, rewrite the opening and conclusion, maybe introduce a few grammatical errors. He pulled his laptop close and set about transcribing.

The work involved in revising the paper brought home to him what he’d had to have done to write a decent one from scratch. Was he really cut out for this course? But any other major would be at least as hard going. He submitted his work a day before the deadline, confident he’d get a B; an A was wishful thinking.

#

A week later, a message popped up on his phone; the Dean of Faculty wished to see him. Probably a routine matter, though it seemed no one else in his class had been called.

He found not only the Dean, but Dr. Wahlgren, and a woman he didn’t know. She wasn’t introduced to him.

The Dean led off. “Mr. Canfield, you’re probably wondering why I called you here. Dr. Wahlgren will explain.”

Wahlgren cleared his throat, spoke in his familiar reedy voice. “I read your recent class paper with interest, Mr. Canfield. I certainly wasn’t aware you were so fluent in French.”

“Ah…” He couldn’t think of anything to say. What the hell was Wahlgren talking about?

“Oh, please don’t insult our intelligence by pretending surprise. Your paper is at least seventy-five percent plagiarized from a standard French text on the subject. The language is difficult, as French academic work often is. So I give you credit for linguistic skills, if not for originality, or honesty.” His voice became severe, “However, we’re not here to exchange pleasantries. No doubt the Dean has something to add.”

The Dean’s sonorous tones pronounced sentence. “Plagiarism is, as you know, one of the worst academic crimes. In plain terms, it is theft of ideas. Yours is among the most blatant cases imaginable. When Dr. Wahlgren reported the matter, I felt obliged to inform the Board of Regents, who will meet later this afternoon to decide whether you should be permitted to continue studying at this institution. I personally think it very unlikely that you will. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

“N-no, sir,” he croaked.

“In that case, you may go.”

#

He stumbled out, almost tripping on the carpet. A maelstrom of disconnected thoughts swirled through his mind as he threaded his way across campus, gradually settling into one question; how had Dismal Denise expected to get away with copying her paper from a French textbook?

Brad intercepted him as he crossed the lawn in front of the cafeteria. “Bad luck, Steve. See you scored an F. I scraped a C. Only one A, and guess who? Starts with ‘D’.”

He didn’t want to hear this. But what was going on, for Christ’s sake? How come Wahlgren didn’t pick her work as plagiarism too?

He took refuge in the library, in a corner he hoped would be unfrequented. But after a while, the student he least wanted to see appeared. He might have guessed she’d still be studying at this hour.

He made an effort to be polite. “H-hi, Denise. Congratulations on your A.”

Her clear blue eyes penetrated him like laser beams; her tone of voice bore six inches of frost. “Thank you. It helps if you do the work yourself.”

“Er…”

“The grapevine here is very efficient, especially for juicy morsels like a student plagiarizing a major assignment. Then, it didn’t take much to work out how you got hold of my notes on that chapter of Maillot’s book. I read French pretty well, so it’s easy for me to type up what I wanted as I translate. My real paper was on my PC. And you were unlucky that Wahlgren knows French, too.”

She allowed her face to display a trace of a smile. “If you’d asked me in good faith, I would have helped you, but instead you decided to play a trick – no, two tricks – on me. Not very clever ones, though. I suppose I should be angry, but I just had to laugh when I heard.”

She shifted the book she carried to her other hand. “Goodbye, Steven. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you around here again.”

Chris Morey was born at Cowes, Isle of Wight, England and educated at University College London. He has done a wide range of jobs and community projects. He’s widely-travelled, and enjoys performance art and reading. He has been writing creatively since 2015.

The Red Eye

I press my forehead against the cold oval of the airplane window, hoping the glass can numb what’s burning inside me. My business trip is cut short, though that’s not the headline. The real headline came in an email from a friend: Your fiancé cheated on you with your best friend. Three years gone in a single sentence.

I fight back the tears. If I let them out, they’ll come in torrents. I beg the universe for invisibility. No eye contact. No small talk. Just let me sit here in my wrinkled business suit, the uniform of a life I no longer recognize.

Then I hear it, the thud of a body dropping into the seat beside me. A young guy sits, close to my age, jeans worn thin and a faded Grateful Dead t-shirt. He stretches like he owns the row. The scent of patchouli and weed rides in with him.

I force my eyes back to the window. The red-eye Southwest flight to San Francisco, with a stop in Denver, is half-empty, yet he chooses my row. Why? Why can’t I be allowed to sink alone? The cabin lights dim for takeoff, and I pray for his presence to dissolve so I can drown in my private wreckage without a witness.

“Hey,” he says, casual, like we’re two old friends bumping into each other at a bar. “Red-eyes are brutal, huh?”

I nod without turning, eyes fixed on the glittering runway lights. If I open my mouth, it’ll all come out in a rush, three wasted years, a diamond ring, and my best friend’s laughter entwined with his. Not here. Not now. Not with this retro hippie wedged next to me.

He doesn’t take the hint. “Headed home or headed away?”

My hand clamps the armrest. The words that form in my mind are sharp, bitter: Away, damn it. Away from betrayal, away from the knife still twisting in my back.

But what slips out is softer. “Home.”

He studies me, and I feel the subtle shift when someone sees your pain you’ve fought to bury. My chest tightens. I want to scream at him to look away, to stop recognizing me in ways that even my closest friends have missed.

“Rough day?” he asks.

One traitorous tear slides down. I swipe it fast, angry with myself.

“Please,” I whisper, not even knowing what I mean—please stop, please stay quiet, or please save me.

He exhales as if the wall between us has cracked just enough. “I’ve had a rough day too,” he admits. “My girlfriend gave me an ultimatum. Leave the theater, get a real job, or she’s out. I love her, but… the routine life? It’ll kill me.”

I turn then, really look at him. His eyes are searching, weary, as lost as mine. Tears blur my vision, and suddenly I’m spilling everything: the betrayal, the phone call, the wreckage of what I thought my life was going to be. The words tumble out in a shameful cascade, because I can’t hold them anymore.

He takes my hand, his thumb brushing the back of it smoothing away the jagged feelings. He doesn’t offer advice. He just… gets it. I don’t know how, but he does.

My mascara is streaking like war paint, my makeup smeared from the crying I swore I wouldn’t do in public. Then he leans over, voice pitched just loud enough to carry.
“Two rejected souls ending up on the same flight. Kinda poetic, right? Like the universe looked at the seating chart and thought, ‘Hmm, row 14 could use some heartbreak.’ If love is turbulence, at least we can fasten our seatbelts and ride it out together.”

Something in me bursts open. I laugh. Not a controlled giggle. A full-bodied, belly-shaking roar that echoes off the cabin walls. My tears of grief flip into tears of hilarity, pouring down my face until I look like a melted wax figure.

He joins me matching my rhythm. Our duet grows so loud the flight attendants hustle over, trying to hush us with stern faces, until we repeat the line. One claps a hand over her mouth, snorts, and then she’s gone too, wheezing with laughter.

A man across the aisle chuckles. A woman in the row ahead throws her head back and howls. Someone in the back yells, “Tell it again!” and suddenly the whole plane is vibrating with laughter rolling from row to row like a wave.

For the first time today, my chest doesn’t feel caved in. As strangers laugh with us, I realize that heartbreak doesn’t have to be solitary. Sometimes row 14 turns into a comedy club at 30,000 feet.

After a few minutes, the uproar dwindles into a hum of sighs and sniffles. The stranger and I collapse into our seats, drained, a shared blanket hiding our conspiratorial closeness.

I turn to him, ready to whisper a thank you, but the words dissolve. Instead, my lips find his, a full, desperate kiss that tastes of grief and relief. He returns it in spades, full and passionate. When I pull back, his face is streaked with my mascara, a tragicomic canvas, like a sad clown on furlough from the circus.

I flip my compact mirror open for him. He tries to keep a straight face, but a strangled squeak escapes, and the ridiculousness nearly undoes us both. We bury ourselves under the airline blanket, stealing touches.

Then Denver. The moment ends.

We gather our carry-ons in silence. At the gate, our next flights beckon, different gates, different cities, different lives. We check the screens and without words, we both know.

Together we turn, walk out of the terminal into the freezing Denver winter.

We take our tickets from our pockets and tear them into confetti. Pieces flutter in the breeze, a farewell to destinations that no longer matter.

We don’t even know each other’s names. We know everything we need to.

Specters in the Womb

Voices are pulling me apart. They chatter, shriek, moan. Sometimes they’re mine. Sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they sound like teeth grinding inside my skull.

My boyfriend says I’m crazy. One second I’m kissing him, the next I’m shoving him away because I feel hands, tiny, cold ones gripping my shoulders. In class I try to focus on equations, but my pencil scrawls circles, spirals, and jagged claws. I don’t remember drawing them.

At night, I wake up drenched, stomach churning, gagging like something is crawling up my spine. Once, in the bathroom mirror, I thought I saw movement ripple under my skin, just beneath my ribs. Something alive.

I tell myself it’s anxiety, but the voices won’t stop. They tell me my mother failed us. That she let us die. That she picked me and abandoned us. I can’t figure out who this us is.

Sometimes I see my mother cooking dinner and imagine stabbing her. The thought doesn’t feel like mine; it feels like someone else’s.

My body is unraveling. I yank out my hair until bald patches appear. I dig my nails into my arms until crescents of blood appear. Sometimes I find bruises I don’t remember making. I dream of teeth gnawing inside my belly. When I wake, I’m sore, like I’ve been bitten from the inside.

Then I found the scans in a folder on my mother’s desk

Three hazy orbs floating together in the first ultrasound. In the second only me, I read the neat medical term above the second: Vanishing Triplets. Completely reabsorbed into the third one.

Only I survived.

Every day, I feel less myself. My moods shift, my thoughts twist, my flesh writhes. They didn’t vanish. They’re still here. Inside. Growing.

Sometimes, when I press my hand to my stomach, something presses back.

I ask my mother to take me to a psychiatrist. She doesn’t hesitate. The next afternoon, after school, we’re ushered into Dr. Berne’s office. It smells faintly of lemon cleaner, but underneath, I swear I catch rot.

“What brings you both here?” Dr. Berne asks, folding his hands neatly.

“My daughter seems nervous all the time,” my mother says. “It’s getting worse. She’s picking at her body and frankly, I’m scared.”

Dr. Berne turns toward me, head tilted, probing. “What is going on, Devina?”

Inside, the scoffing begins. Don’t tell her. Don’t you dare. She thinks pills will drown us out. She thinks a clipboard will banish us.

I force myself to answer. “I have these compulsions to pick at my body. I want them to stop.”

Liar, they hiss. You don’t want them gone. You want to dig deeper. Peel yourself raw. Let us out.

Dr. Berne smiles, the sort of smile meant to reassure. To me, it looks like a mask pulled too tight. “I’m fairly certain your daughter has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,” she tells my mother. “We’ll give her the MMPI to confirm, but I’m confident it will bear out my preliminary diagnosis.”

Diagnosis, the voices snarl. She thinks he’s named us. That old fart has no idea who we are.

Dr. Berne scribbles a prescription. “Lexapro,” she says. “It will help. And I recommend Cognitive Behavioral Therapy with a psychologist. That will teach her how to manage the compulsions.”

My mother nods, relieved. She clutches the prescription like it’s holy writ.

Inside me, the specters laugh. Lexapro? Therapy? Foolish woman. Does she not understand? We are not compulsions. We are not symptoms. We are flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. We live in your marrow, in your heart, and in your brain. No pill will evict us. Let them try, Devina. Let them think they’re saving you. All the while, we grow stronger.

I smile faintly, the way a good patient should. Inside, I hear the monsters whisper: You’ll never get rid of us. We were here first.

The next day my mother drives me to the psychologist, Dr. Hay. His office smells like peppermint tea and old books. He smiles as if warmth could stitch me back together.

He begins gently. “I’d like to gather an extensive history, Devina.”

I nod, but I don’t answer alone. The vanished ones stir. Tell him what he wants to hear. Feed him scraps.

So I lie. I talk about nervousness, about worries that don’t matter. And the voices fill in the rest. Yes, doctor, she’s obsessed with her body. Yes, she fears blemishes and imperfections. That’s all it is. Nothing more sinister.

Dr. Hay jots notes, satisfied. “We can work together to rearrange your thoughts into more productive ones. When you catch yourself thinking something destructive, you replace it.”

Replace us? the voices hiss. We’re not walls to be papered over. We are the foundation.

He continues, unaware. “I’ll give you affirmations to practice during the day, statements about strength, safety, self-worth.”

Say them, Devina, they taunt. Say “I’m whole” while we hollow you out. Say “I am safe” while we gnaw you. His words are made of tissue paper.

Dr. Hay places a book in my hands. “I want you to keep a journal. Write down the compulsions, the thoughts, the progress.”

Yes, the voices croon. Write us into your diary. Chronicle our growth. Every word you pen is another thread binding you to us. We’ll dictate. We’ll carve our truths into your hand until you bleed.

I nod politely, pretending to agree. Dr. Hay beams, believing he’s given me tools to fight back.

But when I leave, the vanished ones whisper in triumph: His affirmations will rot in your mouth. Therapy is not a cure. It’s a cradle that we rock as we grow stronger.

They are growing powerful inside me, not whispers anymore but commands. I freeze at street corners, three paths pulling me in different directions. Friends peel away, angry at my unpredictability. My boyfriend leaves, sick of my moods. I fall in with the stoner crowd, always eager for a recruit willing to buy drugs and sink into rebellion. I drink. I drug. I let strangers touch me in ways I don’t want, because the screaming inside quiets when I drown myself in chaos. But it never lasts.

At home, I play dutiful daughter. My parents don’t deserve the monster I’ve become, so I keep my mask polished. I tell Dr. Hay the affirmations are working. I tell him that the journaling helps. I tell Dr. Berne I feel calmer. She nods, reassured in her belief in therapy. But inside, the two laugh. They sneer at my lies because they know the truth: they are no longer passengers. They are pilots.

Every day, I feel them swallowing me piece by piece. My laughter isn’t mine, my thoughts aren’t mine, my skin isn’t mine. I can’t tell where I end and they begin.

On a Saturday night, when my parents go to a movie, I make my decision. I write a suicide note, kind, composed, and full of lies. I tell them I can’t live with OCD. I tell them what wonderful parents they’ve been. I don’t mention the specters inside me. I don’t want them blamed for birthing me.

Then I take my father’s gun from the back of his closet. I sit on the edge of my bed. The barrel feels cold against my temple. I brace myself to pull the trigger.

That’s when the tug-of-war begins.

My hand jerks away from my head, then snaps back. I grip the gun tighter, then my own fingers pry at my wrist. It feels like invisible hands are wrestling for control of my body. I think of that old movie I watched with my parents, Dr. Strangelove. The scientist in the wheelchair who fought his own arm as it shot up in Nazi salutes, his body betraying him. That’s me now. Only it isn’t funny. It isn’t satire. It’s war.

I’m yanked left, right, gun swinging wildly, tears streaming down my face. My arm slams against my own ribs, then rises again, the muzzle shaking before my eye. My fingers twitch, tightening, loosening, tightening again. Two voices in my head scream they don’t want to die again.

I don’t know who won the wrestling match when everything goes dark.

Dr. Weiner has over 40 years’ experience as a clinical psychologist who
specializes in trauma recovery and anxiety disorders. He enjoys using stories
to help readers harness their resilience to aid them on their healing journey.
He has been published in a variety of professional journals and literary
fiction in over twenty-five magazines. His psychology books include Shattered
Innocence and the Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the
Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining. He has a monthly advice column in a
Portland Newspaper, AskDr.Neil.

You can find more of Neil’s work here on Ink Pantry.