Cessation

I found this story while mindlessly cleaning computer files. I have a vague memory of writing it. It's fuzzy, though.

Andy Hill knew he needed to cease, but the numbers prevented his cessation. They forced him to perpetuate. 

This morning, like most mornings, he woke with a dark, festering hole in his stomach. The hole was always painful, but it could be addressed and healed partially if he accounted for its origins and reasonings. He could then drink some water, defecate, find clothes, and leave the house. 

The night had been typical, which meant it was a series of predictable events. He transitioned from active afternoon engagement with his work to general but distant evening engagement with his work, to time-has-no-meaning slightly drunk engagement with his work, to late night ashamed engagement with his work, to no engagement with his work. Previously in the day, he might have interacted with a person or persons, but the process was the same. People or business. It didn’t matter. The process of engagement was the same. 

The night routine then moved to a shower to remove the fetid disappointment that gradually accumulated, each speck of dust clinging to his skin, first thin and unremarkable in their collection, but swiftly thick and sticky in their exhaustion. Then violent drying of the body with a scratchy towel to remove as much detritus and dust as possible. Then bed. Then hours wondering where the specks of disappointing dust ended up when they went down the shower drain. Then sleep. 

Then waking with a start when his brain told him it was time to panic again. Then half-sleep. Then alarm, shrieking the public advisory that disappointment dust was ready to clock back in. Another shower to start over and resume active engagement. 

At some point along the day, Andy always found time to check the balances of his accounts, cards, loans, debts, and promises. They weren’t changing much, numbers too small in some places and too big in others, but he always checked. A kind of fuzz would enter his brain whenever he logged in. It had a texture and a sound. The fuzz was a constant companion who was mostly quiet, but loved the word “bank” and would light up at the thought of it. When the word “bank” entered Andy’s brain, the fuzz grabbed him by the cheeks, making his skin heat up in a way that was not exactly uncomfortable but was certainly noticeable. It then kissed him on the lips and jumped through his forehead to sit in its happy place, tickling his neurons and whispering to the grey matter. Andy’s ears would start ringing at impossibly high pitches and his vision would blur. His heart rate increased even as his brain receded into the fuzz, luxuriating in its familiarity. The fuzz was his best friend and his most vicious and diabolical torturer. 

If Andy ceased, he wasn’t sure where the fuzz would go. Would it find another bank and another brain to call home? Or would it also cease?

In theory, certain things are how they are supposed to be. Andy knew there were things in the world that existed without the fuzz, but he was increasingly finding it hard to locate them. The fuzz covered his eyes, so Andy couldn’t quite make out those independently existing entities. When the fuzz got tired, Andy could sometimes see the things, but the fuzz only needed a short break before giving him another smooch and settling back in, the things obscured again. 

Andy didn’t want to cease because he couldn’t see how it would change anything in the long run. But he did need to, which meant he needed to fix the numbers and let the fuzz move on. 

But Andy couldn’t bear the uncertainty of not knowing where his fuzz would go if it moved on. So he said, “Okay, Fuzz, goodnight.” Andy tucked the fuzz into bed, closed his eyes, and slept a dusty half-sleep.