The Plug In

The plug in was slightly painful, a shock of electricity running up the spine and crashing into the nerve endings. It fueled me though, refreshed me. Each time I reached for the plug, hands shaking as my battery level tipped to zero percent, it was a relief to feel new life pulsing into my being. And that’s what I was- a machine with a single and specific use, left to fend alone when that use is unneeded. Sometimes I was abused, over used, too long without some plug in time. Sometimes I would even shutdown if left alone and running too long because it hurt to plug myself in; it was hard. The darkness scared me- not when it overtook me because I had no consciousness then but afterwards when my partner would come back and help plug me in again. I was helpless without him. Lost to a world that overtook me, grabbed hold and refused to let go.

Don’t let me slip again. Don’t leave me running alone. I don’t like the dark place- I’m nothing in the dark place. I begged him each day. His apologies were shorter each time, his hands were on me less and less.

I don’t always remember when I’m alone. It’s hard to remember I need to recharge when you don’t remind me and it hurts- reaching out for the plug, plugging in. The shock is too much.

I’m sorry, but I have to leave. You understand that don’t you? To go to work, to pay for the electricity that feeds you- he said.

When you are here I don’t need as much. I‘m not as lost. The overload of information I receive in my head makes it hurt. It’s worse than the shock of being plugged in. there’s no surge of relief with the onslaught of information. It’s just a rush of all of these ideas and details that I can’t sort out.

My partner doesn’t understand this- he doesn’t see what I see and can’t help my mind settle. I need direction. He doesn’t have direction. But it’s not as bad as the darkness so I can’t really leave.

If he forgets to plug me in he can keep me- I can’t leave with a low battery. I suspect he knows this. How far would I get? Not to the next flat, not off the street- When I fall into the darkness anyone could take me, pick me up and use me. They would learn that they could keep my battery low…

I’m leaving. My battery was full when he made it home. He couldn’t’ stop me and I needed out. My eyes burned from all of the information pulsing past them. I was going to crash if I stayed here much longer.

I need a connection, someone who could connect with the information that plays behind my eyes. Someone needed to sort it all out for me.

A user, I needed a user. Of course, who could find one for me? I wouldn’t be terribly easy to get along with- what with the plug ins, shutdowns and processing. That was the problem with my last user; he couldn’t process me.

Years alone- fighting to plug myself in- to process what I saw…I shouldn’t have left. I can’t stand this madness. I groped in the dark too many times, was found by this person or that and briefly cared for. I was cast out when a more compatible version came along.

My battery was running dangerously low again. I was alone- staring at the wall, the socket, my plug. I was too tired to try. I didn’t want the pain. I would just allow my battery level to hit zero. I would fade into the black non-existence that haunted at the edge of my thoughts, that tainted the information that passed by my eyes daily. I could leave it all behind and stop caring. I knew once I hit the darkness I simply wouldn’t hear or feel or remember or know. I could handle that. A few more moments of blinking apprehension and sheer panic and then that would be that…

The shock of another plug in, the swell of relief as my body surged with power. My brain was being stimulated at last. I saw everything at once, all that he was, that he is, that he would be. I saw each detail of the room, felt the air movement and it shook me to the core.

Delete, I needed the delete key before too much information overtook me, fried my hard drive. I would fall into the overload, the one with no relief. I would be stuck on a loop of information and be stuck in something worse than the unseeing darkness-

Then he spoke and it was like he’d grabbed hold of my mouse, terminated a few unnecessary processes, and opened a new word document. I watched as everything we said laid itself out neatly on the page before us. Perfect, neat. Times New Roman Font 12 with 1.5 line spacing. And utterly perfect grammar. I could see it, follow it, understand all of it. A computer and his user…

Explained Out

               “None at all? I mean, do you even- by yourself?”

                Logan narrowed his eyes. “You always ask people about their sex lives?” Three days into this rooming situation, and Logan was already finding himself on the defensive. He had hoped to escape some of the hypersexualized society high school had bred.

                “Well, no,” the guy said defensively.

                Retorts ran rampant in Logan’s head- how often do you fuck? Who do you fuck? Does it mean anything to you beyond primal mashing of sweaty bodies- but he stayed quiet. Instead, Logan pulled out his chemistry textbook and settled his back against the wall as he sat on his bed. They’d split the room about fifty-fifty, but it was so small he felt suffocated by the other’s presence.

                “I’m going out tonight with some friends. We’re going to check out the downtown scene.” The guy paused, scratched his chin. “Wanna come?”

                Peering over the edge of the book, Logan watched the guy fidget and tried to remember his name. “No, I’ve got some studying to do.” As an afterthought, “Thanks, though.”

                “Anytime,” the guy muttered and moved around the room.

He made a lot of noise, clattering things on his desk, slamming drawers, but Logan managed to ignore most of it. He flipped pages occasionally to keep up the pretense of reading, hoping the guy would chose to leave soon. He had to have a class or something, right?

A knock sounded at the door, freeing them from the awkward quietness and at the same time heightening the stress pouring through Logan’s veins. They both paused, and it was the other guy who called out, “Come in!”

The door slid open quietly and a familiar face covered in freckles. Carl. The roommate stared at the intruder with a questioning scrunch of the face, but Logan smiled widely.

“Come on in,” Logan said putting his book down. The short kid slipped inside, shutting the door as quietly as he opened it, and climbed onto the bed after a brief pause casting a look at the other guy in the room. Logan gave a slight shake of the head letting Carl know he wasn’t going to introduce them.

The kid- mere months younger than Logan but far less confident- sat with his own back against the wall and bumped his leg up against Logan’s. He was a very physical person, using the touch as a calming method. Logan was happy to help, not minding the coping mechanism at all. He sat a hand on Carl’s knee.

“You ready for tomorrow?”

Carl shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll come by your room early, ‘kay?”

This time he nodded, and his face lifted some of the stress-lines away. “Yeah.” He tipped his head over onto Logan’s shoulder while Logan pulled his chemistry book back out.

“I thought you were asexual…” the roommate made himself known again.

“What?” Logan glanced over the top of the book once more, thinking that he would be having a lot of conversations that way.

He pointed between the two guys on the bed. “You guys are together?” His face pulled up again in a scrunched way that made him look like he was constipated.

“We’re friends,” Carl whispered and pulled away. His freckled cheeks ran red.

Logan pulled him back over, not allowing anyone dictate the way his friendships worked. “Just friends. Again, not any of your business. Unless you wanna swap stories, tell me about your penis?” He may have just snapped. Logan immediately regretted it and bit down on his tongue.

The guy reeled back and shook his head, looking down at his feet. “Nah, I was just. Never mind.” He grabbed his bag, waved goodbye and ducked out of the room.

Logan sighed and sunk back into himself. He should have just explained. Talked about it. The guy wouldn’t understand until it was explained to him. Logan was just tired of being the one to explain himself. He guessed he’d have to talk to the guy- and find out his name- tomorrow.

Waiting

He sat on the bench at the train platform, hand over hand atop a cane. A light breeze tousled the wisps of white hair that dusted his head, and the sun shone brightly across the uncovered tracks. He stared straight ahead, mouth a thin straight line and nearly black eyes glazing as the minutes passed by.

The clacking of a coming train drew his attention left, and the black of his eyes began to shine with something. Hope. It sat in the corner of his mouth as his lips began a slow ascent into a smile. 

This is the one, he thought as his hands tightened anticipatorily on the knobby wooden cane. 

The cane was old, hand-carved by a craftsman in a small town the old man once lived in. He’d gotten the cane when he was a young man, hoping it would make him look proper or interesting. It was a conversation starter, an attention grabber; something the man didn’t think he had naturally.

The train came to a bustling stop, a blast of polluted air filling the station anew. The man shifted in his seat, but did not get up. His eyes kept darting from door to door, waiting for them to spring open and release who he was waiting for. 

He could still remember the linen pants, cream and bright against midnight black skin. The brightly colored shirts to offset the plain bottoms. The long, slender hands that tugged at the shirt sleeves as though the bright colors were too much. The smile, the small gap in the front teeth where he would catch a glimpse of tongue pressed against the teeth in moments of anxiety. The smooth skin along a sharp, squared jaw. He remembered all of things clearly and sought them again now, older certainly, with wrinkles set in where none had been before or gray in the hair perhaps. It had been years since he’d seen the other man, but he would recognize his friend, his secret lover, with only a glance. 

The old man had been in love in a time when he couldn’t be, at least, not with the man who had taken his heart. It was expected that he settle with a woman. And women were fine enough, he guessed, but he had never loved a woman before and didn’t think he ever would. Not counting mother, but that’s a different sort of love, isn’t it? 

So when his state overturned the discriminatory marriage laws, he began to write letters. He couldn’t bring himself to send them at first; it had been years since he spoken to James, and he wasn’t sure James even had the same address anymore. Still, after the sixth written and unsent letter, the desire to see his friend again outweighed the nervousness of rejection. He began to send a letter a week, and each Sunday he would walk down to the train station and wait. James would come. He didn’t respond to any of the letters, but he knew James would come.

The doors rushed open, and people burst forth, hurrying this way and that. The old man had to stand to see through the throng of people, seeking the familiar shape amongst the unfamiliar. He craned his neck, pushed up on the cane to see over heads too tall for him. He looked from doorway to doorway, hoping not to miss a moment. The train emptied, the people dispersed, and the old man was left alone the bench again. He took a deep breath, let it out through his nose, and started home. 

He would need to start on the next letter; he would need to come back next Saturday.