Less Than Whole

Des visited Ebon in his new house after he graduated from the Library Science program. She’d brought a houseplant, a Boston fern, she said. They were supposed to make the air clean. Ebon touched the feathery leaves. They weren’t as soft as they looked. But it was pretty and he had a small solarium in the back of the house.

Ebon’s living room was still sparsely furnished, but there was a comfy couch near the fireplace and a table next to it with a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. He put the plant next to the menthol cigarettes and sank into the couch. It seemed to swallow him. Des sat down across from him in another small chair. She watched him pick up the cigarettes.

“Want one?”

“Since when do you smoke?”

“Since I fucked Dean Faraji,” he said. He lit one of the cigarettes and drew in deeply.

“You did not!”

“I did. How do you think I passed and got my Master’s Degree? None of my work was up to par. My Master’s thesis was incomplete. He’s even giving me a good recommendation for the Special Collections job at the University Library.”

Des shook her head and stared at him. A cloud of haze hung around his head. She noticed he needed a haircut. His hair was getting rather shaggy. “Unbelievable.”

“Well, I am hot, right?”

Des rolled her eyes. Both of them shared good looks, but Ebon had always easily attracted others. He was gay, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a lot of women wanting his body, too. It seemed like everyone wanted him. Des had always had to try harder. She was more serious. While Ebon had partied, she’d studied. He didn’t seem to have changed much either since he lost his soul.

Except for the cigarettes and his hair, she amended. He had always been so careful before about his looks and his health.

“Why are you smoking, Ebon?”

“I don’t know… I mean, at first, I did it because Dean Faraji did and I figured ‘Why not’? Then I did it because the smoke filled me up inside—I could imagine it being inside of me. I feel so empty, Des. Now I do it especially when I think I want to end my life. Instead of killing myself outright, I can kill myself in inches. It’s better that way.”

Des didn’t know what to say. She was shocked.

Ebon watched her watching him. He felt nothing at all. He felt that way because he was getting good at pushing his feelings down deep inside of him. If he let them up, he would freak out. There was no afterlife for him. There was nothing. He’d given away the part of him that was eternal.

But he would have done it again. He could never have watched Des go through this. Never.

“How is your husband?” he asked to change the subject.

Des snapped out of her thoughts. “He’s OK, I guess. We don’t talk as much since the Summoning. I think maybe he feels guilty for talking me into it.”

“You know he still flirts with me.”

“I know. I wish I didn’t know, but I know.”

“When are you getting divorced?”

“Who said anything about divorce? I’d like things to work with me and Cedric. I’m sorry they’re not right now.”

Ebon lit another cigarette. “He’s not good for you. He’s not good enough for you.”

Suddenly she was cross. “But if he’d asked you to fuck him, you would have, wouldn’t you?”

Ebon leaned forward. “I don’t know, back before, maybe. Now, definitely not.”

“Why?”

Ebon laughed. “I’m talking casually about cuckolding you and you ask why I wouldn’t anymore?”

Des frowned. “Just answer the question.”

“Because there’s no point. That’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what I mean. There’s not point in anything, really. I’m not sure how I keep getting up everyday or why. I look forward to smoking, though. I look forward to breakfast. That’s about it.”

Des came over to the couch. She was sobbing now and put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said. He hugged her. He didn’t tell her that she was one of the reasons he kept going. He didn’t know how to say it without sounding cheesy or like a sentimental after school TV movie. He hoped she knew anyway and held onto to her for as long as possible.

* * *

That night, Ebon’s dream returned. He could feel that it wasn’t exactly real, but it didn’t matter because it seemed as real as the day it had actually happened. He felt something, like a rip in his skin, only he could see that his long, lean body was still intact. He felt himself forced open, spread wide, even though he hadn’t moved at all. He felt himself being turned inside out and pulled and stretched until part of him broke a little. Like ripping seams out of a hem, the thing inside of him peeled away bit by bit. Over and over he heard himself screaming, but in the nearby mirror he saw his mouth was closed.

Finally, he woke. He sat up and gasped. He swore and pushed his long black hair out of his eyes. With fumbling fingers, he felt for his box of cigarettes in the dark. He lit one, smoked it, and lit another one off the first. His fingers trembled and he wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep again. He felt so empty, so completely empty.

The worst part about the nightmares is that they were like a digital recording of what had happened over a year ago: they didn’t vary in intensity. They didn’t fade a little over time. Every time he had this nightmare, he felt exactly the same as he had the day it happened. He saw his sister’s living room covered in charcoal drawings and chalk. He saw the furniture pushed to the walls, the fire burning in the fireplace, the demon standing handsome and reasonable in the middle of a pentagram. It was like reliving it every time.

He wanted to smoke again, but his throat felt so dry. He looked into the dark of his room, saw books filling the bookcases in the wall, saw the stars outside. He walked over to his bathroom sink and drank from the faucet until he was full of water.

He felt better. He felt so much better.

Even still, he lay awake for some time, staring at the ceiling, thinking nothing at all