She stands up. In response to the Moonlight and a multitude of eyes looking at her with an undeniable sympathy, she says, "I persuaded my mom to clean up my room and in exchange I would do dish for next two weeks."
Silence. Everybody jots down what she says as if they are the words of a dying prophet. But he responds, "That's a horrible deal."
Nobody utters another word. He pulls out a gun, shoots her, and shoots everybody else. Blood everywhere. He smiles. He walks out. There is a dandelion on her chest
Winds pass by. He looks up at the sky, thinking about what she has just done. The night before he could feel the warmth, but now it's gone. He remembers nothing. Sky is blue. It has always been blue, and it will remain blue. Where would it end, he wonders. He turns on the video and plays Donnie Darko. Outside the window a mailwoman drives by. She screams at its reflection. He opens the window, and asks her, "If the world is really mad, why could it be bought with only 17 cents?"
She keeps screaming.
"Hello," she greets.
He shouts back, "Hell, no!"
"TMS," the professor explains, "which stands for transcranial magnetic stimulation, is a recent technology in which a magnetic loop is placed over your head and generates a magnetic current."
He sits with his head down, barely listening but imagining every single word.
"Afterwards," the professor continues, "it turns into an electrical current to stimulate your brain. A special aspect of this technology is that it can affect a specific plane of your brain, rendering a specific behavior."
Drooling, he just wants to lie down sleeping wide awake. Think, he tells himself, if it can be applied to a mass of people like a radio wave you would have thousands of puppets manipulated by your strings. The idea amuses him, and on his paper the word "Judith" has been scribbled numerous times. An echo resonates within himself, '…you're funny…you're funny…' He gets out of the classroom and goes home. She hands him a butter-knife. It's a pink one. It's pretty. "Yes you may," they whisper.
Dance like a butterfly. If you can turn it back you would so do it. Make that one flap of wings and everything would be fine. Smell those flowers. Smell those trees. It's all her wine to drink anyway. Never wander. Keep focused. That's my good boy. No, I didn't ask you to shake those hands—he puts down his pen and hesitates to take a nap; sleeping pill bottle is empty.
The two walk together, holding hands. He confesses, "You know, it's hard for me to realize that someone likes me. The moment I even remotely assumes that she does everything just falls apart. So I just play safe and distance myself from the thought that someone likes me."
Squirrels and blackbirds frolic around the park. A bright sunshine blesses the day, and the animals are not afraid of people. They play in the park, and do not run away even if a human comes within couple feet of them. "What would you rather be, a squirrel or a blackbird?" she asks.
"Blackbird," he answers.
"Why?" she inquires.
"Blackbird," he repeats.
They keep on walking. He looks behind; the squirrel is digging the ground. So is he. She moves. She sits on the bench. He is conscious.
On the top of the mountain everything is beautiful. A panoramic scenery captivates his soul. Who is that poet who committed a suicide after being intoxicated by the sunshine? People are taking pictures of themselves. Berries of all color enshrine the rocky peak.
In the house he thinks back. Is it this moment that he just wants to sprint as hard as he can towards the edge of the rock? Or is it there, too? He rolls down the hill. Someone warns him if he appears again two notches of head will be wasted. It's one of those thoughts that are so unbelievably attractive in the imaginary frame of mind that he is surprised he didn't do it and the next time he would not resist. But it's crazy. It's a sheer insanity. "When you jump into the air it's all one…there is no confusion…there is no struggle…it's just…there…" he tells in front of the crowd.
Horse stays still. On the mountainside, streams still serenade whistling leaves. She so knew it.
"Why would you sleep over there, like a slave?" she yells at him.
"I don't know. Should there be a reason and logic for everything? What if logic itself is unstable?" he retorts back.
He just can't believe it. His guitar is thrown. It hits the wall. It hits her. He starts smashing it on the face. Bones are broken, and voice never does itself a justice. Someone agrees, "What you thought were squirrels were rats…what you thought were humans were rats…"
Pounding doesn't stop.
Face never was there to begin with anyway. It probably means the same, though. He starts drawing. Her eyes. Her nose. Her hair. He frantically wields the brush, giving accent here and there and emphasizing certain hues. When the portrayal is completed, he looks at it intensely. He recognizes all the features, all the beautiful contours and colors he himself has created. But it's just not there; it never was and never will be. "Please…" he begs futilely.
"Why? Do you want to see your father?" the man in the white coat tells him. He's small. He's curious. He just nods, "Yes."
The man leads him to the lab. The refrigerator door is open and chilly air fogs out. The man shows him the little cylinder, "Here he is."
He just stands there; his eyes are numb.
"It's not like you killed someone," the song continues. He couldn't stand it, but he knows there is something appealing about it. In this dark room, he cringes in fear. The very notion is horrifying. The luminescent statue keeps glowing in a rainbow spectrum. She was here, but she herself has to go. He reminds himself, he will never do it again, he will never do it again…
Feelings can be enthralling. He really means it in a bad manner. Another night goes by and he's still cold. Posters have been ripped. Pictures have been burned.
And another line has been drawn.
He changes the song to "A Whole New World." Inside he is nothing but a creature suffering from two incompatible desires. "A whole new world, that's where we'll be," the song goes on. No he won't. Never. Not until he turns the page. There is the Bible in front of him. He starts laughing uncontrollably and she injects another dose of morphine. Nobody can help it.
He asks her, "So, would he still see all the features?"
"Yes, he would. Prosopagnosia is very interesting in that the person would still see everything. For example, a woman with prosopagnosia can tell what color a man's eyes are, whether he has beard, etc., but she wouldn't be able to tell if he's her husband or not," the professor explains.
"Hold on, if she can identify all those unique features, wouldn't she be able to match those features with those of her husband?" he further inquires.
"That's another interesting part. Even though people with prosopagnosia can see all the idiosyncrasies of a face, they wouldn't recognize who that person is that has all those features. Face recognition seems to be a holistic process," the professor clarifies.
Keep dancing like a butterfly. Can you still do it? No matter how many flaps are made, it won't make a single difference. They have compound eyes, and that's all that is relevant. And imagine how would it be if humans don't have peripheral vision. It would be like everybody walking around trying to see through an elongated rectangular box. Boy, they will be focused.
"How are you feeling?" the doctor asks him.
He rolls his wheelchair forward, so he can get a better view over the hill. He says, "I'm actually feeling pretty good today."
It's a dazzling day. Not a cloud is on that blue sky, and a gentle breeze softly stirs the evergreen grass over the rolling hills. A group of pigeons peacefully slides over the sunset horizon. He asks, "Remember how she burned herself in that house?"
The doctor remains silent. The doctor makes an awkward attempt to change the topic, "Do you know what phantom limb syndrome is?"
"Maybe," he replies.
The doctor answers, "It refers to the painful sensation on amputated limbs. You feel like your amputated limbs are still attached to you and you feel pain from them…even though pain was never even there…"