CHAPTER THREE

At dark, I become loathsome.

It's a thought that comes to me quite frequently and rather naturally-an insidious little insect coiling in the darkest corners of my mind like a tiny metal spring, a well-oiled crank that spins freely and poisons the area around where it's been planted like a cancer, like a black root to spread further and further until my mind is as dark and as shiny as fresh tar.

I wonder if there's a way for me to become less despicable, less abhorrent, less nasty. But I've been this way for so long that I can scarcely recall a time when the night didn't peel from me a penance-a restitution for my vileness. Of course, I would pale, would scratch my eyes out and shuck the skin from my own body as if it were a large coat, if my wife and child ever saw what I have become. Their absence from my life is the reason I detest the nighttime so ferociously-the reason I've mutilated myself with metal, wires, and makeup to resemble the horrible creature I've always considered myself to be.

As I make the short, forty-five-minute trek back to Henley's Edge, I recall the moment that had changed my life forever: when I realized that my eight-year-old son, Bailey, was missing. I had told him to wait beside the small, loaded wagon in front of the market while I went back inside to see if I had misplaced my credit card, perhaps left it on the checkout counter. I couldn't have been gone more than two or three minutes-having located the card, loose in a pocket rather than tucked into my wallet as usual-before I returned to the front of the store to find our cart unattended. Some of the paper bags had tipped, spilling from the cart and dropping fresh produce all over the sidewalk. It was dark when they took him and has been dark ever since.

At dark, I become loathsome.

I think about my purpose and how life might be if I decided to forgo the rituals. I've found a semblance of meaning and comfort in helping others who are lost wanderers-bewildered drifters spinning carelessly through twilight's dimly lit theater. Still, there's a part of me that wonders how I might feel if I turned everyone and everything away until I was completely alone with my thoughts as my only companions.

That's when I truly become loathsome-when I'm left alone. Perhaps that's what I'm destined to become. Perhaps that's how it will end for me. What's the point of carrying on this charade, pretending that I actually care more about others' problems than my own? It's served as a decent distraction, but the same emptiness always returns when the ritual is completed and the client abandons me. For one brief moment, we're together and I feel as though I've genuinely connected with another human being. I feel far more connected than I had when I was painting and showing some of my work at local galleries. But the feeling never lasts, and it always hurts terribly when they go, fleeing as if they know full well that I'm cursed, that I'm a miserable forty-three-year-old wretch marked for extinction.

What's the point of carrying on when I know it's futile? There's nothing for me here. Perhaps there once was. But not anymore.

At dark, I become loathsome.

As I drive, I think of a story I had once heard about a little girl who was bitten by a snake. Her grandparents did all they could to try to save her, but she died in the back seat of their car while they were rushing to the nearest hospital.

Imagine their surprise-their shock, their amazement-when the doctors told them that she was alive.

Somehow, she had lived.

When they finally saw their little granddaughter again, she whispered to them that she had been to heaven. They asked her what she had seen-surely many magnificent wonders-but she shook her head and whispered, "Please don't make me say it."

"We won't be around much longer," her grandmother told her. "Won't you please tell us?"

"Please don't make me say it," the little girl repeated.

I think of how after weeks of their pleading going unanswered, the grandparents decided the child would tell them what she saw whether she liked it or not.

They locked her in a broom closet-hands and feet bound with duct tape and rope-and kept her there for seven days.

Every day, the grandmother would come to the door with a plate of food and ask. And every day the little girl would go without eating and say only, "Please don't make me say it."

When the child was too weak to move and near death, her grandmother pleaded, "Please. Tell me what it's like. I have to know."

That's when the little girl finally answered. "Heaven is a dark room," she said. "There's nothing for us there."

That's the only reason I haven't done anything substantial to end things permanently for myself. Because like that child, I know that there's nothing beyond this imitation of life. There's no hope of seeing my beloved wife or son ever again. The thoughts bend into me like fishing hooks, especially at nighttime.

At dark, I become loathsome.

*   *   *

*The following text is an excerpt from a large manuscript prepared by Ashley Lutin and concerns the details of his "fake death" ritual. It is understood that someone reading this particular section of text will be already familiar with the ritual in question.*

THE PRE-CARE

There's much to be considered when first engaging with the client in this ritual of imitation death.2 Not only is it imperative to develop a sense of trust, a bond of community with the client for the sake of camaraderie, but that relationship is fundamental to the overall success of the ritual.

There's a considerable amount of "pre-care" that goes into the successful organizing and implementation of the ritual. I go into detail of each aspect of pre-care in order to ensure that those who wish to partake in or implement their own version of this activity can do so in an ethical and efficient manner.

First, the client must remove all of their clothing, including undergarments, and be bathed by the caregiver in order to fully establish a sense of trust and to solidify a bond between the two, so that inhibitions are lowered completely. This is a highly necessary and fundamental aspect of the process and will determine whether the client is serious about completing the ritual.

Next, the client must dress in a white linen robe scented with lavender and jasmine. This must always be supplied by the caregiver and cannot be supplemented or altered by the client. The client may be allowed to dress in private.

Finally, if necessary and desired by the client, physical contact between the client and caregiver is allowed. This is to include only hand-holding and hugging. Any other form of physical contact is prohibited between client and caregiver as it would significantly diminish the integrity of the ritual.

These efforts by the caregiver to establish trust and develop understanding with the client are necessary to effectively begin the ritual of the "fake death." In the several months I've been practicing these rituals, I've come to learn that those who are afflicted with severe depression are more guarded than others when it comes to certain aspects of pre-care. It's in the caregiver's best interest to find common ground with the client and establish trust so that the ritual can be as effective and as meaningful as possible.

*   *   *

When I finally arrive home, I stagger over a small pile of past-due bills carpeting the foyer floor.

Picking one up, I read the words Final Notice printed in bold, red lettering on the front of the envelope.

I toss it aside and head into the living room where I dump some of my bags and then crash into the chair angled at the television set.

My attention can't help but drift to a small pile of canvases arranged in the corner of the room-leaning there, facing the wall like scolded schoolchildren. It feels like time has frozen for those half-finished paintings-relics from a life I once cheerfully led and would unquestionably never know again. Sometimes I flip through the abandoned canvases-the various projects I had left in midsentence. There's a half-finished painting of a young man I once fancied, seated on a bench at the local park. Another is a rough but nearly complete image of a bouquet of blue hydrangeas.

Of course, I've thought of tipping the canvases out, carrying them to the backyard, striking a match, and watching them burn. But there's a quiet part of me that realizes I can't bear to part with them. It's the same reason I can't bear to touch any of the money in my son's college fund. There have been times when I've thought of making a withdrawal. But I can never seem to bring myself to actually go through with it. It would hurt too much.

My fingers tap on my phone screen as I log onto a private instant messaging forum. I type in my username, "sad_boy," and enter my password.

A number of unread private messages await me and I begin scrolling through them.

One in particular catches my attention. I can't pinpoint why, but there's a sudden need to read this note.

I need your help. Can we schedule a time to meet?-J.

At that moment, my phone vibrates with an incoming call. The caller's number appears only as "unknown."

I slide to answer, holding the phone against my...