Period Read online

  ANONBOY

  16: But I don’t even know him. I’m not doing anything.

  MINDMELD

  5: Perhaps it’s something you did before. That could be it. Wait one moment. Do you know the name Etan?

  ANONBOY

  16: Etan? No. But I don’t know what you mean about

  MINDMELD

  5: The one named Etan is the strongest energy source.

  ANONBOY

  16: tearing him apart. I don’t know who Etan is, unless I’m Etan. Like I told you, I don’t know who I am.

  MINDMELD

  5: Wait. Something is happening.

  EgoreG entered my life through the website. He sent an e-mail, claiming “George”’s ghost had come across him one night, liked his likeness, and disappeared inside his body, which changed his real name to that dumb anagram. He attached a self-portrait to bolster his theory. Unfortunately, it was such a cute shot that I threw away logic, and sprung for his airfare. But, of course, he was just photogenic, and everything else was the tumor. Or I see that now.

  Long story short, Henry has carved a crude frame around EgoreG’s ass, ripped it up, passed it sideways to Duke, dug through some undergrowth, found a flooded compartment, cleared it of organs, punched a little hole in the bottom, watched it drain, and is smashing the structure inside with a leg he just snapped off my chair.

  I’m a little depressed, leaning in a corner. “Guys, hey. Listen.”

  “What? Shut up,” Henry says, realizing it’s me.

  I’m studying the aforementioned mirror. In Period, “George” hallucinates that his reflection is someone named “Dagger.” “Dagger” thrills everyone in the flat, backwards world, particularly “Bob,” who may know about the more dimensional “George.” It’s complicated, but “George” shoots himself, which causes “Dagger” and he to change places. Or something like that. More importantly, boys in the mirror’s world-ette can’t be killed, which is why I’m fixated on mine. Anyway, the switcheroo doesn’t work, not here, not now, not on EgoreG, at least.

  “It’s just that he was supposed to kill himself,” I say. “That’s all.” I guess that’s splitting hairs at this stage. But I’m tired. We’re all tired.

  Crane’s work depends on a reader’s conjecture, with one big exception. Suicide is the act that makes “George” haunt the artist, which causes to him build the house on which the narrative pivots. Without that house, there is no novel. Without the novel, this is my simple apartment. If that’s true, then Henry’s just killed someone who would have been dead in a month or two anyway, period.

  — We’re in The Darkness. Who’s this?

  — Leon?

  — Oh, great. I’m on the air, George. Thanks a lot, Ed. Ed is the guy who screens callers for me, everybody.

  — What?

  — Alright, fine. Briefly, very briefly, this is my ex-boyfriend, George. Christ, the show is getting so personal tonight.

  — Leon, I need to talk to you. Please.

  — Why? Why in the world do you want to talk to me, George? I mean, really, why?

  — I keep thinking about something, and I can’t stop. I’m really losing it. I know I always say—

  — God, how stoned are you? Look, George, we broke up. Do you know what I mean? You’ve got to sort of do something else when you get like this.

  — I’m scared. I keep thinking about killing myself, and I can’t stop. I tried to call Walker, but—

  — That’s Walker Crane, the writer we were just talking about. An evil man. He made George get completely dependent on him, and then he dumped him, and exploited him for that novel, the fucking psychopath. He used him, alright? This is what I was talking about, Roman, if you’re still listening.

  — What?

  — George and I broke up last week. Okay, I broke up with him. He needs to go to a rehab center or a mental hospital or something, but he won’t, and he makes everyone he knows fucking deal with it. Oops, sorry about that, Ed. Anyway, he’s had a horrible life. I’m not saying that he hasn’t. Really evil things have happened to him.

  — Leon?

  — What, George?

  — I’m going to kill myself tonight. I’m pretty sure.

  — George, I can not do this right now. Look, I swear, if you call me at home tomorrow, I promise I’ll pick up, okay?

  — You won’t.

  — Oh, great. Now you’re going to make me worry about you. That’s so typical. Jesus.

  — Don’t worry about me.

  — Yeah, I wish.

  — I, you know …

  — George? Oh, great. Is he gone, Ed? He hung up. Alright, sorry about that, everybody. Let’s take a break, okay? I need one. We’re in The Darkness.

  One night, George shot himself, just like in Period, and Walker’s order collapsed. He hid his emotions in poems, numbed them with Nate, buried them under his fan mail, then joined his fans’ escapades into the novel. But where they saw dense, hairpin mysteries spiraling into some ever backpedaling truth, he just saw machinery, designed to change someone too painful to love into something so perfect, it would transcend mere attraction. In Period, an artist not unlike Walker spent his life trying to recreate “George” in his art. He finally succeeded, with the support of an evil, omniscient strain in his environment. When he realized the “George” he’d made was deformed by his weak imagination, he had to kill himself, in order to satisfy the book’s mirrorlike structure. In the real world, things weren’t that simple deep down and complex on the surface. It was more like the opposite, meaning Walker and everyone else George Miles touched, in whatever form, could do nothing but wonder about him, and suffer the consequence.

  ANONBOY

  16: Hello?

  ANONBOY

  16: Hello?!!!

  MINDMELD

  5: Someone is dead. It might be the boy in the pictures, or it might be … Wait. No, it’s not the boy in the pictures. This makes no sense to me. Everything is reconfiguring. Hold on.

  ANONBOY

  16: What the hell is going on? You mean dead like DEAD?

  MINDMELD

  5: Almost nothing is there now. Nothing where he was. I have never experienced anything like this. I’ve lost everything except your energy and the energy named Etan.

  ANONBOY

  16: I guess I don’t believe you.

  MINDMELD

  5: I won’t be able to explain this phenomenon. It is beyond my abilities. It’s unique to my experience. Would you like to send a psychic message to the person named Etan? That is all I can do for you.

  ANONBOY

  16: Shit.

  MINDMELD

  5: I apologize.

  ANONBOY

  16: Okay. Tell him that when someone who wants to know about George Miles contacts him … Wait, how do I contact him?

  MINDMELD

  5: Hold on.

  MINDMELD

  5: Send him an e-mail at this address. [email protected]. Attach a picture of you if that’s possible. Do not tell him why you’re contacting him. Just send the picture, explain that you need to talk to him, and give him a time when you will be online. Can you do that?

  ANONBOY

  16: Sure.

  MINDMELD

  5: Hold on.

  MINDMELD

  5: Yes. The message is sent. I feel a positive reception. The one named Etan has enclosed the energy that I have sent to him. I feel that he will be receptive to your e-mail. Can I do anything else for you?

  ANONBOY

  16: No, I guess not.

  I’m in my office, showing Henry the updated website. Duke’s in the guest room, still snapping pictures, the last time I checked. I wish they’d leave, and drive EgoreG into the desert, like we agreed. But Henry’s lost in The George Miles Zone, clicking open and closing some JPEGs. Inexplicably, it’s the page on my website that gets the most hits per month by a gigantic margin, even though it was sort of an afterthought.

  “I swear I know this kid,” Henry says. “I can’t
remember from where, though.”

  “George is a recluse, so I’d be surprised.” That reminds me.

  “I’m thinking on film, TV, something.” He opens a head-shot, click-click enlarges it into a backlit abstraction, and studies his vague, pixelated reflection.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” I say.

  I walk into the guest room, nod at Duke, avoid stepping in EgoreG, and hunt around for my cellphone, which got knocked or kicked under the busted chair, but appears to have survived, or at least the automatic dial button is glowing.

  “Crane, are you there?” I ask a machine. “It’s Bob. I know you said to stop hassling you, but George Miles keeps phoning. Can’t you call him one time, so he’ll get off my case? I’d appreciate it.”

  “Was that the Crane?” Duke says, once I’ve hung up. He’s still busily shooting the mess from innumerable angles. “Are you going to tell him what we did?”

  “God, no.” I can’t believe these guys. “You obviously don’t know him.”

  Back in the office, Henry is studying George. Of course, it’s not really George, or the chances of it being him are extremely remote. I don’t want to know what George looks like, especially after our few conversations. As far as I’m concerned, George looks like the boy in these JPEGs. I found them in a pedophile newsgroup. For all I know, they could be shots from some family vacation. For all I know, they could have been taken before I was born. For all I know, the boy in these pictures is dead. That would explain a lot.

  Cycle

  I remember being

  17, loving myself.

  It was such a shock

  to turn 18 and feel

  the tail end of my

  parents’ love, the

  lack of a public’s,

  the offer of George’s,

  when it was too deep

  for my purposes.

  I love my characters.

  They resemble George

  slightly, though cuter

  and less fascinating.

  People say they’re

  sympathetic, that I’m

  an evil genius. My

  novel’s more real

  than the lives of its

  readers, apparently;

  does this mean I’m

  loved again at 24?

  I say, I’m on my way

  there at least, with

  or without George.

  I get sick of fiction.

  I’ll be sick of George

  too, I’m sure, but

  never of myself. I

  hate how that works.

  NATETAN:

  Hi. Okay, so I read your e-mail, and opened the pict file. You got my attention. What do you want?

  ANONBOY16:

  Want to know about George Miles.

  ANONBOY16:

  Hello?

  NATETAN:

  Sorry. It’s just a little weird.

  ANONBOY16:

  Don’t know anything about him. Just know you’re connected to him.

  NATETAN:

  Weird. Yeah, I am. So what do you want to know?

  ANONBOY16:

  Everything. First, is he dead? Was told he was dead.

  NATETAN:

  Is he dead? Yeah, definitely. He killed himself.

  ANONBOY16:

  Sorry. Why did he do it?

  NATETAN:

  Why? How do I know? It’s a horrible world. I’m horrible. Everyone’s horrible. Who knows what anything means? Why do you care?

  ANONBOY16:

  Kind of embarrassed to say. Think I look a lot like him. Guess that’s part of the reason.

  NATETAN:

  You look like me.

  ANONBOY16:

  Maybe I could come visit you. Research George’s life and things like that. Think I might have lived there before, and … What do you mean I look like you?

  NATETAN:

  You don’t want to come here. It’s a horrible place. Everyone here is either evil or they have evil things done to them. It’s better not to know anything. I mean it. If you lived here before and got away, stay away.

  ANONBOY16:

  What did you mean I look like you?

  How does it feel in the ground, George?

  Cold and good, I guess. Feels right.

  And you just lie there … and …?

  For a while now, enjoying the nothing.

  And when the time moves along?

  I’m just floating away to wherever.

  You aren’t afraid of the nothing?

  What, of the worms and shit? No.

  People say death is the ultimate.

  So I’ve heard. Not my decision.

  People say life is the ultimate.

  It might be. I don’t remember.

  So why not just … kill myself?

  That’s a hard one to answer.

  ’Cos I’m tired of life’s bullshit.

  Well, there’s no bullshit here.

  So you’d recommend dying?

  Hard to say. Why are you asking?

  ’Cos death seems so awesome.

  Maybe, but all I ever feel is …

  ANONBOY16:

  So who was George Miles? Just curious. Know there’s something there.

  NATETAN:

  Where do I start? My boyfriend Walker wrote this amazing book about him. It makes George sound like the cutest, most fascinating guy in the world, but then he supposedly flipped out or something. It’s kind of mysterious.

  ANONBOY16:

  Strange. Why did he flip out?

  NATETAN:

  I don’t know. Too many drugs, I guess. There was more to it than that, though. If you want to know my take on the whole thing, I get the feeling that something horrible happened to him. I think somebody raped and tortured him and shit, and then nobody would sleep with him anymore, and he couldn’t deal with the loneliness. There are all these hints about that.

  NATETAN:

  Look, I’m lying. I can’t tell you the truth. I promised someone I wouldn’t. I wish I could.

  ANONBOY16:

  Strange. That’s what happened to me. A forest ranger found me in the woods about six months ago. Doctors said I was raped and beaten and strangled. They say it’s strange I survived. Don’t like to think about it. But that’s strange about George. Knew there was something.

  ANONBOY16:

  What do you mean you’re lying?

  NATETAN:

  I’m lying because … that’s not the whole story.

  ANONBOY16:

  You won’t tell me?

  NATETAN:

  I don’t trust the Internet. There are too many people who spy on other people.

  ANONBOY16:

  Tell me a little. Please.

  It’s great you lived

  at all, though maybe

  not toward the end.

  I loved your weird

  mind, your easy

  going face, deep

  eyes, your long hair,

  how it swished on

  your shoulders, your

  skin as tight as a

  tree’s, though your

  life was shorter and

  more exciting than

  its. When you were

  here, I thought only

  of you, and went to

  bed with any boy

  who resembled you,

  I was so haunted. So

  I forgot who you were,

  and you wanted me

  to know. You’re the

  one who fired a gun

  at his head, so high

  on whatever, and so

  depressed by my lack

  of whatever that you

  were afraid you might

  otherwise not hit

  the target, wherever

  I was at the time. Not

  with you, I guess. It’s

  finally hitting me now.

  ANONBOY16:

  Stop for a minute. That’s a lot to take in, and my mind’
s not so great. Let’s chat about something else. But it’s good to know you’re George Miles. Kind of figured you were.

  NATETAN:

  That’s not even a third of the story. I didn’t even tell you about the time Walker made a film of me pretending to shoot myself. That’s when everything went sort of weird between us. Because it didn’t mean enough to him, or some bullshit.

  ANONBOY16:

  Let’s be simple for a while. Do you mind? What are you doing right now?

  NATETAN:

  Nothing. I’m just sitting around trying not to blow my brains out. Kidding. Or half kidding anyway. Like I said, that guy in my mirror is really pressuring me. Sometimes I think death would be the answer to everything. Have you ever heard of this band called The Omen?

  ANONBOY16:

  No, don’t know them. Sorry you feel bad.

  NATETAN:

  They have this great quote about that. Shit, I can’t remember how it goes. Forget it. So what are you doing?

  ANONBOY16:

  Not much. Can’t hear or talk, ’cos of what happened, I guess. Just stay by myself a lot. Take walks. Stuff like that. It’s strange. Got some ideas and opinions, but I can’t remember why I have them. So they’re worthless. So I just watch people, and look around, and take notes. Thinking if I can figure others out, then I’ll know who I’m not.

  NATETAN:

  Wait, what are you talking about?

  ANONBOY16:

  The forest ranger’s been asking if anyone knows me. But so far nobody does. Starting to give up. George Miles is my only hope.

  NATETAN:

  You’re ignoring me.

  ANONBOY16:

  Don’t even know how old I am.

  NATETAN:

  And you live in my mirror, right?

  ANONBOY16:

  What?

  ANONBOY16:

  Hello?

  NATETAN:

  You know what I mean. Cut the shit, Walker. It’s you isn’t it? You’re so mean.

  ANONBOY16:

  Don’t understand.

  Your love held it

  in, or vice versa. I

  can’t tell now, I’m

  so turned around.

  Things can’t hold

  things. It’s inappropriate, I guess,

  feeling you here.

  If you’re here, I’m

  more myself, I think.

  It feels real, but I’m

  alone in believing

  it’s you. You don’t