Under a Starless Sky

Chapter 23

The biggest concern Shen had about sleeping in the cave, was being attacked by Irks in his sleep.

They would likely go through the crude, bamboo door like a wolf through a house built of straw. It didn’t

even keep baby Irk in. Baby Irk might return, no longer a baby, and so he had booby trapped the door.

At best it would do was save his life- immediately. At worse, it would trap him in a cave with an Irk. He

closed the door to his cave. The fire pit was dead. What little light penetrated the door came from

outside. He stared through the bars of the bamboo. He asked for help. He asked for guidance. Silence

reigned. He triggered the trap. There was the resounding crack. Nothing.

“Fuck,” Shen said. He took the orb out of his pocket and threw it. It passed through the bamboo bars

and rolled out to the forest. “I can’t even build a simple, fucking trap!”

‘That was fucking stupid, go get the gift he told himself.’ The gravity of it weighed on him. What if the

trap gave while passing out the entrance? Then he would have his wish, that’s what. He touched the

door. An avalanche of salts rocks filled the entrance to the cave. He instinctively drew away from the

door, as smaller debris and a cloud of dust pushed in. The bamboo door broke. When silenced return

there was zero light in the cave. He found his sleeping spot blindly, walking on hands and knees. He

coughed. He pulled a blanket up over his head and tried to go to sleep.

“At the bottom of this mine lies a big, big man- Big John. (Big John, big John) Big bad John (big

John)…” An older song, by Jimmy Dean. His grandmother’s story, or at least his memory of the story,

as her voice narration was no longer available, said she named him. Her voice was now gone. Back in

the day, they kept all the babies in one room and people would all come to see the newborns and try to

identify theirs. “You were rolled in, and the first thing you did was kick the blue blanket off, sending it to

the floor. Hence the name Jon, Big Bad Jon.”

“More like Big Baby Jon.” It was his mother’s voice. An inner voice was going to correct but he shut it

down. Her way of taunting was supposed to make a man out of him.

“This is not about you. Endel’s death is not about you. That was a taunt. This is recoverable. When the

dust settles, dig yourself out.”

His first life, he had explored a myriad of ways of dying. Persistent suicidal ideation wasn’t a desire to

die as much as it was to explore self-worth; it became barometer for measuring stress. One though in a

blue moon, dealing. Multiple thoughts a day, not dealing with something that needs attending.

Discussing suicide could be a litmus test to determine if there was any latent value within him in which

he could a trigger a sympathetic response from family or society that would produce tangible change in

interaction patterns. This wasn’t conscious deliberation of social modalities; this was understanding

through reflection. In normal paths, this behavior escalates until the exploration of death results in

actual death. Person does a half ass job of suicide, not really wanting to die, someone would find them,

an intervention ensued, ‘social’ life would actually improve for a moment as nurturing needs would be

met. Normal path, a new system threshold was established. Eventually, family systems returned to their

normal, person would not get needs met and would eventually return to the one thing that worked- a

half ass suicide attempt. Doing the same thing was insufficient, and was actually labeled: ‘he’s attention

seeking, ignore it.’ Rewarding it did encourage the behavior, and it was likely true that person at this

point was so starved for appropriate attention that the people that failed to give proper attention could

never meet the need. Interest on unpaid attention is steep. It takes a lot to pay off that debt.

Consequently, severity of suicide attempts would increase. Interventions would ensue. Intervention

became the only form of nurturing. Eventually one would earn the label of borderline personality. Next

suicide attempt would be, ‘oh that’s just you being borderline,’ and suicide gestures would be ignored.

At some point, family would be so tired of the energy person was demanding they would say ‘go ahead.

We’re done with you.’ Normal path.

The other Jon’s attempt to end his life was met with ridicule. “So, you fucked that up, too. Next time use

my 45. You know where it is.” They never left their normalcy. He found a new understand and a new set

point.

2nd path, after no personal value was found, usually led to criminal behavior. If one looked seriously at

people that were jailed, one would find a predominance of young men, from teenage to about thirty.

There was a connection to being nurtured and finding personal value, and if a man didn’t get it, they

went a dark path. Angry boys not heard would become men who had no voice. Their complaints about

society and injustice are valid points, but no one hears this; society only addresses their wrongs, not

what influence their path. And there was one argument against hearing: lots of people experience

suffering and wrong, they don’t all take the dark path. Lots of people experience pain and don’t seek

drugs. Good argument. Some people get the flu and don’t express symptoms, and go about life without

interruption. How many seeds does tree drop? Millions? How many become trees? A hundred? The

question really becomes, do we want to criminalize mental health, or do we want help people heal?

Here, in a tomb of mostly salt, there would be no sympathy. There was a chance for discovery. If he

found this cave, someone else would. The salt pile at the entrance would be too perfect not collect.

They would find a mummified Jon-Shen, accompanied by jars of beetles and fire snakes. He wondered

if when he died, all the critters he had eaten over a life time would be there to exchange words with

him. He felt bad for the jarred creatures. A voice told him they would die if he didn’t attend to them. He

lamented not letting them go before triggering the trap, but was not compelled to undo what he had

done.

He slept. He awoke an unmeasurable time later. He tried to return to sleep. He wondered how long the

air in this room would last. He considered lighting a fire to rush the air supply gone. He tried talking to

Loxy; no response. He thought about their relationship. Yeah- it was ideal, there was always love, but

also, it wasn’t ‘Hello, Barbie, let’s go party,’ perfect. They went through ordeals together. They had

choices to make; there were consequences. There was still love. He wondered if that was the ‘tell’ he

needed to distinguish between day-dream fantasy and this other life.

Endel is dead. Nothing is going to bring him back. The men he killed, they’re gone. The burning man

bothered him and he cried himself back to sleep.

He woke. He was suddenly angry. “God damn it why am still fucking here!”

No response. He flashed back to his other life, to a time that had only been particularly bad. A time

when the beating was so bad his arm had been broken, and he was told to blow it off, big baby go to

bed. He wanted death that night and there was a ‘supernatural’ intervention. Not only had he been

transported out of his body, he had found himself in a light. Blue Light! The orb. It was outside. A pang

of wanting hit him and he nearly got up. I don’t need a fucking crutch, figure it out or die! Where are you

when I need you? Why do I always come back to this?

He lay there, willing himself to die. If willing oneself to die worked, he would have been dead by

thoughts a long time ago. Hell, I might make half the world dead. ‘I am Thanos.’ He was amused, but

not enough to laugh. Knowing his thing, the half he would make dead would be the men, and he would

repopulate the world. He wanted that and he didn’t want that. It wasn’t about wanting to sire the next

race; he didn’t want to be Adam, or Noah, or Genghis khan. He just wanted love. He wanted not to be

angry.

Why was he still here? People did die after grief. Usually when a spouse died, the other died soon

after. Statistically. It was possible to die by thinking, or at least by giving up will power, but what did that

actually mean? If a person didn’t die, they weren’t finished? They hadn’t really loved?

He found himself in a day dream, unquestioning. He was sitting at a table near a plated glass looking

out on the passing street. It was him but not him. This him was so distance from Shen-Jon in space

and time, it was hard to phantom the connections. Stan Ransome was sitting with him at the table.

Stan, alias, the holodoc, was a retired psychiatrist, in his 90s. John saw holodoc as a Star trek

reference, but it was likely also related to Stan’s teledoc experience. He would work from home or the

office and see patients remotely to assess level of care and recommend hospitalization for the

severest. The ‘République’ probably wasn’t the ideal place for a quiet conversation, given the cafeteria

like sounding of the room due to communal seating, but they both wanted French cuisine, and their

table held more than they could eat in one session. A to go box was in their future, after sampling

everything.

“So, what do you think?” Stan asked.

“I don’t like the floor,” John said. The geometric tiled flooring had him falling like q-bert through a game

only he wasn’t recovering.

“You’re a Mason, thought you might appreciate the checkered pattern,” Stan said.

“Nice. Subtle. Message received,” John said.

They both watched the woman in red go by. She was a conversation stopper, the same way Neo was

interrupted in the Matrix. Jon looked to Stan

“You saw her?” John asked.

“I am old, not dead,” Stan said.

“I know that…”

“No, you don’t. You’ve been told all your life old people don’t want sex, but I promise you, Jon, the

libido you had at 13 will be the same level at 100,” Stan said.

“I know,” Jon said. “Do you suppose she was real?”

“As opposed to trans?” Stan asked. “Hard to say. We are in California. Looked real enough to me.”

“Realer than real,” John said. “Alien?”

“Maybe,” Stan said, entertaining the idea. “You’d be surprised how many people came to me stating

aliens have taken LA.”

“If it weren’t for the aliens. And the earth quakes. No, mostly the inability to afford it, I would move

here,” John said.

“My guest house is open…” Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

“I know,” John said. “I keep seeing an RV in my future. Writing has to take.”

“She’s moving to California for sure, with your son?”

“Yeah. I just received the proposed divorce decree,” John said. He touched the food on his plate. “She

wants full custodial rights and child support. I want joint custody and her to stay in the same zipcode so

I can participate. I would be okay if she has full custodial and child support, if she would just stay close

enough that I could see him. She moves to California, that minimize my time.”

“You could move California,” Stan said.

“I could. My license is Texas, no reciprocity between states,” John said. “And if I am locked into child

support, I would be state obligated to maintain consistent income.” John frowned past his reflection to

the street. He came back, realizing Stan was looking at his reflection by noticing his reflection. “The

thing is, I could max out my credit cards, get a lawyer and fight this. I’d likely win. I might even get full

custody. If I do, she will cut him off and never see him again, keep him from his inheritance. She has

family, I don’t. He loves his mother, she’s not evil; minus that point I just shared. She just wants what

she wants, and that doesn’t include me. In order to win, I have to vilify her. I don’t want to do that. Son

becomes collateral damage in a fight.”

“So, basically, Solomon says cut the child in half, and you say she can have the son,” Stan said.

John came out of the reflection and looked at Stan directly.

“I think there’s something else in there, too,” Stan went on. “Correct me if I am wrong, but if a man sues

you for your shirt, give him your cloak, too.”

“I don’t know if I am doing it because it’s the right thing, it’s loving, or because I am afraid,” John said.

“Your relationship with her has been over for a long time,” Stan said. “You have maintained status quo

to be a father. She has maintained status quo while biding her time looking for her next place. She’s

found it. She is going to make that happen,” Stan said. “Most people wouldn’t tolerate what you two

have been doing, for so long. Most people blow things up. Friends and family in both your ears saying

leave, you can do better, but you made choices to keep son’s life stable for as long as you did and

that’s commendable. That’s love. Letting go when something is not working is also love. The fear you

feel isn’t about the letting go, or wondering if you should engage the fight, but because you don’t know

what happens next. Your son is smart. You have blocked him from triangulating the two by always

showing a unified front, even when you didn’t feel it. That, too, was a loving act. You made a decision

to maintain that trajectory a long time ago. Divorce decree just makes it official.”

“Yeah,” John said.

Stan picked up his glass of wine. “To the next chapter.”

John picked up his, two wines glasses clicked. “Next chapter.”

“Now, let’s discuss tulpas…”