# The Trash

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## Chapter 1 

The day had been nice as it could be, the weather was warmer than usual for fall and the wind was brisk enough to keep the air fresh in the city. The perfect day to sit in a cafe and read something I'd been putting off while sipping something. I was halfway through my tea and a tenth through my book on catastrophe theory when a voice cut through the noise of the cafe into my privately constructed space. These were the only words I remember them specifically saying, "I have an offer for you, one to make your life more convenient". 

Facing the source all I thought at the time was how non-descript they were, looking back that is all I can recall. Their face, their clothing, even their voice leave only a semantic echo rather than any specific detail. There was a sense that they were to be trusted, that there wasn't some awful catch that would place me in a horrific bind. So, I very smartly said "hungh?", a little tea dribbling into my beard. There was the impression of a amusement, and they implied I might need a good *Cleanse*. Embarrassed I agreed automatically, this was a mess that needed to be *cleansed*. Finding a napkin I pressed it to my face. It came away dry. Their voice indicated the terms were acceptable, and they hoped my life was easier now.

The noise in the cafe reasserted itself, I looked back to where the person was and found nothing. Now, this was concerning. I've had a propensity for mental illness run through my family. My mother developed schizophrenia when I was 11 causing me to miss a month of school while she "fought them off". She started treatment, eventually, but growing up the signs were drilled into me. As a result, a strange person I have trouble characterizing providing me an offer and an impaired memory of spilling tea on myself was causing alarm bells to ring. Loudly. 

First I pulled out my phone and took pictures of my face and the area around me, checking them to ensure everything lined up properly. What I saw lined up with both the image on the phone and the world around me, but something felt off. It was hard to place it, the color and texture of the cafe didn't seem quite right. One of the baristas was looking confused at an espresso machine as well, a few other people had frowns on their faces as they checked around their bodies for something. 

Mentally I cycled through my contacts searching for someone who would be awake, would be willing to voice call, and I was comfortable letting know I was losing my grip on reality. The roulette wheel settled on Stefan, a friend I made in college by dragging his drunken body home from a party. He wouldn't judge me. He also shouldn't be too swamped, working from home was his norm since he had managed to automate most of his deal flows as an investment banker. How the guy who threw up on our couch while pregaming then went out and partied all night became an investment banker, I will never know. Probably a bad sign in general though.

Still, I video called him and he picked up pretty quick his blond surfer-style hair and short beard clashing with his blazer and the long exaggerated "jjjjeeerrrrrrrrr!!" he gave as greeting. His easy smile collapsed when I asked "Can you describe things for me really quick?"; I'd told him about my mom over a blunt one night. We had both cried as we looked at the stars, sitting with our bodies pressed against each other in a hammock. He had told me how he was afraid of his fathers rage in his blood, I told him I was scared of my mothers visions. We laughed at stories that normally just resulted in pitying looks. There was something special about this. When I finally looked over and saw his face outlined in starlight... it stayed with me. 

His face unusually serious he began quizzing me; asking my name (Jeremy Walls), what I did for work (unemployed writing grants), where I was (a small cafe in San Jose), what happened (...). The hesitation sharpened his gaze further, perhaps that was why he was able to do the work he did. The moment he sensed hesitation or inconsistencies he had this instinct to pounce and press, it was why we hadn't talked in awhile. But now it served to force me to divulge exactly what had happened. I told him of the indescribable person and the cafe's shift. He commanded me to turn the camera and scan the room. He then asked me to describe what the camera was pointed at without looking at the camera screen. Everything was confirmed by him, but I could see him typing rapidly. 

Stefan confirmed my current sanity by telling me, "everything looks like your descriptions," his eyes darted to the right and he continued "but this cafe looks different compared to the photos online." I asked, confusion and a little fear modulating my voice, "what do you mean different?" He thought for a second, eyes darting back and forth before telling me to point the camera at the menu sign above the counter. He nodded again, "there is a picture from yesterday afternoon of the menu, the plastic coating is yellowed and stained". I nodded along, "yeah they haven't changed it in years, it's why I come here because anywhere else my tea would be five dollars", he waited a beat then asked me to describe the sign to him. 

My mouth began moving but the sound didn't come out, I hadn't noticed before but the sign was clean. Not only clean but pristine, the yellowed plastic now perfectly clear. The small splatters from new baristas over the years wiped away. Even the ceiling was clean "I, uh, wait. What?" There was no way for this to happen, I had been here yesterday. A workspace separate from the home was important, so I had arrived at the start of the day today submitting job applications. There was no time to replace the plastic and wash the ceiling without making a fuss. It didn't make sense.

I began to scan the cafe again. The dirt under the table feet was gone, the delicate flakes of the croissant a child had eaten nowhere to be seen, even the disheveled regular who brought in change for a coffee looked as though he had just taken a shower. "Stefan, somethings wrong, I don't know, I." Panic welled up inside my throat to choke me. I had lost it, that was the only explanation. I wasn't even able to understand Stefan anymore. He had started speaking but I hung up, gathered my things and rushed home as fast as I could. 

The sun was bright, the wind was brisk, the air was unusually clean today. I tried not to look too closely at anything as I jog-walked towards my house. Normally the suburban sprawl granted me a strange peace of mind. An infinite feeling liminality that made me feel as though the whole world was as simple and orderly as my neighborhood. Today it clawed at my insides, making me wonder if the obsessive cleanliness I noted was just another symptom of my diseased mind. Was this a progressive failure? Had I been finding comfort in my delusions for the months I had been unemployed and wandering the streets? How many gaps were in my mind now? 

Reaching my apartment building I stumbled up the stairs and fumbled with my keys. A strong desire to *cleanse* myself of this taint battering against my mind. In a fugue I grasped the railing and turned to the next flight. I noticed then, the stairs to my apartment looked pristine, bright grey with pebbles of red and blue. No dark smudges dulling their natural sheen. It made me want to vomit. I fumbled with my knob, turning it desperately to admit me into my own space. Slamming it shut I pressed myself back against the door and sank to the floor. My apartment looked correct. Since being laid off I had taken extra time to clean, my mother had sent me an article about how having a tidy home would keep your mind focused. She worried about me. I couldn't tell her. 

As I finally caught my breath the buzzing of my phone came into focus, ten missed calls verging on the eleventh. All from Stefan. Fuck. He knew. Oh god he knew. Not Stefan, he might look differently. I trust him. It's okay, but now he knows I'm broken. No abstract possible brokenness. Not a shared fear of our parents legacies emerging from our veins. A true breach into reality, a failure of my mind. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Tears flowed hotly down my face as I gasped for air, punctuated by the vibrations cradled between my thighs and chest. I wanted to scream, this couldn't be happening. No, I was fine. I shouldn't have smoked weed, I knew my risk factor. But I'd done research, I'd always paired it with CBD, I'd never done too much. I had been deluding myself. Oh god. Oh god. Stop, please. I shouldn't have done drugs. I knew my risk. It's my fault. It's my fault.

I do not know how long my thoughts cycled in this manner, time is hard to compare when in such a state. The steady metronome of my thinking disrupted. I flowed back and forth between obsessive staccato notions to winding complex chains of thought that serve only to bind my limbs tighter. Somewhere in the panic I slumped further down, my cheek pressing against carpet, falling into a fitful sleep. My dreams were cascading sets of rooms, each one the same in every way I could detect but different in a way that made my stomach flip. As I wandered, I could feel the surfaces peeling away around me, underneath they breathed. 



A hammering at my door woke me, strong enough that I could feel the vibration in my chest. A vibration that was off kilter to the one from my phone. 27 missed calls now, another queueing up to be missed. His voice came through anyways "Open up dude, I know you're in there, we share locations". Oh. Yes, we had done that after he had taken acid and wandered into the woods. I had also been on acid, but less. I had found him rolling in a fern laughing, the sun had almost set. He lacked signal but I remembered the way back. Since thing we had always shared where we were, a forfeit in a bet with our future. 

Knowing I couldn't escape judgement my body turned slowly. The door knob twisted and before tI could move out of the way the door was flung open. I gave a yelp as the edge impacted my thigh and rolled away, I hadn't locked the door. Of course he would try it. Then he was there, his eyebrows knit with irritation and concern. He seemed pissed. Immediately laying into me "Why did you ignore my calls dude, jesus christ, you scared me shitless" followed by him registering my rolling on the floor pressing my hands to my thigh. "Aw fuck, shit, did that hit you. Are you okay?" As he spoke he knelt to the floor and pulled me into his lap, I always forgot how strong he was. It was intimidating how easily he could move the world around him. 

He easily pulled my hand away and lifted my shorts, already a bright red line was showing. A nasty bruise would bloom, his face twisted further. The troubled sleep had cleared my mind a bit so I could guess why. We both had our fears. I tried to reassure him, it was an accident. The panic that had fluttered in my chest settling as a problem I better understood was placed before me. At least that is what I told myself as I turned towards him and muttered "thank you" as I buried my face in his shirt. I could feel his inspection of me continue, his gaze carrying a weight in his fingers as he scanned my apartment. 

It was small, best I could afford given my current financial state. But it was clean and well organized, in the main area. Although there should be some dust behind the TV to the left of the door. There should be. My voice rough from sobbing, I quietly croaked out "I'm scared". Stefan's arms tightened, his voice gentler in turn "it will be okay, I got you man, we can do this". I realized then, he had driven several hours to reach here. The sun was lower. I'd probably terrified him. He'd been in the middle of work. What a fuck up I am, ruining other people's lives on my own descent. Sorries began burbling up, stymied by Stefan's quick "shut up dude, it's okay". 

We stayed like that for some time, I would shake intermittently as memories percolated through my subconscious. In turn Stefan would tighten his grip and murmur words that neither of us would recall but soothed me none the less. Eventually I was ready to try to face the world again, I'd had a psychotic break but it was time to step into the world again. Even if what I saw of that world didn't match what it was supposed to. Stefan readjusted himself periodically until I was fully cradled in his lap as he gently rocked back and forth.

So I sat up, a frisson of fear as I dragged my eyes up to Stefan's. The dreaded judgement or pity wasn't there, just a soft concern and simmering energy. When he was worked up it felt like being next to some great engine. Practically radiating some intangible sense of motion and energy that was directed towards unknown ends. He began to interrogate me again.

"How are you?"  
"Fine." 
"That's a lie."
"Scared."
"What happened?"
"I don't know, I, uh. I think I'm having a psychotic episode centered around cleanliness."
"Why did you ignore my calls?"
"I panicked. Thank you."
"You won't ignore my calls again."
"Yes."
"Good Jay"

With that he put his hand around the back of my head and pressed me back into him. I felt my body relax involuntarily, letting myself forget everything for a moment to pretend it would be okay. Stef was here, he was sober, he could handle anything like this. He pulled me away and hefted me up and deposited me on my small couch. I turned away from the TV. As he walked away he called,

"Do you have any ice packs dude?"
"Yeah, back of the top shelf."
"Sorry about your leg man, fucked that up. You scared me dude."
"It's okay, it hardly hurts." 

A lie, it had been a constant ache. He often got overenthusiastic when we used to rough house so the lie was well worn. Looking back, probably to the point it was completely transparent to Stefan. I felt the cool pack press against my thigh and he sat in the crook of my legs. 

"Do you think it's still happening?"
"I don't know. I don't want to check."
"How do you think you could check?"
"The TV. It should have dust behind it. I'm scared that it doesn't."

I felt the couch shift as Stefan got up to check. A quick intake of breath through his teeth. I knew it. Fuck. 

"Anything else to check?"
"Under the sink, I have been ignoring the little cleaning chemical spills."
"Aren't you a chemist? Shouldn't you be on top of that?"
"Fuck off, my house isn't a lab. I can't afford that..."

A warm chuckle followed my retort. He was always good at bringing me back into our dynamic, no matter how awkward I kept making it inside my head. I stared at the threads of my couch, their strangely bright color distracting me from the noises of him opening my cabinets and moving bottles around.

"Are you sure your house isn't a lab?"
"Of course I am, I'm not even allowed to modify the countertops."
"Because it's, uh, pristine in a way I've never seen from you before."
"Wh- what?"
"There isn't a single stain or stray drop. It's pristine."

The threads grew sharper in my vision, mentally I fell forwards into them. A lattice work of infinite threads cascaded around me, each one turning brighter and brighter until... My shoulder was roughly shaken, "HEY", I looked up startled, "don't ignore me dude, what's going on. This isn't normal, not even by your definition."

I gaped at him, my brain overloading with information as I ran counterfactuals one after another. Stefan could be fake, a wishful hallucination, I didn't have means of verifying his existence. He was touching me though, in a way that didn't feel like what I was told it should. I was overwhelmed though, overstimulated. Every surface a chance for my brain to analyze against an impossible hypothesis. There was too much information. 

My tone was robotic as I said, "Grab some pomegranate juice from my fridge, please." Stefan's face changed to something strange for me, almost like fear. I hadn't seen that before on him. Even when he had almost fallen when a cliff had collapsed under him. The only thing stopping him from the drop being my hand hooked into his arm, his face had been a fierce grin. 

Almost as though he teleported he was there again with juice in hand. I was fading in and out of my head. He handed me the juice and I intentionally let it drop. The juice spread lurid across beige fibers, soaking deeply. A simple, strong signal. A mess. One that did not disappear suddenly, an unassailable reality that wasn't being overwritten.

I could tell Stefan had guessed what was going to happen. He had a second glass of water already, he didn't let me grab this one. Instead cradling the back of my head as he tilted the glass. It felt good, it felt *cleansing*. I looked up at him and he had a tight smile, like everything was going to be okay. For a brief moment it was. Then I looked down again and obscenities poured from my mouth.

The carpet was perfectly clean.


## Chapter 2

We were both shocked for a bit, I didn't know what to do or say beyond a stream of invectives. Stefan turned on his heel, walked back to the fridge. Poured another thing of juice. Then threw it on the floor himself. We both stared at it in silence, with no change. It was an uncomfortable five minutes. Then he asked if I had eaten today, I'd forgotten again. He dragged me into a well-worn rut of conversation, as he browbeat me for not taking better care of myself while extracting an order from me. By the time the food arrived I had almost forgotten the missing stain, we watched a show on TV. Then he told me he was staying the night, I pushed back, he had work. He called me "unemployed as fuck" and informed me it was a Friday. 

So, I got some blankets and sheets from a small closet to set up the couch. It was too small for him. Looking up I saw Stefan was wiped, I couldn't give someone dedicated to helping me bad sleep. I puzzled about this for a second before deciding to sleep on the couch with him in my bed. It would be a bit uncomfortable but shouldn't be too hard. Informing him of this change turned out to be much harder.

"No"
"Why not?"
"You need to recover. You need a good bed."
"Well you won't fit on the couch dude, just come to my bed."
"Lemme see your bed."

He crowded me into my bedroom, flicking the lights off in the apartment as we left the living room. I thought to myself that I wasn't that broke. My bedroom was tidier than I remembered, a sudden shock of stress shooting up my spine at the thought. A warm hand pressed on my shoulder, a breath by my ear "It's okay dude". I tried to smile, but I doubt it looked fully hinged. He herded me inwards. 

"There's enough space."
"I'm glad you agree, I can move the blankets so you get fresh ones."

As I attempted to turn he closed the door, "We can both fit, it'll be just like when we got that cabin up in Tahoe." Immediately shame shot through me, I began to argue but he had already stripped off his pants and shirt, going to open my window. "Come on Jay, you need rest." His repeated cajoling worked and I found myself in my bed, with Stefan hogging the blankets as he lightly snored. 

I sighed, thinking of how I needed a shower tomorrow to *cleanse* my thoughts. I had missed my friend, it was dangerous for us to be this close though. It felt uncomfortable. When I was certain he was asleep I quietly crept out of bed, opening the door to the rest of the apartment. My finger was on the lightswitch before I froze. My eyes were glued to the spot where the stain should be, in the darkness the shapes wobbled and reformed. I stood like that, torn between an unknown discomfort and a known discomfort. In the face of it all retreat was best. Better to leave such things to the mornings light. 

So, I fell back into bed and tripped into sleep. My dreams tumbled through me once more, with the threads of my couch adsorbing my microscopic body before releasing me back into the lattice. Each time I was released a wave of particles would follow me like a dark cloud. I would shout and beat at them, yelling for them to stop chasing me. For once, they did. Behind me they faded, and now I leapt from thread to thread without stickiness. An acrobatic art all my own in the pristine couch fabric.


The bed was warm, my mind a bit fuzzy, but pleasantly so. It was like I had a heater behind me. My mind tumbled in the boundary between dreams and wakefulness, pressing into the heat and soft tickle of fuzz. There was such a lovely pressure, my heart beat slow and steady in this endless now. Then, as memory came back online my heartrate spiked. In my ear, murmuring was Stefan. Fuck. I began to wriggle away, but that pressure tightened further and I found myself pinned to his chest, an awkward "eep" escaping my mouth. A sleepy laugh followed from Stefan, "funny dude", as his arm loosened and he began to stretch. I rolled out of bed and hit the floor, scrambling to my feet as I desperately searched for my pants. Thankfully his eyes weren't even open by the time I fled the bedroom, calling a promise of breakfast behind me. 

My gaze was locked on the kitchen, not even my peripheral vision admitting the living room. I began to make breakfest, grabbing eggs and bacon from a fridge that smelled new. The appliances all looked far nicer than I remembered. The pans looked normal, and the stove I had apparently done quite a good job on when I cleaned it yesterday. So I began cooking, chopping some vegetables and making an omelette instead of my normal pile of eggs and veggies I would do for myself. Less to clean anyways, I turned on the fan to reduce the smell as the bacon fried. I did not let myself look into the toaster as I put the bread in, the crumb drawer a convenient mystery.

I heard the door to the bedroom click open, and a drawn out "yooo" from Stefan who was still half awake. I turned to greet him, only to see his eyes fixated on the living room hidden behind the kitchens bar. A small pool of fear settled in my gut, but then he turned to me and said "early morning dude?" I relaxed marginally as he settled into a chair at the bar, responding "I normally get up around now anyways." Nothing funny was said, but I followed it with a short laugh anyways that was mirrored by Stefan chuffing. We finished breakfest in companionable silence as Stefan melted onto the counter and lazily watched me. I tried to tell myself the sharpness in his gaze was just interest in my cooking, and not stain that was on my rug.

I served him a plate and he gave me a full lazy grin, his eyes sparkling. Knowing him the closest thing to a home-cooked meal he'd had in months was a microwaved meal. Still, the compliments he heaped upon me were well received. My meal was taken facing him, his bulk blocking the living room from view. We talked about normal things; how my job hunt has been going (badly), how his job had been going (exhausting), how the weather had been (hot), have we heard from any mutual friends (not really). 

After we finished I grabbed out plates and returned them to the sink, freezing when I heard him say "Unless you grabbed a shop-vac in the night, we can't keep pretending." The dread returned full force, my stomach churning around the pit opening up. Turning to face him I knew the stain was gone. Really I'd known since last night but just wanted to pretend a little longer that my friend was visiting me for fun. Not because I was broken again. I felt the urge to *cleanse* myself. To make things safe again. 

The messy morning hair softened the intensity in his eyes. I felt like prey cornered by some great predator. 

"The stain is gone Jay."
"I guessed."
"Why?"
"I didn't do anything."
"Then that means either both of us are crazy or the world is going crazy."
"I know."

In that instant the information overload I had stymied the day before hit me like a truck. I knew what was going on to some extent, not the mechanics but what was happening. Anything that could be cleaned was fully cleaned, all around me. It didn't happen instantly, but I knew that if I opened the crumb tray it would be emptied. Just like I knew the stain would be gone and the fibers on the furniture in my house would be the brightest they had been since I bought them. Well, actually that is a thought.

"Can you check the chair in the living room, is the fabric bright or faded?"
"Which one?"
"Red, by the window."
"It's faded, I think?"
"Ah, okay."
# Appendix

The *cleanse* starts as gross mechanical work to make things cleaner. A residue of the granter and the initial purpose. Anytime he thinks about *cleansing* it triggers on subconscious desires to keep his space and things clean. The article his mom sent is more of a trigger than a real object, her psychotic episode will be focused around the need to keep him safe from those that will "track him" and she'd force him to bathe multiple times a day and rub his skin raw. Losing her mind at any perceived "tracks" that would let someone find him or his presence. Repressing himself. The apartment unconsciously lacks any personal touches, a couch, a tv, etc. Even his statement of changing the counter tops is because he is "not allowed" which is purposefully vague.

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