Under a Starless Sky

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.

him back. The men he killed,

suddenly angry. “God

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

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

die after grief. Usually when a spouse died, the other died soon after. Statistically. It was possible to die by thinking, or

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

what do you

like the floor,” John said. The geometric tiled flooring had him falling like q-bert through a game only he

might appreciate the

Message

was a conversation stopper, the same way Neo was interrupted in the Matrix. Jon

her?” John

am old, not

“I know that…”

but I promise you, Jon, the libido

Jon said. “Do you suppose she

asked. “Hard to say.

real,” John said.

said, entertaining the idea. “You’d be surprised how many people came

No, mostly the inability to afford it, I would move

house