Breakdown, Shut, Reboot
A young man wakes up in a psychiatrist’s office after his psyche splits in two.
THE FUTURE
“Yo, you good?” Questions a distorted voice.
NOW
“What the fuck are y’all doing?! SOMEONE CALL 911!” Shouts a desperate cry.
THE FUTURE?
“Yo… I think we should call his mom or something. Like, for real, he’s tweaking pretty bad,” speaks a second distorted, fearful.
NOW?
“Oh my fucking God… he really just did that,” says a whisper amongst a crowd.
¿THE FU(NOW)TURE?
Randy lifts his head from his palms and faces confusion staring at the owners of the two distorted voices.
“Yeah, I’m calling his house right now, bro, this is bad,” one panics, taking out a phone, jittering.
“RANDY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” The desperate cry begins to violently shake him. “GIVE THEM SOME SPACE!” Faced with a statue, the cry smacks Randy trying to inspire movement.
Lost in space, it’s not until the third slap that Randy realizes what’s happening. He looks at the cry shaking him… a friend… Eddie. He sees how aflame Eddie is, he has no time for incompetence.
Eddie seems to collide with one of the owners of distorted voices, as if phasing through him.
“Randy, it’s cool, bro, just breathe,” the second distorted voice reassures him, fighting back tears. “Just relax, bro.” The words were aimed at Randy but were truly for the owner.
In the distance, Randy could see the other voice successfully speaking to someone on the phone. “Yeah, we don’t know what happened. He kind of just started… I don’t even know how to explain it. Can you come get him? We’re at the beach.”
Seeing Randy eavesdrop, the voice in front of him snaps in his face like he’s a dog. “Aye! Don’t focus on him. Just breathe, bro.”
Randy scans the scene: an ambulance, various crowds forming, a traffic jam, and people shouting. Utter pandemonium. He looks down and realizes there’s blood on his shirt.
#ERROR#
Tormented, living through two moments at once, Randy collapses to his knees. Shaking violently on the floor, the strife tears him apart, rolling his eyes back as his head jerks.
“Fuck, bro, he’s tweaking, he’s fucking tweaking!” Panics one of the voices.
#REBOOT#
Randy gains consciousness to a woman seated across him. “Do you know where you are?” She asks him, watching him gather himself.
Randy’s eyes set on the woman. “No,” he answers.
“I’m Dr. Robinson, Randy. You’re in therapy because your friend committed suicide.”
Silence made way.
The two exchange stares until she decides to cut the silence. “Did you hear that, Randy? Your friend, Evan Carmichael, committed suicide.”
Randy smirks, a wave of arrogance comes over him. “Listen, lady, no offense… I’m sure what you do here — whatever it is you do here — is great for other people, but this isn’t my thing.” He rises from his chair. “Now if you don’t mind, I have better things to do. Is there somewhere I can check out?” He begins his march to the door at the end of his question.
“That’s fine,” Dr. Robinson retorts. “Just answer me this. How did you get here, Randy? Do you know the day you checked in? Do you know what day it is today? What month? What year?”
Time breaks for Randy; frozen in his tracks, he has no recollection of how or when he was admitted.
“You’ve been here for a month now, Randy.”
Randy turns to face her. A month?! Impossible. She had to be insane.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Randy,” she gestures back to his chair. She smirks in victory watching him return. “From what your friends tell me, you suffered a breakdown of extreme proportions. When will you admit that Evan’s suicide left a severe scar on your psyche?”
Randy wasn’t ignoring her, but truly trying to make sense of what she was saying. Evan, dead? That doesn’t make any sense. His last memory was of them together amongst a group of friends one night to go see a movie.
“Listen, lady,” Randy chuckles, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but the last thing I know is me, Evan, and a couple of friends heading out to go see Civil War part two, and now I’m somehow here.”
Dr. Robinson looks upon Randy with intrigue. “Ah, yes, the superhero movie as I recall. Except, Randy, that movie premiered nine months ago. You suffered your breakdown last month. You’re telling me you don’t remember anything after meeting up with Evan?” She sighs. “That’s a lot of blockage there, Randy — nine months.”
The woman spoke gibberish to Randy. Annoyance introduces itself in his tone, “Listen, lady — ”
“No, you listen, Randy,” she snaps back. “And it’s Dr. Robinson.” Her face stone.
Randy’s eyes widen.
Combat through glares; Dr. Robinson’s eyes narrow in frustration. “When will you admit that you saw Evan Carmichael kill himself?”
The phrasing caught Randy. Killed himself. Killed himself. Killed himself. Killed himself. Multiple voices, multiple iterations; on and on.
Suddenly, a memory flashes in his mind of Evan and their group walking downtown. Then another burns in his psyche just as fast as the last one — Evan, wide-eyed, on the edge of a sidewalk, then a bus, then impact, then intestines on the pavement.
Dr. Robinson leans out from her chair seeing him so transfixed.
After a few seconds, Randy mumbles faintly under his breath, “He killed himself,” his head tilted down toward the ground.
Dr. Robinson’s eyes spark. “What was that, Randy?!”
#ERROR#
“HE FUCKING KILLED HIMSELF!” Randy’s voice sounded murderous.
Electricity fires throughout Dr. Robinson. Without cognitive thought, she dashes across the room to grab the camcorder on her bookshelf, propelled only by adrenaline. “Can you repeat that, Randy, please?!”
Unbeknownst to her, something in him snaps.
A monumental breakthrough. Her hands jitter fumbling the battery into the camcorder. She thinks of the scientific papers, the Ted Talk, the book tour, the interviews, but most importantly her legacy in psychotherapy. The camera now functioning, she turns around and finds Randy in the fetal position in a corner of the room.
Dr. Robinson rushes toward him. “Randy, what’s wrong?!” On the cusp of a breakthrough, her tone becomes authoritative. “Randy, don’t you dare go!” She places the camera down and latches onto his shirt collar like a schoolyard bully. “RANDY, DON’T YOU DARE GO!” It was futile. Holding onto him, she can feel him trembling, his eyes that of a fearful child.
#REBOOT#
Seeing his eyes roll back into his head, she lets go of his shirt. Frightened and not knowing what to expect, she takes a few steps back.
Randy shakes as if having a seizure. His hands, crooked, wave in various directions, his neck jagged. Then, suddenly, he stops and relaxes as he sits.
Dr. Robinson doesn’t know whether to call his name or for security. Paralyzed, she stands looking down at him wondering if he has died.
Out of nowhere, like a phone turning on, Randy lifts himself up. “Listen, lady, no offense… but this is stupid. This isn’t my thing.”
Dr. Robinson stares at him speechless.
Randy returns her stare, confused as to why she’s looking at him like that. “Hello, is anyone home?” He waves in her face. He rolls his eyes.
The rest of his words fade into white noise as she stands there astonished, watching him walk out the exit.
THE AFTERMATH
The courthouse is a collision of the beach and the busy downtown street. Its attendees: the distorted voices, the crowds, the cries, and the pandemonium. Sitting front row is Evan Carmichael.
A menagerie of feelings strikes Randy seeing Evan, guilty before any exchange of words. Randy composes himself, not allowing himself to shatter.
Handcuffed, Randy faces the supreme judge, Morality, who stands as tall as a mountain. Plastered around the courthouse are wanted posters of Randy “for the suicide of Evan Carmichael.”
“Speak.” The authority comes from Morality above.
“I didn’t tell him to chill out,” Randy admits. He feels a lump form in his throat as regret flows from his tear ducts. “I just didn’t tell him to chill out,” his voice trembles.
“Is this your admittance to the crime for the suicide of Evan Carmichael?”
Randy looks toward Evan. Evan doesn’t speak, but his eyes smile, letting Randy know everything is okay. Closure.
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