I'm Not Myself.

 I’m Not Myself.

Ulises Vargas

January 21, 2023

8:00 am, May 25th, 2017.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I grunted, scrunching my eyelids and the eye boogers between them. 

BEEP. BEEP. BE-

SMASH.

I smacked the alarm–I kept forgetting to deactivate it–and its wails ceased. What use did it serve if I had nowhere to be, nothing to do? My eyes opened, and unchanged was the room I fell asleep in. Dim morning light shaded in from the closed curtains, hitting the old beige carpeted floor. I spread my arms like a bird’s wings, loosening up for the day. Smoothing over the crispness of my buzzcut, I felt soothed. 

Creeping under the doorway was the aroma of breakfast. My stomach rumbled in pain and anticipation. A water bottle lay on my bedside patio table, a placeholder for a nightstand. To quell my stomach, I chugged the water, then crushed the bottle and let it scamper on the floor amongst the others. 

Naked, I still lay, though I slept clothed. Figured, in some bump in the night, they came off. I got dressed, put on my infamous black hoodie, took another moment to bask in the hugging comfort of my bed, then walked out to the kitchen. A light flickered from the ceiling. Somehow, my older brother had managed to rig it to flick instead of constantly staying on. It was meant to save money on the electric bill, but I found it tedious. He always had a talent for random things like that. Mother said he had a bright future, wherever he went in life. She never said the same of me. I heard that my brother went off to college–a long drive away from Chicago–and worked part-time at AutoZone. 

Between flashes of light, I saw my breakfast on the countertop. Mother must have popped it in the microwave and then gone back to sleep. Her 4mg Xanax prescription for her schizophrenia and insomnia kept her tranquilized all day; all her life, really. A legal drug addict was what I called it. The doctors gave me the same bullcrap. One appointment later, they said I was like my mother. That made me angry and I started wailing on the doctor until the other staff got a hold of me. Ever since, I have not taken it. I did not feel like myself with that toxin in me, controlling me. I felt like a kid with ADHD, prescribed Adderall to suck all the life out of them.  

I sat on the crooked stool, one leg shorter than the others, and studied my breakfast. A cinnamon roll, drenched in barely any frosting, on a plastic wrap. Whatever, it was better than anything else in the fridge. I finished in a minute, every bite disintegrating the bun like chewing sand. 

Breakfast over with,  I took a pair of soft, black Adidas slides off the floor and left. I could never stand being near my mother after so many years of back-and-forth pain and, as the school counselor put it, neglect. She was always in her own delusions and, when she wasn’t fighting herself, she was fighting me. She was the psycho that needed treatment, not me. 

Gandering at the street from above, the usual curious pigeons, wandering men, and abandoned, grifting litter greeted me. The governor said he would clean the streets of these drugs and filth and take care of us. What a lying son of a bitch. I slowly came down the flight of rusted metal stairs and landed on the sidewalk. I looked side-to-side, never too safe. The old-heads called it “keeping your head on a swivel.” For as long as I could remember, I was taught no one could be trusted. 

Aimlessly, I walked. It did not matter where I wound up, only that I distanced myself from that woman. I felt tension in the back of my neck, just below my hair. That skank only wants to hurt you. Why doesn’t she listen to you? Talk to you? Hug you? She thinks you’re scum. I did not notice the time go by. I was already maybe a mile from my townhouse when I reached the park. Decrepit swings, a bent slide, and anti-homeless benches. Better than anywhere to spend the day, I supposed. 

I sat on the bench, staring blankly at the cement. Life moved all around me–people talking, laughing, smiling; a few kids playing with a deflated soccer ball and chasing each other with no supervision–but I stayed still, like a break in time and space. For the moment, I was an anomaly. 

“What’ you doing all robot-like? Like you’ some wax figure.” 

Startled, I was broken out of my trance. I looked up, the sun blinding my eyes from behind the polluted skies, and saw my friend, Logan. Logan would usually find me work: flip an eighth of whatever kush; a 0.2 of coke here and there; hustle someone for his debts. It was easy work and easier money for a 16-year-old boy. 

“Nah, I’m just chillin’.”, I said, “What’ you need?” 

He sucked in a tight, greedy breath, squatted down to my level, and looked me in the eye, “There’s this dude by the One-Stop Liquor Store. Man’s slumped. Looks like he’s been shooting needles.”, at this, he smiled wide, showing his off-white teeth, and gaped open his crazed eyes, “I see an opportunity. ‘You in?” 

I did not give it a thought. I agreed to go with him. We walked a few blocks until we saw the neon lights of the liquor store. The owners must think alcoholics are no better than moths to a flame with a neon sign. Around the corner, in the store’s parking lot, the frozen bastard lay. Snot dripping from his nose, his whole body still, his clothes tattered and worn. Who knew how many years he had been rocking the same fit? Who knew if it was even his? 

“Here he is.”, Logan said, “You know what I’m thinking?” 

Almost telepathically, we both understood. My headache spread, and I let it. Beat him. Let the blood seep from his veins and coat the asphalt. Fuck him. He’s a nobody with nothing to live for but his dope. Slowly, we approached. To startle him would give him an edge over us, but it would not make a difference. He looked a lot like my mom when she slept, so I knew even an earthquake could not rattle him up. 

In range, I crouched down and looked at him closer. His eyes were stuck open, his pupils looked pinpoint, and he clearly had not eaten in days. These people chased nothing but their key of heroin to a temporary glimpse of bliss. 

Once I stood up, I felt like I blacked out. I started kicking him. Blast after blast to the ribs. He must have been knocked out, overdosed, or too messed up to tell. I could not tell what was happening either, only that I would keep bashing him. Blood dripped from his nose, making a beautiful mixture of his snot and sangre. The more I kicked, the softer his body felt. Logan stayed behind, watching, seemingly immersed in the brutality. Soon, I stopped. 

It was my friend’s turn now. He dragged him to the curb and stomped his head. It caved in slightly and bounced back, like solid rubber. He picked him up by the collar of his stretched shirt and headbutted him back to the ground. His body did not move, his eyes still open. The man was lifeless now, but could it be said he had life before he met us? 

No passerby even blinked an eye. To react would attract unwanted attention. As well as I thought, they must have thought the man was of no value either. Almost like the world was in grief, it started to drizzle.

“Come on, man.”, I said stoically, “Let’s get outta here now, run some other jig.” 

“Nah, I got an idea.” Logan stepped away from the man and faced back towards the liquor store, his chin angled down, “This liquor place? Drunks are always coming in and out, carrying hella cases or bottles. This place has to be loaded. So you know what I say?”, Logan cracked his knuckles, “Let’s rob it.”

 At that moment, my friend lifted his shirt. Stuck in his waistline, between his gray sweatpants and blue boxers, was a pistol. I did not know what kind. He pulled out the gun and extended it toward me. “Come on, don’t be all scared.”, he said. My headache only grew stronger. This is exactly what you need. This gun brings control. Think of the fear. The clerk will be at your own will. Do it.

I grabbed it. It filled my palm and the trigger felt strong. The weight of it, the cold metal against my skin. It made me feel powerful. Rain had started to fall. My hood came up, I pulled up my pants, refit my slides, the gun was stuck in my hoodie’s pocket, and I looked at Logan. The energy was radiating off of him. He directed me, “In and out. Run the register and a couple NewPorts. What happens, happens.” Logan had not thought this through. This was an impulse; an adrenaline rush from beating the man. 

The front side of the store was made of glass, peppered with liquor advertisements and sales. The neon lights danced their attractive choreography, though blurred by the static of raindrops. Some nights, in the dark under the moon, the store would look funnily like a nightclub. The entrance had a sliding, barred gate to prevent break-ins, then the real door.  Both the gate and the door were open for business. 

We strolled in, light and swift on our feet. There were only three aisles: one for food, two lined with bottles of hard liquor. The cooler racks at the end, holding their cold beers and common sodas and waters, hummed their electric buzz, laying an unnerving sterility over the store. Cameras were set in each corner of the store, spying. The clerk stood behind a plexiglass divider, the nicotine products on the racks behind him. 

I ran up and drew the gun from my pocket, knocked the divider out of the way, and aimed at the clerk’s dome. Everything blurred and my tunnel vision focused only on what fell in my way. It was an Arab man with a thick gray beard. He was balding from the top and had hairy arms. Logan surveyed the store for any witnesses. “You know what this is.”, I shouted with the sharpness of blades in my voice, “Run me all of it, and don’t think you’re faster than me!”

“Ok, calm down!”, he said with a deep and heavy accent, “I’ll give you what you want.” He rushedly punched the numbers on the register and an alarm tripped outside, blaring its horrified screech. 

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER.” Logan yelled, waiting by the entrance for our quick escape. My heart spiked at the sound of the alarm and I ran around the counter to the clerk. 

“Think about what you’re doing!”, the clerk pleaded. He gasped and backed up. I pulled my right hand to the side and pistol-whipped him. Twice. He came down, his big body lying on the floor. I stepped with one foot on his belly and slammed my fists on the register until it busted open. Six twenties, five tens, fourteen fives, and 9 ones. I turned and snatched a couple packs of NewPorts from the wall and stuffed them and the bills in my pockets. 

However, I had made a mistake. I had let the man see my face. After all, I was not prepared for a day like this. I looked back down at the clerk, my foot still on his belly. It was not his face I saw, it was my mother’s. I had the control. Get him before he gets you. I squeezed the trigger twice and his chest stopped moving up and down. The force of the gun made my hands numb and my ears pop. Blood soaked the soles of my slides and the bottoms of my pants with splatters dotting the rest of me. My mind went blank. Look at what you’ve done, you disgrace. I put both hands to my head and desperately screamed, “SHUT UP!”

“Oh shit.”, Logan yelled, his arms frantic, “Aye, we gotta get out!”

I came back around and tossed Logan the gun. By then, the rain was heavy. The sun hid from our sins behind the cover of clouds. We sprinted through the city, catching the rain on our bodies and taking rights and lefts at every stop sign. My feet stomped the pavement with every step, a release of power in every contact. By now, my footprints did not leave blood traces–the rain would have drifted them away anyway. On the days I went to school, the coach would try to convince me to join the track team. But a voice told me not to. My future, if I had any, would not be in running. My legs ached, but I paid no notice. Soon, we were deep enough in the hood that the police would not come looking. 

“Hey,” I labored between breaths to Logan, “Let’s stop here. I think we’re good now.”

Logan continued for several paces and stopped. We both stood, bent over with our hands on our knees, Logan with the gun in his right hand, catching our breath for a minute, letting ourselves get drenched. Townhouses with no yards lined the street and water ran quickly to the drains. A concrete kingdom for the poor, like me. No one in this area would report two teenagers: one bloodied and one with a gun. It was normal.

“Did you really have to shoot him? Goddamn, man.”, Logan said, a frightened and curious perplexion in his eyes. He’s thinking differently about you now.

“He saw our faces. The cameras might not have seen, but he definitely did.”, I gruffed at Logan, “You said ‘what happens, happens.’ Well, that’s what happened. I saved the both of us.” 

“Yeah, man, but you ain’t have to kill him. We were just sliding the joint. We were meant to be robbers, but you’re a killer.”, Logan accused. His voice tinged at “killer.”

“So what? How was killing that cashier different from killing that bum outside?”

“Don’t ask me that, man. I just don’t know.”, Logan said. 

It sounded like he was defying me now. It seemed to me that Logan was uncertain. Things got a little too intense for him. He can’t handle this. Sooner or later, the police would find us. Then what? He’s going to rat on you. Between you or himself, he’ll choose himself. 

“You want me to bring back that cashier? Well, I can’t. So what now?”, I bit.

“I said I don’t know, man. You’re freaking me out.”

I started to approach him. 

“Hey, what are you doing?”, he asked.

My whole body went numb. My tunnel vision fixated on the gun still in his right hand. Just like with my mother, I and Logan were fighting back and forth now. That was not what real friends do. Be a man and handle this. Remember, no one can be trusted. Logan’s been using you the whole time. How couldn’t you tell? Are you dumb, stupid, or slow? I was his errand boy, regardless of the money I made. What master would not turn in their errand boy to save themselves?

Logan was still in shock from the robbery and the running. The rain would have made it harder to see. He was vulnerable. Vulnerability was a ticket to the tomb in Chicago, and I had learned to recognize it through my work for Logan. “Keep your head on a swivel”, but Logan had not fully realized the real danger. I had a small window of opportunity. Do it now, or you’ll regret it in prison. Speed up his life and send him to the afterlife yourself. There was already an easy angle on his head from under his jaw. I lunged forward, yanked the gun from his hand, brought it up, and let it off. He could not resist. I had the control. The bullet went through him, and he was over with. The gun fell from my hand. I could see a faint white chalk outline of his body already, a jumbled mess. 

I looted his pockets and took his Air Jordan 1’s, then sat beside him. I had just killed the closest person I had to a friend. This was not me–it was that damned voice, dictating my life. I listened to it today, and what did I gain? Some money, shoes, and the eight Perc-30s Logan was carrying. Those Perc-30s combined could amount to almost five lethal overdoses.

I’m your only friend. Logan used you, and I helped you see that. I’m the conscience that oversees you. Those doctors wanted to control you like they controlled your mom, but I helped you out of that. Everyone else comes and goes, but I stay.

“Will you shut up! Quiet!” I gripped both sides of my head again. I ran my hands over my buzzcut to find comfort. I’m here. Logan and your mother aren’t. Nobody cares about you because you’re worthless. Scum. “Let me be! Let me go!” I was rocking back and forth, then cutting into my scalp with my nails, the pouring water like a refreshing shower. The pain was a distraction. “I don’t want you!” I took off my bloody hoodie, tossed it on the road, put my back to the pavement, and let it rasp my skin away. I could feel new cuts being made and bridged with every violent movement.

You look crazy. Maybe you are crazy. That’s what the doctors told you. You’d end up like your mother. Do you deserve to live? If you decided that bum, that clerk, and Logan didn’t deserve to live, why do you?

I got up, my back burning with every flex and stretch, and ran to a puddle in a blind haze. Finish it, if you’re not too scared. I pulled the eight Perc-30s out of my pocket with one hand and cupped some water in the other. One by one, I continued until all eight were down. 

I sat with my back to the cold and black metal fence of a townhouse, slowly slumping down next to Logan. The sensation of the rain became less and less. As my muscles started to give and my breathing slowed, I hushed my last words, “Neither of us deserves to live.”