The Other

The Other

He wasn't quite sure when the other took over completely. All of a sudden, he could feel himself locked in back, lost in the periphery. He felt like he was watching his life from around the corner and in some cases, down the block and stuck at a stop sign suddenly thrown in his path.

He'd gone to the doctor complaining of paralyzing headaches that brought him to his knees anywhere and at anytime, but most often if he was doing something pleasurable. Of course, he wasn't believed; such was the course for someone known as a pathological liar. He could see the doctor's eyes cloud over and her brows furrow, as she dropped her pen to the side and closed the chart, as though refusing to participate any further. When that happened, as it often did, he knew to simply rise from his chair and leave, taking care not to try and meet the doctor's disappointed eyes. Why the disappointment? He couldn't figure it out. He was merely meeting a need, both his and hers. It was always a she, always a she, and always he.

On his next appointment, he tried to tell her that this time, and acknowledging the falsity of the others, but this time, it was all the truth. The headaches were becoming more frequent, perhaps once or twice a month, and they appeared to be closer together. As soon as he said it, he knew he had erred. Saying they were closer together, even though they were, would only convince her he was paranoid. He was paranoid, he knew that, but it didn't mean they weren't closer together. He could tell time, after all, and he could count, couldn't he? The chart closed and her hair was tossed back. He got up and left.

He'd barely gotten out of the office and into the elevator when the pain struck. It was awful, as white lights and lacerating shards of pain leapt through his brain. He wished she could see him, and then she'd know he wasn't lying. Even he was beyond the lie of this pain.

Awakening in his apartment, in his own bed, he took a moment to gather himself. He was wet. As the panic of wetting himself again gathered stormily around him, he looked to the window for escape. It was raining outside. He didn't remember the rain, but obviously the rain remembered him. He could now relax, or could he? How could he forget the rain? As he thought back, he realized it was the rain that awakened him. The sound of it against the glass, like fingers tapping on a plastic drum, had awakened him. But it was tapping on his forehead. He could swear it was. It was another unbelievable story to tell the doctor.

He got up to change, being alarmed he was fully dressed. As he stood to strip off the wet clothes, the ceiling collapsed over his bed. If he'd been lying there he would have been hurt. Had the other awakened him? No, the other had never been kind. If anything, it was probably the other that had kept him asleep and allowed him to get soaking wet. Yeah, that was more likely something the other would do. He could only be trusted to do what he was expected to do. He relaxed, now knowing he hadn't really forgotten the rain. It was clearly not even connected. The absurdity made him happy. Perhaps, this was going to be a good day. He began to whistle as he undressed.

He lived on the top floor of a twenty-four-floor walk-up. People told him he was insane to live up there, but the rent was doable, and we all do what the rent says, so he lived on the top. Nobody lived on the six floors below him because nineteen floors were just about as far as anyone could climb with a bag of groceries and a newspaper. The newspaper boy, lazy adolescent, just dumped the news in the lobby on the bottom floor and people scrounged for a decent copy. The smart people got there early, and since he was one of the smart people, he always got a good copy, not that there was ever anything worth reading. He just enjoyed the trip down the stairs. Lately, like he said, he had to be selective about enjoyable things. The other was to be avoided at all costs, even if it meant a forced frown and an idle curse.

There was a service elevator the truly brave used, but since he wasn't brave, he wasn't using it. He considered himself not to be stupid, maniacal, or suicidal in the least. They always asked him those questions. Besides, the one time he did use the elevator, he found himself plastered to the floor gasping for air, halfway expecting a nosebleed as he rocketed to the top. He became discombobulated and turned around. It took him ten minutes to figure out where the opening gate was so he could crawl out. By that time, his shirt was covered with blood. At least, he thought it was blood. When he told his doctor about it, he swore he heard a giggle, even as she tried to cover it by clearing her throat. She'd asked him if it was red and he had to admit it wasn't. He would have gotten angry if he could have figured out how to get angry with the only person willing to listen to him on a regular basis, even if he had to pay her. She could raise her fees, and then what would he do? Pay her more? He'd had a doctor once who charged him in excess of what the HMO said they'd pay. When he mentioned it to the HMO, they fired the doctor. Then he didn't have anybody to talk to for several weeks. During his hiatus, he could feel the other growing in his head. Once in a while, he saw him behind him when he looked quickly at a passing plate glass window. He'd become frightened. He didn't like being frightened. It was like raising a white flag to the other to reach out and introduce himself.

He was glad they had given him something to relax him. The machine was pretty scary, but it was even more terrifying to be strapped down with the cacophony of pinging going on around his head. On Tuesday, he had seen another doctor who was supposed to alter his dose of medications. When he told the guy about the headaches, the lights, and how the other was getting closer and closer to him, it was the first time he'd actually seen the guy's eyes. They were large and blue and surrounded by bushy gray eyebrows, raised fairly high on his forehead framed in a look of surprise and concern. He had suggested the MRI be done as quickly as possible, so on the next Thursday; there he was, drugged and strapped.

By Friday afternoon, he'd been told he had a brain tumor. He'd been told it appeared inoperable and that chemotherapy probably wouldn't work. No one had ever seen anything like his tumor, nor had they seen one grow so fast. When they repeated the scan the next Monday, it had increased by thirty percent. They all looked at him in awe, wondering how it was he was still alive. They recommended he see a specialist who was being flown in to see him. The specialist had a unique way of treating tumors like his. He didn't understand it, but they said it was like plumbing. The specialist was going to cut off the water supply to his tumor by plugging the source. He'd never heard of anyone deliberately plugging a water main valve, but he wasn't the specialist and he wasn't a plumber either.

He figured it was probably a mistake for the other to be discovered. It was probably okay for him to know he was there, but he didn't think the other liked that strangers knew. That was probably why he was growing so fast and trying to take over all the time. He laughed. His tumor was on a mission and he was just along for the ride.

They kept him in the hospital while waiting for the specialist to arrive. He didn't tell them that he was experiencing new things, like his right arm suddenly rising on its own and reaching for stuff he didn't want, but the other did. Then his right leg kept kicking the covers off the bed like he was hot. He wasn't hot, but the other was. These days when he tried to resist the other, he just went off to sleep. It was like someone else was controlling the light switch and they wanted it dark, so dark it was.

By the next morning when the specialist arrived, he could no longer control his speech. The other had taken over. He could tell everyone thought it was weird how he was saying one thing, waving his hands like it was wrong, and even writing the complete opposite while he spoke. They took it to mean he was incapacitated. The specialist wanted to get an informed consent from somebody else. He also wanted another MRI scan.

When he awoke from sleep, his left arm and leg were in the air and came crashing down as though he surprised them moving around on their own. He wanted to laugh, but he was afraid he would be punished by a headache. But as he thought about it, now that he couldn't control his body any more, maybe pain would be his only enjoyment from here on out, so he laughed. He laughed a belly full and nothing happened. No pain, no white lights, no nothing. And just as he thought to enjoy the moment, he watched himself get up, throw on some clothes and walk out to the nurse's station. The other signed a refusal of treatment form and told everyone to leave him alone and not to call.

Two big burly orderlies wrestled him to the ground while a cute little blond nurse stabbed him in the arm with a needle. The next thing he could recall was the last pinging of the MRI machine as he completed his next scan.

They told him that now his MRI was normal and there was no evidence of a tumor, but he knew better. It wasn't that there wasn't a tumor, there was just no him. The other had camouflaged himself so well, not even the specialist could tell them apart and he really tried. The other even told them he would sue, since it was obvious they had mixed his previous scans with someone else's and wasn't it a shame that poor person was out there with a brain tumor that would probably kill him. Then the other laughed. He knew he was laughing at him. He just knew it. It was a shame.