Fergus Snacktime. Looking about the dayroom, eyes like a panoramic camera, just watching it. Not quite believing I’ve been locked up again, still hit by this proof. Yes. The dayroom. You are in the dayroom of yet another psych hospital. U-shape of blue, vinyl chairs with heavy, wood frames, too heavy for disgruntled patients to throw. Half the patients, gowned for bed sitting on them, munching apples and staring blinkless at the fuzzy, evening news on the tiny television screen and the other half pacing behind them, marching wearily around the perimeter of chairs.
A young guy sits next to me.
“There comes a point when you’re eating state apples, drinking state Kool-Aid and watching a broken TV and you tell yourself, never again.”
“And then it always happens again.” I answer the boy. I have never spoken to him before. “I’m Hela. Who are you?” I ask. I bite my apple.
“I’m Fergus.”

“So what if you go back to the art school, go to a party and this group of people, these Satanic people approach you. They’re dressed in the finest black leather clothes. They promise you that they can get your book published. They’ll introduce you to the best agents and editors if you’ll just do one thing for them. You’ll get their mark on your wrist. Would you do it?” Fergus touches his wrist.
“No...I’d never follow them, just as I’d never join your church. I don’t believe in affiliating myself with religious groups. I have my own, individual beliefs that don’t fit into any existing religion.” I say.
Fergus blinks twice. His long, black lashes skimming the golden sparkles dripped throughout his pharmaceutically glazed brown eyes. His upturned nose and puffy, bottom lip scream to me about how much he looks like my ex-fiancée.
“You know, from you books you read,” he points to Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves, a 760-page monster on my lap, “and from talking to you, I can tell you’re intelligent. But it’s too bad that someone as intelligent as you are should be so worldly.”
“And it’s too bad that someone as intelligent as you are should be a fanatic Christian.” I say. Then ask, “Worldly?”
“Yeah, overly concerned with things of this Earth. With success and sex and money.” he nodded to show he agreed with himself.
“How can you accuse me of these things? I’m very spiritual. You don’t know me.” It occurs to me then how much I sound like a Jerry Springer guest.
“Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Hela. I don’t think I’ll be talking with you again.” Fergus half-smiles and gets up.
“Wait...no. Don’t go! What the fuck is the matter? Just tell me.” I whine and toss House of Leaves on the chair next to me.
“Didn’t you used to hang out on Clark and Belmont?” Fergus’ pupils widened.
“Yeah, sometimes.” I thought back to high school. Me and my best friend Madeline would go tranny-watching there on Saturdays.
“I was involved with some bad people down there. You sort of remind me of them.” Fergus lowered his swollen pupils. “You know that restaurant, Clarke’s?”
I nodded.
“I broke a cop’s ankle there.”
“What? Why? How?” I laugh and lean toward him. Behind him, Carol limps out from our bedroom with her gown undone in back. Fergus hears the stick-stick of her bare feet on tile and turns around to watch. Carol seems to be the main form of entertainment, here. I turn to watch, too. I’m surprised at how firm her old, brown butt cheeks are. Not a dimple of cellulite or a stray hair.
“I’s run outta panties. I need some panties. Size 9 Hanes. Some panties.” Carol barks at nurse Bigfoot, who puts a giant hand to her blonde head.
“Carol, get back in your room and I’ll bring you some.”
Across the dayroom, a couple of patients laugh.
“I need some panties. Some panties. Size 9 Hanes.” she repeats and retreats to the bedroom. Fergus turns his spacey gaze back to me.
“So tell me about the cop.” I say.
“Well, I was involved with the Satanic ministry. See. Had the marks of loyalty.” Fergus touches a finger to vague scars, blurred pink slugs on his wrists and forehead. My eyebrows raise, my interest piqued.
“But then I found Christ.” his fat lips beam.
“Oh.” I say, disappointed.
“Spent two years in Cook County. One at Elgin. It seemed God used to favor me. That the strength of my light could burn away demons. But now...”
“Same here. But I don’t think a “savior” is necessary. What is there that someone could do on Earth that is so bad, they’d deserve hell, forever as punishment? Even killing millions of people...why would God discard a soul he’s created?”
“God is not a fair God.” Fergus folds his hands in his lap and I notice how roughly they shake.
“I think he, she, it is fair. Well, balanced, at least. A dichotomy of good and evil.”
“God is in Jesus.”
“If Jesus existed. I don’t dispute that God would be in him. But God is also in me. In you. In all these people.” I gesture backhanded toward our 15 or so glazed-eye companions. Pacing or watching TV. Crunching their apples, still.
“I don’t think so.” Fergus says.
I leer and bear my teeth. “So tell me about the cop.”



  ¶ 11:14 AM