by Cailas Wiebe
He was not a good man. Not in an evil way, but in a practical sense. Creeping up the crooked stairs, Braxton felt for his pen. He kept one in his breast pocket. At one time, he had used it for signing papers of importance, but now it remained only for his fans. He had three fans in fact, who followed him wherever he went. They were his first fans. The whole world adored him, but these three knew him as he used to be. They would not step outside of his shadow, and if his shadow disappeared, they would appear in frightening definition with eager hands holding his book open faced in preparation for his signature. Braxton did not look at them as he ascended the stairs, his hand closed securely around his pen.
Yes, he was a bad man. A writer who wrote the book that had changed the world, for the worse in his opinion. In this book, he had stumbled upon the meaning of happiness and had taught the world its secrets. Now people smiled more readily and would sing without warning. Last night, Braxton awoke to the sound of celebration in the walls. His neighbours in the apartment had decided that the evening was to be celebrated and had nailed a variety of colourful posters quickly scribbled in marker to all the walls and doors. He had paid no attention, but heard his fans gossiping about the upcoming event. Franky, the fan with a name, poked him in the back.
“Well? Well? Are we going? We’ll go if you go! We don’t have to go, though.”
He could hear her expression plainly in her voice, but he didn’t dare turn around for fear of signing his book. If he went to the party, they would all see him and pull out their books. He didn’t have enough pens for that. Sighing, he laid on his mattress. That’s why he didn’t go. The sound of the celebration rose around him that night, waking him at fitful intervals. He heard Franky murmur in her sleep on the floor. Yes, it was good he didn’t go.
That morning he had dressed in his coat and carefully placed his pen in his breast pocket. The mirror in front of him had a single crack that would warp his mouth if he stood in the right spot, making him silly. The celebration was still humming in the rooms around him, though more tiredly, with slower music and sleepier conversation. Braxton grinned. The fools would soon fall asleep and the apartment would slump into silence. He took pleasure in the absence of this cacophony.
Now, the problem was, if it was indeed a problem, that Braxton did not share the world’s enthusiasm for the meaning of happiness. While he had written it in ecstasy and had laughed at his desk the night of his discovery, he had soon slipped into a deep skepticism of his work. His roommate, upon reading his first draft, knelt in front of him covering his face and whispering, “You bastard, you magnificent bastard”. He became the first of his three fans and urged Braxton to submit the manuscript. The paper already dripped with gold and every indented sentence flickered with light. The editor began to weep as Braxton had placed the book in his hands, but Braxton observed this without interest. Already the golden work looked like coal to him. Lumps of shitty coal. It made his throat tighten. The editor and his roommate, now devoted and shuffling behind Braxton on the stairs, both still wore the same clothes they had on that day.
*
Franky had appeared one morning, banging against the door with her fist. When he opened the door she exploded in a seething fountain of accusations and curses. She lived one floor right below him. It was late, and his fans had been dancing around the living room for hours while Braxton hid in the bathroom. The noise had unhinged her neighbourly rage. She was the last person to ever speak to him like that again. He savoured the stinging sounds of her words and the human frustration that he saw in her face. He might have been smiling. A week later, Franky appeared again, this time with his book in her hand. She opened her mouth to speak, but did not have the words. Her hand went to his book and peeled the pages back. He quietly, almost kindly, signed the book. Afterwards, she never left his side. Over time Braxton watched his three fans dissolve, their pleasure written plainly on their glazed faces, reading his book feverishly, speaking to each other with urgency, and then falling into astonished silence when Braxton would turn to them and speak. Open-faced books and feverish faces met his voice like shields.
*
A month after the book’s release, he had signed thousands of books. He wet the pages with his ink until he forgot his name. The trio had to remind him when he returned home. At the remembrance of his name he threw his book in a rage, stripped down and collapsed helplessly on the toilet. The mirror revealed his bent form and he observed his naked body with interest. His stomach bunched into little rolls as he hunched over and his legs met his groin seamlessly, like marble. He ran his hands over his throat and probed his pronounced ribs. All the while, his eyes did not leave the mirror. This felt real, this is what he meant to write, but now his words were the world’s, and the world was happy. The fans were whispering in his bedroom, wondering about him. His body transformed as he stood and he returned to the world. He was not a good man. He had given the world a terrible cure. He watched the newswoman laugh with helpless abandon on the broadcast and she proposed to her co-anchor, the news story forgotten. He switched the television off. Bitterly, he sunk into his mattress. The three fans arranged themselves around him like a frame. A book was placed next to his head on his pillow and he turned hesitantly towards the woman. Her pleading eyes followed his hands as he felt for his pen. He muttered. “What was your name again?”
“Franky,” she had said while gazing at his signature, feeling the wet letters with her palm. His neighbours began to sing then and the parties were announced and the sounds of love-making, genuine conversation, and naked frivolity filled the brick apartment. Yes, they were all lost. Braxton was the last one alive who knew the old world. The parties subsided and the neighbours slept soundlessly. A sigh left Braxton’s lips. No one would be in the halls, now was the time to go.
He would leave. He knew he had to, but couldn’t imagine why. The world had twisted on him, hungrily devouring him. They had turned him into a god, he could see his signature in his mind, and hear the sound of his pen. They hardly even knew it was a name. It was his name—his symbol.
“Braxton,” he said to himself as he rose from his sheets. He covered his mouth and stifled an electric sob. His hands left his mouth and he slid to the end of his mattress. Slipping on his shoes, he opened the door of his apartment. The sound of his fans shuffling feet pattered behind him. The door closed. Braxton gripped the railing and began walking up the stairs. The uneven clomping of his fan’s mingled footsteps filled the corridor and soon a stampede of sound was at his back, lifting him. Soon everyone would wake up and a deep laughter would begin, slowly and beautifully. He cowered within himself at the thought. He lurched upwards with grim purpose and didn’t stop until the stairs receded and the wood became carpet. Before him was an old elevator with a single button with its direction worn off the label, indicating madness. He walked to the cold doorway and pressed the button, wishing only to leave in whatever direction the elevator would go. A horrid clattering and screaming rose up from the pit. The elevator came to life and climbed the fall to sit uncertainly at the doorway. The gate opened neatly, revealing its metal interior, painted with a warm light. Braxton spun around toward his fans who, in the shine of the elevator, were transfigured before him. They were beautiful and filthy. Their mouths supported slender noses that pinched their bright eyes into place, like fruit hanging from trees. In their faces, the ethereal dwelt underneath their gleaming skin.
There he saw Franky in the light, who wore a baseball cap that pushed her matted hair aside. She looked so wise. Her hands were clasped to her book as she presented it to him. An offering. They knelt in the light of the gateway with moistened eyes, taking in Braxton’s coated form. He angrily pulled his pen from his pocket and threw it at their feet. They watched the pen in confusion and then turned their startled eyes to Braxton’s hand closing into a fist. Why? Why was he doing this? He felt hysteria rising from his chest and into his face as he let the rage build. He raised his arms to the ceiling and barked.
“Joy! You have it! You have it!”
Turning back to the light he walked into the elevator. Behind him he felt hands clasping and sliding off his shoes. They were mewling and groping after him, stark and alive on their hands and knees. The elevator closed around him and he let his arms drop as the doors met.
Cailas Wiebe is a writer and comic artist who currently lives in Montreal. He likes to draw and write, often creating board games and stories for his friends and family. His comics and short stories appear on his instagram account (@caiscomics) and are also published in a collaborative graphic novel. He used to drink decaf coffee, but now he drinks regular coffee.
Headlight Anthology 