The Pain of Knowing

Three gentle knocks on the open door. “Are you busy?” he asked. Cameron was a skinny kid, hazel eyes wide at all times, hunched over in a dark-blue knitted sweater, one hand shoved deep into his faded blue jeans. He looked like a startled deer at all times, even when sitting in the front row of class.

“Never,” I replied. “Question on the exam?”

“Not exactly,” he said, taking a fragile step into my office. His eyes darted. “Just a thought I had.”

He hesitated. I nodded for him to continue. “How can you tell what’s true and what’s not?” He sat in the chair across from the blackboard, interlacing his fingers on his lap. “The truth table problems, the proofs. I mean, how do we know it all works out? That what we’re doing actually works and we’re not just lying to ourselves?”

“That’s more a philosophy question than a mathematics one,” I said. “Are you questioning reality?”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, no. I’m just curious. The thought came up after thinking about the exam, and now…” he shrugged through a tightlipped smile. “I can’t get my mind off it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s been two hours, Cameron. Is the world ending so soon?” I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Fortunately I’m interested in the question as well, how we can know what we know is true. There’s a whole field about it: Epistemology.”

He nodded, starting a continuous nervous rocking. “I’ve heard of it, I think. Thought it was about diseases and stuff, though.”

I cocked my head to the side, then burst into laughter. “Epidemiology! Very good, very good,” I nodded. “I’ll have to steal that one.” Cameron shifted in his seat; I don’t think he meant it as a joke. I cleared my throat. “Epistemology is the theory of knowledge, how we can come to know things are true, how we can distinguish between opinion and justified belief. Metaknowledge, in a way.”

He nodded along, or maybe just kept rocking back and forth. “What do you know about it?”

What started as a simple question turned into the most refreshing and draining conversation I ever had with a student since I started teaching. I went through four cans of Monster through the discussion: Circular logic, lies and trust, the perception and perspective problems, premises and axioms – any and everything I knew pertaining to how we could know what we know was drawn out of me, and Cameron nodded or rocked along, asking questions and making good points.

He was the one to point out the sun had set and he needed to get going. Still he sat, his rocking turned into heel tapping.

I licked my lips, suddenly parched. “Tell you what, tomorrow is Saturday, and I have exams to grade. Swing by my apartment around nine and I’ll let you peruse my library. I’ve got plenty of philosophy books on the subject, and you can pester me as I mark up today’s disasters.”

Cameron nodded, eyes widening, or maybe they were just as wide as before. I wrote my address on the back of a business card.

“Thank you professor, I really mean it. I don’t know if I’ll still be curious tomorrow after all we’ve discussed, but if I am I’ll show up.” He shoved the card into his pocket and grimaced. “Maybe not at nine, though. Bit early for me.”

I laughed. “Not to worry, just don’t show up before then, I’ll likely still be getting ready, or out getting coffee.”

Cameron smiled. “That won’t be an issue.” He stood, shook my hand, and left.

The walk home was short, and it started with the same fatigue-drunk silence you get when drained of all energy. Every action was single minded: step left, step right, stop at the crosswalk, remember to blink, do I go? wait for the signal, signal says go, step left, step right, am I supposed to be crossing now? keep going. Rainbow stars like gasoline on concrete blotched my sight, a sure sign of sleep deprivation.

I locked myself in for the night, my bag with the exams flung against the couch. My mind was buzzing, unceasing, louder than cicadas. I went to the kitchen and lapped water from the fridge dispenser. The cold on my lips brought forth a needed infinitesimal clarity.

I leaned over the sink, breathing deep, blinking hard, watching the stars bounce back and forth. The living room was composed of a couch, a coffee table, a rug under said coffee table, and a great horror of bookshelves and bookpiles opposite of it all.

I suckled water from the fridge once more, desperate. It took a few tries to unlock my phone and set an alarm for seven. And five past, and ten past, and eleven past. I set it down on the kitchen counter, took my left and right steps to the couch, and collapsed face down into a cacophonous sleep.

There was a knock on my door. The apartment was soaked in the type of dark achieved by light coming from the streetlights outside, strange shadows at odd angles turning things longer than they should. I was lying on my back, strangely coherent.

The knock came again. I opened the door to an empty hallway. The overhead lights buzzed their white light, puddles of alleged water speckled the concrete floors. No one was anywhere.

There was a knock at my door. My right hand was still on the knob, the door still open. I felt the three raps through my fingers, I heard it clearer than my own thoughts. And yet the door was perfectly smooth paint except the peephole which was too blurry to use.

I went and gulped down a glass of water. I counted the number of fingers I had and watched the green stove clock for a few minutes, walking away and coming back, just to make sure it still read 1:24 or 1:25. Your mind, when asleep, has trouble keeping track of sequences. It will drop a number if you count, or won’t show a clock or watch correctly.

I couldn’t have been asleep. It was simply the hallucination of an over-excited, under-rested man. I returned to the couch, sleep returning quickly.

I awoke on the floor between the couch and coffee table, arm pinned against my torso, winded, sore. Standing, I massaged the knot from my shoulder. I spotted the stove clock. 1:24. My eyes narrowed.

It wasn’t blinking, so the power hadn’t gone out and messed with the time. Checking my phone, the time read a minute fast, but that was reasonable. I rubbed my eye, but it changed nothing. Noticing the low battery on my phone, I grabbed my charger from the bedroom, plugging it into the kitchen outlet, and watching the charge icon appear. I returned to the couch, asleep once more in moments.

I woke up already sitting straight, tense, breathing hard, heartbeat deafening in my ears. I had fallen asleep, right? I had laid down, right? I remembered doing those things. I looked at the stove clock. 1:24.

How?

I counted to different numbers on my fingers, nothing feeling out of the ordinary. I checked my phone which was not plugged in. Full charge. I checked the alarms, all still there.

I splashed my face with water from the sink. I felt lucid. I must have been lucid. Yet things were not right. I had memories of things happening with no evidence of them happening.

Opposite the kitchen was a large window, the blinds fully down but not drawn. Through the slits orange light painted the buildings across the street. I watched them, hoping for a sign that I was sleeping or hallucinating, some clear indication that things were wrong or right. I blinked hard, breathing deep in the blackness, and opened. Nothing.

I splashed my face again and dried it with a hand towel. The stove clock read 1:26. Perhaps it had been a dream, and this was real; the hyper-active imagination of an over-tired, over-caffeinated mind. I resolved to get rid of the mini fridge next week. I felt clearheaded and calm enough to return to sleep.

Leaning once more over the sink, I closed my eyes, breathed in deep, exhaled deeper. I opened my eyes.

I was on the couch. I was sitting straight. I was tense. The stove clock read 1:24.

Objectively, it was an interesting problem: how do you tell if what you’re experiencing is reality? Schizophrenics believe their hallucinations. Conspiracy theorists convince themselves of delusions constantly. How can you prove that you’re any different?

Subjectively I was terrified. Trapped in a cycle. Never sure if what happened is something that happened, or if it was a dream, or a mixing of memory and reality. How could you tell what you saw was what was really there?

I pinched myself. Pain tends to cut through hallucination, built deeper than the foundation of sight and sound. I felt the sting, I felt the burning, I felt the diminishing throb once I let go. I was awake. I had to be.

I paced the floor. You must operate based on the information given; this is a basic principle for problem solving. If your assumption leads to a false conclusion, it means the assumption must be wrong; this is the principle of contradiction.

All information pointed to wakefulness in the moment. So I couldn’t be asleep. Yet things were off, things did not mesh as in a wakeful reality. So I couldn’t be awake. Which means I must have been treading some middle ground, a kind of hallucination. A vivid, lucid hallucination.

I grabbed my phone from the counter and dialed 911. A woman answered. I explained I wasn’t certain of reality and was a danger to myself. I gave my address, and she said someone would arrive shortly. She stayed on the line, asking me questions about my life, about the situation I was in, if I was hurt, if I had a history of mental illness, if this had happened before.

I sat against the sink, staring at the stove clock as it ticked up, minute by minute. It said 1:31 when, in a lull, I asked her what the time was.

“It’s about four AM, sir. An officer is on his way to check on you, shouldn’t be too much longer.”

I swallowed the nothing in my mouth. “What time is it exactly?”

“3:57,” she said.

I blinked. The stove clock ticked to 1:32. I checked my phone. 1:33.

I woke up on the floor between the couch and coffee table, arm pinned against my torso. I shot up. The stove clock read 1:24.

There was a knock at the door, three raps. I counted my fingers. I slapped myself. I rubbed my eyes.

Three raps sounded, slightly faster, slightly louder than before. I followed the long, terrible shadows to the door. I pressed my eye to the peephole, a fuzzy outline suggesting someone was there. I opened the door, and there was Cameron.

He flinched. “Good morning, professor.”

“What time is it?” I glanced down the halls, searching for nothing in particular.

He stammered, fumbling with his pocket. “I thought it was around ten, but–” he looked at his phone– “Yeah, it’s 9:57. Is now a bad time? Should I go?”

I shook my head, both to fix my mind and to tell him no. I waved my hand. “Come in, books are in the living room.”

His eyes were wide, or normal, as he took it all in, hands still in pockets, face close to each spine, neck contorting to read them all. I poured myself some water. I drank and saw the stove clock read 1:24.

“Cameron,” I said, flat, calm, serious as a knife. I pointed to the clock, my eyes unblinking, focused on the digital display. “What time does that say?”

He stepped over. “1:24,” he said, chipper, curious, questioning. “Why?”

“It’s around ten, yes?” I turned to him, noticing the sunlit scene behind him for the first time. He wore the same sweater as yesterday, likely the same jeans. If he could see the stove said 1:24, things must be resolved. “How does a clock cycle between 1:24 and 1:32 over and over? I could have sworn I woke up several times last night to see it at that time, 1:24.”

Cameron furrowed his brow, fumbling out his phone once more. “The clock is right, professor. I mean, it’s a bit slow, but it sure doesn’t say 1:24.”

I snapped my neck back to the stove. 9:54. I dropped the glass. It clattered against the hardwood but did not break. I hurried around the counter and grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes widened. For sure this time.

In a low, desperate voice, I asked, “You said the clock said 1:24, yes? I asked you what the stove said and you said 1:24, I know it, I heard it.”

He swallowed. “No, I said 9:54.”

I pointed at the stove. “That clock read 1:24. You said it read 1:24. I turn away, and then it says 9:54. How.” I pulled him close. “How?”

His eyes were shaky, entire body tense. Then he relaxed. “Is this a test? Epistemology? You act like something is someway despite my own senses? Is that what you’re doing?”

Epistemology, how we know what we know. Perception, senses, proofs, truth. I yanked open a kitchen drawer and pulled out a knife. I held it up. “This is a knife,” I said. “This exists. I am holding it.” I grabbed the blade with my left hand, the edge digging into my palm. I had to.

Fire and red across my palm, my skin torn apart, my arm tight and shaking, my body grimacing from the pain. I held it out to Cameron, walking to him. “Is this real? Am I bleeding?” The blood poured out. I licked it and tasted iron. Cameron backed away to the wall, knocking into a pile of books stacked up to his waist. He was holding himself, lip quivering, eyes wet watching the knife. “No, you’re not. You’re not bleeding.” He sobbed. “You’re not bleeding, and this is real.”

I looked at my hand. Dry. No blood. No pain. How.

I screamed. “How? I felt the knife! I felt the pain! My hand was cut! I was cut!” I held out my palm mere inches from his nose. “There should be blood pouring out from a wound right here,” I pointed with the knife tip, “Where is it? Why am I not cut?”

Cameron squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, you’re not cut, you didn’t cut yourself, but this is real, I swear.” He opened his eyes. He shook his head. “Can I go? Did I pass? Please, just let me go. I’m scared.”

He was shivering, convulsing through sobs. I regained myself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I placed the knife on the counter and grabbed hold of him gently. In a whisper, I spoke, “I’m going to get some coffee, clear my head. If you want to go, you can, or you can stay and look through my books like you planned.” The weight of reality crashed in. This was not good. I swallowed. “You can take one if you’d like, you know. I’ve got plenty.”

He convulsed against my hands. I patted him on the shoulder and took my leave. I whispered apologies to him as I put on my coat and left.

I walked against the November chill, the frost from the previous night turned into a slick damp on every surface. I punched in my mobile order to the Starbucks a few blocks away. The air filled my lungs with desperate clarity, my senses returning. Slowly, the gasoline rainbow stars returned, a vision I didn’t know I missed until that moment. I shoved my hand back in my jacket pocket; the sweat had made the cold unbearable. My shoulders relaxed, my steps slowed, my breathing calmed. I unclenched my jaw for what must have been the first time in days.

The cute barista welcomed me and smiled. Despite the time, no one was in line. “Good morning! Just finished your usual." She held it out to me and I took it with a tightlipped smile. I turned to read my name, heart over the I like always. I drank deeply, not caring how badly I scalded my tongue.

“Is that your blood?” the barista asked with deep concern. She pointed at the cup. I took it with my other hand and sure enough, my palm was slick with red. It soaked into the white coffee cup in deep blotches. I placed it back on the counter, my other hand also slick with blood. I sniffed them and smelled rust. I licked my palm and tasted iron.

“I cut myself this morning making breakfast,” I said, grabbing some napkins from a dispenser. The brown paper stuck to more than cleaned my hands, but the action gave me time to think.

I threw the napkins one by one into the trash. It wasn’t my blood, I knew. Whose was it? Eyebrows furrowed and mind racing, I noticed once more the rainbow stars dancing across my vision, an old friend that went missing during the night.

Then it clicked. “Ah,” I whispered. “This was reality.” My hands clean, I grabbed my coffee, apologized profusely, and left. The cup never touched my lips again, the stars my only source of warmth as I walked back to my apartment. I knew what I would find there, knew I would have to call 911, and knew the exams would never be graded.