Waxing Lunacy

Like coming off of anesthesia, the change back was always worse than the change to. The pain that should have been felt through the ordeal had been delayed- not stopped. The nightmare had left him all alone, licking his wounds in the dark. Wincing, and straining, Orin hobbled up onto his feet and limped his way up out of the hollow.

He found the cabin door unlocked and an ice pack for him in the meat freezer. He pressed it over his head and snagged his drawstring bag down from the coat hook.

His old friends were waiting in the den. He counted them to be sure. Five; five of them were there. He was the sixth. Sprawled out on the sofa, Joe greeted Orin with a slight raise of his coffee tin- toasting his good health.

"Orin! I was starting to worry." said Vincent from the arm chair. Orin stopped short and peered curiously at the doctor. Noah and Randy were standing on either side of him. Randy was reattaching the prosthetic arm to Vincent's left side. Ralph was carefully removing the EEG probes from Vincent's matted, graying hair. Only two years older than the rest of them and Vincent's blonde hair was already turning gray.

"I'm alright." he assured his neurologist. "Thank you."

"Good," said Vincent. "You'd better hit the showers fast. It's almost eight-thirty. And Orin- wait- next Bad Hair Day's October eighteenth. We'll see you."

"See you"

Orin could not quite put his finger on where his newfound disdain for the doctor was coming from. They had all known each other since they were kids and Vincent had always been their leader. The doctor's left arm had been lost almost a year ago. Was that all it was- some deep-seeded contempt for his friend's disability?

He wondered this as he showered quickly in the cabin's locker room and dressed himself in the clean clothes he had packed for the trip.

Orin poured himself a mug of coffee, and huffed down a doughnut. Someone handed him the bottle of aspirin.

"All good?" asked Noah. He had a nasty gash over his right eyebrow, Orin nodded. Noah nodded. One by one they took their leave of the place. Orin was the last. He locked the cabin behind him, tested the latch and walked past the two crosses that stood erect in the front.

He scanned his badge once at the fence gate and again at the door behind the smoke shack. He did his best to hide his limp as he walked to the shipping department.

"Well! Well! Well!" jeered Rusty, peering down at him from atop the scissors lift. "Would ya look what the cat dragged in? What'd you do, pick another fight at the bar?"

"You should see the other guy," said Orin.

"I'd probably go blind," said Rusty.

"Orin!" shouted Zach from across the loading bay. Orin looked over and Zach motioned him into the shipping office. "You look like a zombie, Orin." said Zach. Orin gave a half-hearted smile. "Look Orin, I don't know how you and Jim worked it out that you could just blow off half-a morning's work once a month, and I don't care,"

"I told you in advance that I needed some time off this morning." Orin said, holding back his anger.

"And I told you to forget it. You and me and all the rest of us get the same amount of vacation days a year and yours are already spent. It wouldn't be fair of me to just let one guy out of the whole team come and go as he pleases."

Orin tightened the clenched fist behind his back. "Look, I get that you're a hard worker, but this kind of thing has got to stop. If you can't make that work, then you and I will be going to HR together. Understood?"

Orin made no reply but shook on it none-the-less.

He was sitting in front of the TV, drinking his beer, watching the game. An arm sporting a tattoo of of a stag reached over his chest and a pair of lips pecked his cheek.

"How was Bad Hair Day, Babe?" asked Chelsea. Orin smirked.

"Just glad it's over" he said. "Darlene still giving you what for?"

"Urgh! Don't get me started. First thing she does when she walks in fifteen minutes late is she just stands there for five minutes and criticizes my organization- in front of my patrons! 'Sprays on the left' she says, 'Gels and mousses in the center, shampoo and conditioner on the right. I swear- if that woman does not learn to back off-"

Orin caught her lips on his own and their eyelids rolled lazily down. "I mean- I've got seven customers in chairs waiting to get their hair done and four more in the lobby and she's got the gall to-"

The doorbell rang and Orin answered to find the pizza delivery girl. She was college aged by the looks of her with rosy cheeks and strawberry-blonde hair tied up into a bun.

"Hawaiian pizza for Orin White?" she asked.

"That's me," said Orin as he tabulated her tip. They fumbled through with the exchange and each took a step back to check the other's work. She counted the cash and he inspected the contents of his box. "Keep the change." said Orin. And he noticed the bold black text on her pink hoodie. "Daddy's spoiled brat?" he read. She shrugged.

"No contest here. My Grandma gave me this." she said with a meek smile.

Orin chuckled.

"You have a good evening now. Be safe." he told her. She thanked him as she walked down the porch steps toward her well-dented Volkswagen and Orin watched her go. Then, turning around he found Chelesea standing in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at him.

"What?" Orin asked.

"Pfft!" she snorted.

"What?!" Orin asked of the door she had just slammed in his face. Then, wincing and cursing, he fumbled with his keys against the latch.

A brand new day began with his alarm clock, his breakfast, his shower, his devotional and the familiar drive to work. An old audio book played on his cell phone.

The bay doors opened. The trucks backed in.

He shook the driver’s right hand and and took the bill of lading and expedite form from his left. He checked it, signed it, photocopied it, fantasized, as he often did, about nestling into the captain's chair himself and driving somewhere far away in the cockpit of a freight truck.

Day by day, Orin performed the dance of the forklifts. Day in, day out; he was finding an agreeable lightness in the month now. He had trucks to load and he had trucks to unload. The folks who worked on the factory floor were always churning out more brake lights to sell. Two more workaday weeks strolled him by.

One Saturday night he and Chelsea were in Church. Sunday morning had not even been an option. Zach had kindly informed the team that the boss was commandeering their weekend again. It had something to do with a quality defect, a parts shortage, and a missed shipment three days prior.

"Therefore, O king, let my counsel be acceptable to you: break off your sins by practicing righteousness, and your iniquities by showing mercy to the oppressed..."

Orin stewed angrily on the loss of his weekend, until a shout from the preacher dragged him back into the present.

"O King Nebuchadnezzar, to you it is spoken: The kingdom has departed from you, and you shall be driven from among men and your dwelling shall be with the beasts of the field."

Orin lowered his gaze and played with the pamphlet in his hands. This was not anything new. He reminded himself. It was almost his time of the month again. He was getting antsier. The insomnia was starting up in full swing again, too. Still, Orin felt his heart thumping harder as the man in the pulpit, unwittingly, tore deep into his soul.

"...and his body was wet with the dew of heaven till his hair grew long as eagles' feathers, and his nails were like birds' claws." said the preacher.

It was all too much. Before he even knew what he was doing, Orin had stood up and made for the door.

The cool October air did little to ease his troubled spirit. He took deep breaths of it none the less.

"Why me?" he whispered to night sky. How had it started again?

Orin looked up at the waxing gibbous moon and wondered aloud,

"Do you hate us, God?"

The night before Bad Hair Day he dreamed he was eleven years old and riding home from the ball field.

The sky was darkening as he peddled down the suburban roads. He heard rustling in the hedges by the sidewalk. And looking behind him, he saw the pointed ears, and the snout of the huge black dog that was silently stalking him. He peddled harder, fighting a roaring wind that rustled the trees. He repeated his old mistake. He looked back. He had more of them coming. They looked hungry.

He was starting to lose his speed on a steep hill. A deep, booming voice called out from behind him saying,

"You cannot escape us. We are Legion. For we are many."

Desperate, he climbed. But there, as he overcame the summit, as he saw clear to the horizon, he was seared alive by the light of a sky-engulfing disk: a vast and menacing moon. He let go of the handlebars. His arms flung apart.

"OUCH! Orin!" cried Chelsea. Orin was sitting upright drenched in a cold sweat. His wife was hunched over sprinting for the bathroom door holding her hand over her mouth. Orin tumbled out of bed and staggered toward the door she had just closed on him.

"Chelsea!" he shouted. "Chelsea! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He got down on his knees and locked his fingers behind his head. He began to weep. "I'm sorry for everything."

Bad Hair Day had arrived.

Orin hung his drawstring bag on one of the nine hooks on the wall. He was the first to arrive this time. He winced and cursed, as he dragged the tank of propane away from his truck.

Randy had already packed the meat freezer full of steaks. One by one and quickly, Orin cut them out of their plastic packaging and threw them on the grill. Joe came out onto the patio.

"How ya doin' Orin?" he asked with a phony sort of cheeriness.

"Shut up and get started on the chicken." said Orin. "The sun's comin' down fast."

When they were six, they gathered around the table in the cabin: one to each bench, plus one in either chair on the ends. There were no fancy salt and pepper shakers, no dressings, no sauces, no appetizers, vegetables, breads, spices, or sauces. There was only the meat.

Vincent stood up like he always did and raised his beer can.

"Sam," he said somberly.

"Sam." they echoed and they drank.

"George," he said also.

"George." they repeated and again, they drank.

"Let's eat." said Vincent.

Forks clattered, and the meat was on their plates. The lazy Susan twirled round and round as the platters of meat were served.

Randy licked the juice off of each finger. Ralph chewed noisily with his mouth open. Noah and Joe grabbed the same piece of bacon and broke it in two trying to pull it away from the other. For a while Vincent continued to pick at his plate with the fork in his one good hand.

'Why doesn't he just give up?' Orin thought to himself. 'What's he trying to prove?' The only member of their pack to go further than an associate's degree, the only man in their company to make anything of himself; why was it that the doctor always had to carry himself with such dazzling arrogance?

It was always like this- like something out of Golding's Lord of the Flies. In their company, a man could sit and eat and watch societal collapse in real time. As the sky drew darker, the rules drew fewer.

Orin wondered how it had happened to them, as he stuffed his face with sausage, brisket, jerk chicken, and venison.

When each man was uncomfortably full, he stood up, grunted and staggered over to the couches in the den.

"Let's get this over with!" said Joe smiling a macabre grin.

"Ah-woooo!" Noah howled, with that false cheerfulness that Orin hated. "Ah-woooo!"

Joe was laughing, and cackling, and rolling on the floor. Noah began to convulse.

Suddenly, Orin's muscles contracted. His spine seized up and a hard current seemed to shoot up through his synapses. An agonized groan escaped him.

"Go on!" shouted Ralph at the creatures in the floor that once had been Joe and Noah. "Go on! Get!"

The two on the floor snarled and snapped at Ralph and Randy. "Go!" Ralph shouted again, this time brandishing a poker from the fireplace. "Get out of here! Go!"

Orin heard what sounded like claws scuttling over the wooden floors- and out the patio door flap. He thought he tasted blood in his mouth. Feeling around with his tongue, he felt his canines lengthening out of his gums. The pain was incredible. He was teething.

Now even the twins were panting like confused, agitated dogs and soon went bolting on their hands for the door. Only Orin and Vincent remained. Vincent unclipped his suspender straps and Orin thought he saw matted, gray fur come spilling out,

"Oooooooorrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnnn" Vincent rasped. "Hel-hellllllp me with the stuuuuupid, stupid thing." said Vincent, struggling to remove his mechanical arm.

Orin stood up and winced. This always happened. Why did Vince have to be the one who waited the longest to go? Orin crossed over like a like a centipede and plucked Vincent's jacket and over-shirt the rest of the way off.

Panting, growling, Orin fumbled with the straps of the prosthetic. His fingers were shaking. No longer opposable, his thumbs had ceased to be thumbs.

"GRRRRRTTTT IRRTT O-O-FFF" said Vincent. He was starting to seize up and rock back and forth and side to side. This was all just too much.

Orin tore his shirt and bolted on his feet and hands toward the door. The flap made a loud clapping sound behind him.

Some words he had heard on the road somewhere came bubbling up again.

"To the last I grapple with thee!" he rasped as he tumbled and flew over the cold, dry grass. He sprang down the hill growling, "From hell's heart I stab at thee!"

He came into a clearing- and there he felt the full blast of it. He was standing on his hind legs now looking straight into the glowing brilliance of the full moon.

"For hate's sake.."

He clawed and slashed at the distant moon- at the stupid- horrible- miserable moon.

"I spit my last breath at thee!"

"Nothing more could be said to the moon. There were no words profound enough- no profanity course enough to convey his hatred for the little white orb in the big black sky. All that was left for him was to lift his chin towards the starry sky and howl.

He had a long night ahead of him- a night of ice- and hunger- insatiable, ravenous hunger. He phased in and out. One moment, he was beating his fist against the hard cold ground. Then all he saw was red. He was running on four red legs, chasing a little red rabbit through a white pasture. Then all he saw was red. He was tearing a white squirrel apart with his sharp, red claws. It bit him. He howled. He bit back. It died. And all he saw was red.

Jeering, the man in the moon seemed to gleam down upon him with amusement. The moonlight burned his skin and blinded his eyes. Then all he saw was red.

Usually when Orin awoke from such a night of lunacy, he would find himself naked, alone lying under the open air curled up in a ball. Usually, a strange thought would creep over him. Was it really Orin who awoke? He had once been Orin- then the moon came out in full and he had become... not Orin. He was back wasn't he? Or was this reality just another blip of consciousness in the torrent of the lunacy?

He blinked himself back into the waking world: the world of bruises, rashes, and scrapes. He smacked his lips. There was something caught in his teeth. More venison? No it tasted feathery- and fluffy. A chicken he had stolen in the throes of lunacy? A sheep he had crept up on and sampled in a pasture?

He was not outdoors. He was in the cabin den- and he was not alone. They were all there- all five of them lay strewn on the sofas- battered, bruised and torn to ribbons- their grotesque forms painted over in dirt and rashes. Hadn't there been six of them? Where was Vincent?

The thing in Orin's throat tickled and he gagged. It was in his mouth and running down his chin. He caught it in his hand and dislodged it from his throat. It came up sticky and wet- a long, trailing strand of pink thread.

Orin blinked- and he saw. He saw at the other end of this thread, there lay a hoodie- a thick pink, dirty, bloody hoodie- a hoodie with big, bold, black letters that said, "Daddy's Spoiled Brat". He looked up and was terrified. All four of them were looking from him to the hoodie and back again. Orin shuddered. He threw the tail of the hoodie away and gazed, horror struck at the pink clump in the floor.

"What? What have I done?" he asked.