The Empty Man

I arose as I had for months prior and dragged myself out of bed. I stretched, walked to the bathroom, and splashed water onto my face. I looked up. It was the first time I’d looked in a mirror in a while.

Unshaven. Unkempt hair. Unfocused, distant eyes. Who was I even looking at?

I went to the kitchen. Nothing in the cupboards looked good for breakfast, not that I was feeling that hungry. I sat down at the table. Maybe I’ll just go lay back down. But first, I went and checked the mail box. Empty except for an ad.

“Want something? Need something? Don’t know what it is you want or need? Let us help!” The advertisement read. Into the garbage it went. I had no interest in whatever they were selling; it was probably a scam.

I glanced at the clock. 2:30. How late was it when I’d fallen asleep? My stomach growled; I needed to eat something if I wanted to get back to sleep. I shoved a handful of cheese crackers into my mouth. Good enough.

I returned to my bed and laid down. I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep. I tossed. I turned. I gave up and looked at my phone. 3:30. I laid back down and stared up. My body just wasn’t ready for sleep. Then, as I tried to count the stains on the ceiling, words crossed my mind.

Want something? Need something?

Why was I thinking about that dumb advertisement? I closed my eyes and rolled onto my side, pulling the blanked up over me. I tried focusing on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. My breathing slowed, but all that did was give space for stray thoughts.

Want something? Need something? Want something? Need something?

The questions played over and over like a skipping record in my mind. I sighed and threw the blankets off me. I walked to the kitchen and dug the ad out of the trash. I read it over again. There was nothing special about it, just what I’d read, a number, and an address.

So why did it echo in my head? I pulled out my phone and called the number. A fake female voice picked up immediately.

“Thank you for calling. Tell me, do you want something, need something, or do you not know?”

“I don’t know.” It was easier to tell a machine than a person.

“Wonderful,” it replied with its saccharine voice. “Come to the address on the card sent to you and we’ll help you.”

I looked down at the card. It was only twenty minutes away. I went to my room and dug through the pile of dirty laundry and found a cleaner shirt. I put it on and headed to the bathroom. I splashed some water in my hair and brushed it. It was still greasy but I looked passable now at least.

I rechecked the address and headed out. The sun stung my eyes and seared my skin. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d left my apartment. I got in my car and started it. It had an eighth of a tank left; it wasn’t a lot but it was enough to get me there and back.

Twenty minutes later I was at the address. The parking lot seemed empty for what looked like a medical facility but I figured it was just because it was 4 PM on a weekday. I parked and headed inside.

It looked like every other hospital waiting room I’d been in before, uncomfortable plastic seats, health brochures, and an inane reality show on the tv. I approached the counter.

“Hi, I called earlier and was told to come in,” I told the clerk. She nodded and handed me a clipboard and a packet of paperwork with a pen. I sighed and sat down. I guess there was no escaping some things.

I plodded through the paperwork. Mostly it asked the questions I expected. Prior health issues, any medications I was on, insurance information, all that stuff. It wasn’t until I reached the end that I found something interesting.

“Why are you here?” It asked, with 3 options: “Want something,” “Need something,” “I don’t know what I want or need.” I checked the last option. Then came a ton of legal stuff about me giving consent for an experimental procedure. I took the packet up to the clerk.

“So what’s this about?” I asked.

“We are pioneering an exciting new procedure to assist people experiencing a lack of direction in their life.” It was a practiced response.

“Can I know what I’m agreeing to if I sign this?”

“It is a basic surgical procedure. There are some moderate risks as there are with all surgeries but we have been cleared to move on to trials with human subjects.”

“Trials? Like for new medications and stuff?” She nodded. “Can you tell me more than, ‘it’s a surgery?’”

“Unfortunately we cannot. As a participant of the study any information we give you risks tainting the results. Rest assured, the procedure is proven nonlethal. The disclaimer is just a formality, but you are free to decline participation.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” I sat back down. I never liked stiff corporate speak but it was probably something she just had to do to keep this place out of trouble.

Signing up for a surgery on a whim didn’t sound like the greatest idea. But I couldn’t find a reason not to. What else was I going to do, just go back home and do nothing? I put pen to paper and paused for a moment before signing off and turned in the paperwork.

“Excellent, we are glad you are choosing to help us test our new procedure. The soonest opening we have is the second of next month. Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” It was a bit far away but I couldn’t complain. I felt silly, even, thinking I’d sign up for an unknown surgical procedure and they’d just lead me to the operating room on the same day.

“Thank you Mr.,” she glanced down at the clipboard, “Hughes. We will send you a reminder and instructions 24 hours prior to your procedure.”

“Alright, thanks.” And I left. I returned to my apartment, to my ritual, to wait until the day came.

Weeks later, I awoke to a phone call. It was the reminder and instructions for my surgery. Even with the time to think I still don’t know why I decided to sign up for a surgery. Maybe I should ask my neighbors if they had also gotten the ad. I decided against it and went back to sleep instead.

I felt stupid walking out to my car the next day. Not because I was wearing the same shirt but because who signs up for an unknown surgery? Who signs up for one and still decides it’s a good idea the day of? Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe I was just stupid.

Whatever the case, I couldn’t stop myself from getting in my car and driving down to the facility. I sat in the parking lot. It wasn’t too late to go home, pretend I never signed up for this thing. But I was compelled to leave my car and walk inside. It was probably the same part that compelled me to go and sign up for their procedure in the first place.

“We’re happy you made it, Mr. Hughes. Are you ready?” It was the same girl.

“I suppose so.”

“Excellent, right this way.” She got up and led me through a set of double doors and down a number of halls. She stopped in front of a door labeled 108.

“In here. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” I entered and waited. The doctor came in a minute later.

“Mr. Hughes, are you ready for your procedure?”

“If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be here.”

“Wonderful.” He read off some more disclaimers from his clipboard and had me undergo some final preparations. Within ten minutes I was being wheeled down the hall to the operating theater. Once inside a nurse put a mask over my mouth.

“I’m going to count to ten, and when I get there you’ll be asleep. When you wake up you’ll be done.”

I didn’t even make it to five.

He awoke from the surgery a few hours later. A nurse told him the procedure was a success and asked how he was feeling. He told her there was a dull ache in his chest from the incision but other than that he didn’t feel different.

She noted his response and let him know he’d need to spend a bit longer there to make sure he recovered without complication. He nodded and asked for some food. She told him of course, and brought him a banana and an orange, telling him it would help with recovery.

He devoured them. His recovery was smooth, and he was discharged a few days later. He was to take it easy and come back for a follow up in a week.

When he started his car he shook his head. It was running on empty. Fill it up, he told himself, and he did. Why had it been such a pain to take care of something so essential? Maybe it was easier when it had to be done.

When he opened the door to his apartment he was hit with the stench of rotten food. He threw everything from the fridge into the trash and tied it off. He’d been away longer than expected but he knew some of that stuff had gone bad before he’d left. Why had it still been in there?

He shook it off and took the bag down to the dumpster. He slipped the bag over the edge. He returned to his apartment. No sooner had he replaced the trash bag when he noticed the sea of garbage strewn about the floor.

Was cleaning really that hard? He sighed and threw it all away, filling a new bag in ten minutes. It joined the other in the dumpster. When he returned again he was overcome with the desire to shower. He went to his room, to the pile of dirty laundry. None of his clothes were clean.

He let out a huff and scooped up the pile into the hamper. The apartment laundry room was open so he fished out a handful of quarters from his coffee can of change and headed downstairs. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching his laundry spin in the washer.

Five minutes. It had taken him five minutes to get his laundry from the pile to the washer. Just like gassing up and taking out the trash it hadn’t been hard. He sneered. Why hadn’t he just done this shit before he left?

He sat there grinding his teeth as he waited for his laundry to finish up. He made his way back to his apartment an hour and a half later, hamper in tow. It was time to shower. He took his time, letting the hot water run down his body. He’d forgotten the feel.

He washed his body, and it was then he noticed the stitched up cut over his heart. It explained the ache in his chest. Though the cut over his heart struck him as odd. It had been a simple, safe surgery they’d told him. They hadn’t done anything with his heart, right?

No, that was ridiculous. Heart surgery was neither safe nor simple, even in the best circumstances. He told himself it was coincidence the cut was over his heart. He stepped out and dried off, taking care to dab the stitches dry.

He grabbed his razor and cleaned his face up. Then he brushed his hair. Much better, he told himself. Clean face. Tidy hair. But his eyes… his eyes still carried that same unfocused, distant look in them. He rubbed his eyes. He was still recovering, he told himself, that’s why his eyes looked like that.

He dressed himself and headed to the kitchen. With nothing in the fridge he had to settle for some instant noodles. His hunger wasn’t sated but it was enough for him to crawl in bed. He’d have to go shopping tomorrow. But before bed, the sheets needed a wash.

He headed back down to the laundry room and washed them. Back on the bed they went a few hours later and then he climbed in bed. As he laid awake he wondered what had come over him. What had compelled him to do this housekeeping? He didn’t need a reason, he decided, and closed his eyes. But sleep refused to take him. All he could think about was that chorus that pushed him to that clinic.

Want something. Need something. Want something. Need something.

He started blasting some of his favorite music. It was futile. It continued to echo in a chorus of voices in his head. He sandwiched his head in his pillow, tossed and turned, but it didn’t help. He gave up and went to the table. He grabbed a pen and a blank sheet of paper and wrote, “What I want:” at the top.

He stared at it for ten minutes, which turned into fifteen, which turned into twenty. Still, nothing came to him. He tapped the pen against the paper over and over, hoping to coax some words out. He shook his head.

He crumpled up the paper. What, was he a twelve year old writing a school paper? Writing down, “What I want:” wasn’t going to change anything, wasn’t going to give him an epiphany. It was stupid. He stood up and threw the paper away.

It was the pain meds, he told himself. Drugs just have a weird effect on me, he told himself. It’ll be better in the morning, he told himself. He crawled back into bed and closed his eyes. He placed his hands on his stomach and felt it rise and fall as he breathed.

Want something. Need something. Want something. Need something.

He rubbed his temples. Did he have something he wanted, something he needed? He stared up, racking his brain for something, anything. He went back to when he was a kid, every kid had something they wanted to be when they grew up.

Nothing. He couldn’t remember anything from his childhood. He wasn’t that old so why couldn’t he? What was it that he wanted to do with himself? He laid there, grinding his teeth, trying to will his brain to come up with something, anything.

The chorus continued. He thought until his head was pounding and his ears rang. Still nothing and still the refrain continued. He laid like that until the sun rose. He took a deep breath and looked over his room.

What had they done to him? Why had he cleaned with such fervor on coming home? He thought back to before he had left. He remembered all the times he’d wanted to clean up his place but couldn’t bring himself to.

Maybe that was it. Yeah, that made sense. He wanted to clean his apartment like he had wanted to fill up his car and take a shower. The chorus quieted. He just needed a purpose, something that would get him out of bed. He relaxed, waiting for that fervor to claim him, to ignite that drive.

He waited for half an hour, and nothing came of it. No sudden motivation. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth more. The chorus resumed their chant with a new intensity.

Want something. Need something. Want something. Need something.

He tore at his hair and cursed the doctor that had done this to him. He sat up in bed and the ache in his chest intensified. He took a deep breath and headed to the bathroom. He checked his wound and it was fine.

His eyes drifted up and locked with their reflected counterparts. He’d been wrong about them. They hadn’t been unfocused or had a distant look in them. There just wasn’t anything behind them.

It was why he couldn’t think of anything he wanted or needed. He was nothing more than an empty man.