Revelation

By Richard Welch

Bipolar minds, bipolar powers.

After a kind encounter breaks the shell of his anxiety and depression, college senior Tristan Myriad is struck by lightning and granted an ancient power. Homework becomes an afterthought as explosive abilities add new weight to a lifelong battle with his own mind. With his roommate Bryce at his side, he hones his abilities and searches for their origins, chasing the coattails of the strange singer Decibelle. She will find him, with everything else that travels in her wake. He will learn the hard way that mood swings don't have schedules, and you can't resolve what's burnt and buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984552990

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ennui

S KITTER-SCATTER AND LOOSE chatter. The fumbling of bookbags. The rumbling and mumbling of futures yet to pass. All things heard and not seen, barely registered as trivial thoughts danced in my naive mind, then Clap! The sound of a closing door stole me away from my musings. At the door was an older woman, mid-forties perhaps, with her brunette hair put up in a bun. Ms. Taminade was fit for her age, a far cry from her peers who had lost all concern and ability in the wake of children and domestic life. With rimless glasses and a dark violet blouse she approached her desk, setting her coffee down on a coaster before taking a seat. She took some papers out of her bag and shuffled through them as half the class looked on and waited, the other half surfing digital highways on their smartphones.

I turned away, returning to the familiar cave of thought, so peaceful in those days. My mind was as clear as it can be, clearer and it could ever be now. Blissful and oblivious I pondered, totally unaware of the girl, totally unaware of the doctor, and wholly unprepared for the infamy and the pain waiting ahead. I sit, blind to the walls rushing forth, ready to push me into the endless wheel of calamity.

It really is funny how things change. Mass and molecules coming in and out of form, solid to liquid, liquid to gas. People slipping away from who they were and becoming who they are, at least for the moment. Vaguely aware children growing into egocentric adolescents before, without a bit of luck or privilege, withering into neurotic and narrow-minded adults. Quite the bleak picture, isn’t it? That’s how most people see it, the never-ending cynics of this world, but not me. Storms pass. Flowers wither. Love fades and even the rankest shit eventually gets swallowed up by the earth and becomes the green grass that our children will one day run upon.

It’s even more hilarious to watch these people, beings born and bred on ceaseless mutations, both in the biology of their ancestors and the ebb and flow of their daily lives, attempt to control the inertia of this change. Change is the savior when times are tough, but once that change comes to pass they develop, against all evidence and intuition, an expectation that things will stay on the up and up. They set up camp on this peak they’ve stumbled across in their wanderings, hoping to maintain a fixed position above the raging seas below. Then surprise, surprise when the mudslide comes, their voices full with cognitive dissonance as they are washed back down. They came by chance and they left by chance, so what made them think their efforts would make a difference?

Forgive me, I’m getting cynical again. It happens less than it did before, but then again my knowledge of change and stasis has ballooned exponentially since then. I still felt like I had a better idea about the world than most before my life changed, but now I know just how narrow my gaze was. Change isn’t just something we have to fight off like rocks in a river, trying desperately to shape life the way we like it. It is the fabric of our very existence, the thread in the strings that tug us ever so gently.

My name is Tristan Myriad, and four years ago I was just like you. Well maybe not just like you, possibly something like you with a mountain of anxieties and neuroses to top it off. I grew up as one might expect a child burdened by numerous anxiety disorders to grow up, finding a safe place inside my own mind, with few companions to lighten the load. It wasn’t that I didn’t want friends, I craved acceptance just like any other kid, but there were very few that saw the world the way that I did. Ever since I first became aware, when my child’s mind began to comprehend my own existence, I was acutely aware of myself and the world within my thoughts, and innately curious about the world outside of it.

My mother first kindled the flames of my mind when she explained fire to me, not the magic spells and fairy dust explanation you might expect a mother to give her child. She was far too academic to give me a convenient lie. She wanted me to find the beauty in reality, even if I didn’t immediately understand it. Molecular interactions usually evoke dozing in children, but the way my mother spun it always kept me hanging on. Every sentence danced in the air like syllabic hummingbirds, the complex diction never infringing on my wonder. Never shying away from embellishment or romanticism, she always seemed dead-set on rounding the edges of the rigid quadrilateral that science can be. Being a former English professor she had the vocabulary to elaborate on anything, scientific or otherwise, but it was the schizophrenia that drove her to wax lyrical at any given moment.

Damn it, I’m rambling. I get that from my mother. Perhaps I should just get to the story, maybe start with the setting. It all started after that English class in my senior year at Wasser College in Michaelsboro, Virginia. Near the North Carolina border, right at the edge of the mountains. It was fall if I remember correctly, October or November. Not all the leaves had fallen yet and the days were still fairly warm, but I doubt I could put an exact date on it. Too much has happened between then and now.

So… Ms. Taminade said with authority, "…today we finally wrap up Bartleby. I’m assuming we’ve all done the reading?"

The class nodded in dysfunctional unity, some more confident than others. I didn’t even bother; she knew I did the reading.

Mmmmhmmm, she hummed, scanning the class. Well I can see we all decided to show up today, so I’m gonna go ahead and skip attendance. She sauntered over to her desk and picked up her copy of the Melville novella, flipping it to a predetermined page. So let’s start with the obvious, what was the major event at the end of the book?

Bartleby kicked the bucket! yelled a young man who looked like a Rickey Martin throwback in the middle of room exclaimed.

Bingo, Miguel! she replied, snapping her fingers for emphasis. Now how did he die?

Whispers passed between the rows for a few seconds before the ponytail girl in the back decided to answer. Didn’t he refuse to eat?

He did refuse to eat, so technically you’re correct, but that’s not what really killed him. What did?

Boredom? asked the Ving Rhames stunt double to my right.

Very close, Darius, but not quite. She scanned the room again. C’mon, it’s the same malady that he’s been suffering from through the whole book! She shot me a look, but I returned it with my best Swiss stare.

Okay, I was hoping one of you might have been able to get this… she said while glancing at me, …but it seems I’ll need to bail you out. The answer will be a new term for most of you, though some of you may have encountered it in a philosophy class. Bartleby suffered from, and died from, ennui.

Confused looks and muttering reverberated throughout the class. "And what is that exactly?’ asked a pale girl in the back of the class. My eyes lingered on her, taking in the contrast of her dark hair to her porcelain skin, until she looked at me and smiled. I turned away immediately, as I always did. What I would give for that extra second…

Ms. Taminade started to answer the girl’s question, but I promptly interrupted her. Ennui is a feeling of existential waywardness, being lost in the world without a purpose to guide you.

Thank you, Tristan, Ms. Taminade said with a hint of irritation. Bartleby, throughout the novella, has lacked a purpose or direction. He follows the same dull routine every day, just going with the flow per se. That is, of course, unless he prefers not to. Half the class let out a slight chuckle. We’ve already discussed that in ‘preferring not to,’ Bartleby is exercising ultimate existential freedom, but yet he does nothing. In fact, he refuses to do anything at all.

The deep voice of a John Lennon look-a-like broke Ms. Taminade’s speech. "But why wouldn’t he do anything? Usually when people rebel they actually do something."

That’s exactly what I’m getting at, Jeremy. Bartleby is so lost, so full of ennui from the brutal repetitiveness of life in the industrial age that he would rather do absolutely nothing at all than risk plunging into the great unknown. As a result, he dies unceremoniously and without a care, because he never really left a mark on this world. He simply faded away, lost to the sands of time.

Ms. Taminade scanned the room one last time, watching closely as the students took notes on her final statement, with a select few checking various social media sites with their phones underneath their desks. I thought she might continue her explanation of Bartleby, but instead she turned towards the dry erase board behind her desk and began writing instructions.

I turned away again, but found it hard to drift back into thought. I could feel the eyes of the class on me, that almost stereotypical social anxiety settling in my bones, floating lightly on the border of my skin. Just a consequence of people. I did my best to ignore them and observe the world outside the window, describing it to myself with a poetic gaze. The serene beauty of the colored, surviving leaves in the plethora of trees lining the road, juxtaposed to the grit and grime of dorms in deathly need of refurbishing. Bricks of various colors formed patterns, translating in Morse code to a little used dialect of a never-to-be-invented language. Yet still I felt their eyes upon me, always.

Other people have always been a source of anxiety for me rather than joy. All of them…except for Bryce Mungrove. Bryce had been my best friend ever since my freshman English class in high school. Our teacher had assigned us to read The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe, much to the chagrin of my classmates. I enjoyed it quite a bit in fact, and so did the boy who sat at the desk to my right. Long, dark hairs flowed messily across his face without a care for his eyes; a black shirt and blue jeans completed his grungy facade.

He never paid much attention in class before the Poe piece, more inclined to sleep or draw, but something about the Gothic theme spoke to him. Sure, I wasn’t as interested in hardcore music and the macabre as he was, but we found common ground in the gloomy twilight of dark tales, Poe being only the first of many. It wasn’t long before Bryce began writing his own tales, short stories and poems mostly, with me as his trusted editor. He envied my brutal honesty, and the exactitude of my critiques, even if it chewed at his childish pride. It’s customary for me to question the friendliness of others, being the paranoid type, but Bryce and I just seemed to fit. No need to question synergy. Bryce was my college roommate as well, an English major who enjoyed smoking weed as much as he did writing. He said it was for inspiration, but I knew he was just bored. My thoughts finally drifted away from the eyes of my classmates and back within, back to the morning before class.

Dim light glowed through the black sheet draped over my bedroom window. I shut off my alarm quickly and stumbled over to the light switch by the door, slipping slightly on the loose shirt I left the night before. Old soda cans lined the desk at the edge of the room; vaguely consolidated clothes piled around the hamper by the bed. Cleanliness was never that important to me, too much to think about and not enough people to impress.

Bryce was eating cereal at the coffee table in the common room when I got dressed, coffee and the usual glazed look in his eye. His long, black hair barely touched his shoulders, settling just before his eye line. Blue jeans and a black band shirt as usual. Some science fiction movie was on the TV, low production and poorly overused special effects. I pulled a few granola bars out of the pantry and then checked the fridge, reaching my hand and grasping for the energy drink I had put there the night before.

My abdominal muscles contracted as my fingers grasped at the air, almost trying to wish the caffeine laced beverage into existence. Anxiety coursed down into my arms and up into my chest, waving back in forth between an itch and a tingle on the border of my dermis. Questions bombarded my head: Where did it go? Did I forget it last night? Did someone take it? What am I going to do now? I’m going to fall asleep in class again, and I’m going to dream that I’m in class and I won’t wake up and the professor is going to slam a book next to my head just like Mrs. Ellerby back in 7th grade…

Get caught in a thought, Señor? Bryce yelled, head turned halfway to me, halfway to the TV. What is it this time? Can’t find your drink huh? Having an anxiety attack about class? Or is it a bipolar delusion this time? I love those! Did the gremlins steal your drink, buddy? Gonna bomb the Kremlin with it? Bryce chuckled madly, waiting until I turned to him with my intense eyes. He must have sensed the pleading, and quickly produced the tall can from the front cushions of the couch, glistening with condensation.

I grabbed the drink and took a seat next to him on the futon, staring down his smile before popping the tab and taking a prolonged swig. Those things will kill you, ya know, said Bryce, motioning his head towards my artificial beverage. They’re like cigarettes of drinks.

And yet you smoke, I said as I sipped the drink and bit into a granola bar. Bryce gave a small grin. A lot of things will kill you, man: cars, cancer, sunlight, water, even oxygen. It doesn’t necessarily mean we should avoid them.

How so? Shouldn’t we naturally want to live? he asked.

Well yes, but we don’t want to live in squalor. We trade away little bits of our life for things that make life a little more bearable. Some a bit more than others.

You mean like drug addicts? Bryce asked with a sip of coffee. Are you saying if I cut off the tip of my elbow, I can get some heroin? Bryce made a mock cutting gesture at his elbow before slapping his forearm with two fingers like a nurse finding a vein.

It’s kind of like that, but not exclusively. I mean what about the man who works tirelessly, putting in more and more hours to get more and more money? If it’s a physical job he’ll grind away his back and knees, and in any job where you put in an inordinate amount of time you’re bound to take on a cornucopia of stress. Heart disease, mental illness, strokes and seizures. All stress related, all likely to cut your life short. Wouldn’t you say they’re trading some of their life away for money, which may or may not bring them some modicum of happiness or satisfaction?

Bryce took a long sip of his coffee, placing it gingerly on the table with a sigh. That sounds pretty bleak man. I like it. Getting closer to death to feel more alive…but is that all life is? A constant trade-off? Can’t I just be a dick and sacrifice someone else, maybe trade ‘em in for a Lamborghini?

I looked at my watch as I chuckled: 8:45. Maybe, maybe not, dude, though I might set my sights higher than that. Couple hundred bodies might get you a Bugatti! Either way I have to go to class. I’ll see you later, I said as I gathered my books into my bag.

Later bro. Go get some life for free! Bryce yelled as I made my way to the hallway. I found his closing remark ironic, seeing as I took out sizable loans to take classes at Wasser. If you’re confused at this point, don’t be surprised; our conversations are an acquired taste. Our dinner conversation borders on sociopathic, but of course we don’t have that much company.

"Now I know we certainly have more to discuss on Bartleby, but for now I’d like to gain a more personal understanding of Bartleby’s plight, Ms. Taminade said with her back turned, finishing her scribbling. You all are at a turning point in your lives, between childhood and adulthood, when you are supposed to figure out what you want to do in life. Some of you have already declared a major and have an idea of what you’d like to do when you complete your education, and some of you haven’t yet reached that point, but I guarantee that every last one of you has experienced some form of ennui."

A few people throughout the room shook their heads, confident they knew where they were heading. At first I was inclined to agree with them, but a rush of anxiety made me second guess. Did I really know what I wanted to do in life? I had known that I wanted to study chemistry so that I could one day create more effective psychiatric drugs, but I had always had a degree of ambivalence with the idea. In contrast, I had always enjoyed poetry and literature in general because of my mother, so I’d always had it in my mind that I might one day turn that into a career. But somewhere along the way, probably in high school, I’d come to the conclusion that such a path was nothing more than a pipedream, that turning any kind of creative offspring I might birth into a profitable career was unrealistic.

So now I’d like you to free write about your most recent experience of ennui, nothing more than a few paragraphs, said Ms. Taminade. Once everyone’s done we’ll have a few of you expound on what you’ve written, then for homework I’d like you to expand your analysis of your personal experience of ennui.

My thoughts floated back to Ms. Taminade’s final statement as everyone else was pulling out notebooks: …he never really left a mark on this world. He simply faded away, lost to the sands of time.

Would creating better psychiatric drugs really leave a mark on this world? Sure, some people might appreciate the upgrade, but would anyone have an awareness that I was involved, or would I only be known to a select few in my field? Even worse, could I spend all this time studying chemistry and never actually reach the breakthrough I’ve been dreaming of. Would I even be allowed the opportunity to do so?

As my anxiety continued to build and my hands started to shake, I started scribbling down random thoughts, if for nothing more than to appear productive and let off latent nervous energy. I tried not to think anymore and just focused on writing, putting as little deliberation into my chicken scratch as possible. I scribbled and scribbled, a hodgepodge menagerie of pointless thoughts and phrases, nearly ripping through the page with the sheer speed and force of my spastic hand.

Alright that’s enough, said Ms. Taminade. It’s time for some of you to share your experiences with the class.

I put down my pencil gently, my hand still trembling slightly. Share my experiences? What experiences? I just spent the last ten minutes scribbling down nothing, not that I do anything any…shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! Damn it, damn it, damn it. Your mind is a blank. Numb. Emptiness. Blank slate. Tabula Rasa. I will not think of anything at all. Just concentrate on whatever this dumb fuck has to say. Wait, he’s not a dumb fuck, he’s probably smart. I mean he’s in college, so I guess he would be smart. You really shouldn’t assume things about people, you’re probably just projecting your insecurities on…damn it!

I was doing everything I could to keep my mind in check and just listen to whoever was presenting, but as you can see anxiety isn’t a simple thing to quell. It always seems to come back, no matter how hard you concentrate. It’s like being stuck in an infinite funnel. You can climb and climb and climb as high as you want, but you’ll always slide back down. Internal quarrels like this happen to me a few times a day, just enough to keep me in check, not quite enough to send me over the deep end. It’s a heavy burden to bear sometimes, but I’ve been dealing with it long enough that I’ve become used to it.

As I continued to concentrate and listen to the presenter, I finally started to calm down. That’s usually the method I use, concentration and mental blanking, but as you can imagine that isn’t always effective. I’ve tried meds before, but the side effects outweighed the benefits considerably. While I lost the anxiety and mood swings, I also lost all of my energy and drive, not to mention having the occasional hallucination.

The sound of shuffling bookbags woke me from my thought coma. I picked up my own bag and started throwing my stuff into it, pausing intermediately to let exiting people through the lane of desks. I was surprised I had spaced out for that long. Normally when I drift away Ms. Taminade picks me to present. She gets really irked about people not paying attention, yet she never seems to say a word about cell phone usage. I suppose everyone has their inconsistencies.

When I finally got all my things in my bag I hurried to the door; I had to get across campus for my chemistry class. I split the glass double doors with haste, expecting to be met with sunny skies. Instead the sky had darkened considerably, every inch of it littered with cumulonimbus. I thought it strange at the time, seeing as the sky was so clear when I entered class, but I brushed it off and started fast. It was an uncommon phenomenon, but not altogether impossible. The wind started to kick up as I walked quickly through the quad, the gusts picking up loose leaves and papers alike. One girl sprinted past me, almost knocking me off balance, desperately trying to retrieve her stray paper. I put my head down as another gust burst from behind a building, the force sending me slightly to my right.

Damn wind, I thought as I made my way past the Templeton building, opening up into the stone courtyard that lay before the Deribard Science Center.

I heard a sound to my right just as a gust kicked up, blurring it to irrelevance. I turned towards it, and there she was, the girl from class whose smile I had avoided. That smile was there again as she approached, dark blue jeans straddling hips just below her violet V-neck, barely visible under her black jacket.

Hey! she said as she joined me on the sidewalk, matching my stride. You’re Tristan, right? From Ms. Taminade’s class?

I paused for a moment, stunned by the spontaneity of her appearance. I had never talked to this girl before, only the occasional glance across the room. She seemed nice enough, but I rarely stepped outside the tiny bubble of people I knew, and here was someone who was coming to me. Naturally, I wondered what she wanted, what role she wanted me to play in whatever scheme she would use me for.

Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s me, I replied, nearly choking on my words.

She stifled a chuckle. Well, Tristan, it was nice of you to chime in for once. It was a very educational answer.

My mind raced for a reply, but my mouth beat me to it, driven by some instinct I had forgotten. I like to donate my insight every once in a while. Charity is tax deductible, right?

She laughed wholeheartedly this time, soft, sweet, genuine. A new feeling washed over me, a comfort fueling that forgotten instinct. It was confidence, that elusive guise, easily faked, rarely grounded. A smile forced itself out over my lips and, for the first time in years, I felt that heavy veil of depression pulled away. If I had been looking at it from the outside, I would have known. That kind of happiness rarely lasts for me.

You don’t talk much, do you? she asked, forcing me to realize that the last minute had been spent in my head.

No, no I don’t, I stammered as we ducked under a low-hanging branch. It’s mostly social anxiety; it’s nothing personal.

No, it’s all right, she said apologetically, putting hand lightly on my shoulder, just for a moment. I flinched, so used to tactile sensations being cues for annoyances and obstacles. My brother has social anxiety actually, he doesn’t talk much either. Sometimes when we hang out we just sit in silence. We don’t need words to enjoy each other’s company.

Wow, is all I could reply. I had never met anyone that didn’t have the expectation for me to talk, other than strangers with far more important business than hearing my voice.

Yeah, my friends think it’s kind of weird, but I don’t care. It’s not about them. So, if you don’t want to talk, that’s ok, she said as that damned smile crept up again. But I’d really like it if you did.

There was another minute of silence as we rounded the corner towards the Deribard Science Center, one attempted to break, but lost my nerve before my lungs could follow through.

So, do you write at all, Tristan? You look like the literary type.

The instinct returned, my mouth pulling the weight of my mind. Not a whole lot, really, but I’ve been thinking of getting back into it. My mom was an English teacher. We used to write stories together. Kind of like an advanced version of MadLibs.

"That sounds awesome! I wish my mom had done that with me, she’s a reader, not a writer. I write though, when I feel the inspiration. Her eyes looked up me with a question, and I answered with a raised eyebrow. It’s a novella, only about half-way done right now. It’s about ravens, but…not really. It’s more about family, the kind of burdens they give us…that no one else can."

I can understand that, I replied quickly as I turned to her, too quickly. That’s really very insightful. Truly.

Her smile vanished. You’re messing with me aren’t you?

My hands shot up in defense, anxiety gripping my chest. No, no, I’m being serious. My mom always said that a writer’s eyes are their most important tool, and I believe yours see quite vividly. I’d love to read to when it’s finished.

The smile returned, and my anxiety abated. I’ll make sure to get you a copy. Enough about me, though. I want to be a writer, but what does Tristan want to do, huh?

My mouth reacted before a fresh debate could brew in my head. I want to be in pharmaceuticals, sort of. Not like Martin Shkreli or anything. I want make better anti-depressants, better safeguards against schizophrenia, ones without side effects just as bad as the symptoms.

I turned to her, expecting to hear a sigh of solemn acceptance, resignation to the reality of my inane goals. But that smile endured, and I was happy, truly happy. I had never felt so comfortable in my life, save for with my mother, not even around Bryce. In a world where I felt that every person viewed me as just another stone in the path, here was someone who came to me, without ulterior motive or selfish impulse, and was accepting of who I am, even willing to listen to my dreams. I’m glad I eventually found someone like that, I just sometimes wish it had been her.

Well aren’t you the noble one, she said as we crossed into the courtyard, her final compliment.

I continued my pace as we walked in content, but with the stone came change. The sky darkened further and the wind died down, something my anxious mind didn’t take lightly. I stopped and observed my surroundings in spite of my company, catching the ominous vibe radiating from the sky. I put out my hand to test for rain, but not a drop hit my hand. There was a sort of tension in the air, or perhaps I just perceived it that way, projecting meaning upon the dissonance between the calmness of the air and the aggressiveness of the sky. The girl stopped and stared at me, confused, shouting a question I didn’t hear.

That’s when I caught it. The smell. The dank yet lively odor of millions of volts rippling down through the moisture to its terrestrial destination. I looked around and everyone seemed oblivious, no one alarmed except for the pale girl standing before me. Just as her face curled into a look of latent fear, the first and only time I would see her afraid, a force took hold of my body. Every muscle I had clenched and began to radiate an extreme heat, vibrating without restraint. The whole of my vision was engulfed in blinding light, a white so white I cannot recreate it in my mind. I saw the pale girl’s face one last time, before the burning shimmer engulfed her entirely. All was light and heat until it faded away in an instant, my helpless consciousness stretching out into oblivion.

CHAPTER 2

Strange Sensations

A LL WAS ABUZZ when I awoke. No light, nothing to feel, just buzzing. It was like a thousand busy bees had dug their way into my skull and taken root, drowning out all my other senses. I couldn’t move or speak, only listen. I had no sense of time, but after a while (or what I thought was a while) the buzzing began to dissipate, and I felt the sensation of heat coming from somewhere. I was frightened at first, thinking that the heat which followed the light had returned, but I soon realized that this heat was much different. There was no burning sensation, just warmth, or perhaps a bit more. I could almost feel the temperature (the number 126 popped into my mind at this point), and I could feel a distance between myself and its source. Could the heat be coming from something outside of my body?

Just as I began to ponder the nature of this heat, a new sensation caught my attention, several sensations in fact. They were moving at different speeds it seemed, some slow and methodical, some constant. Others were so fast it was almost constant pushing, another like a steady stream, another incomprehensibly sporadic, but they all bore