Things do not change; we change. –Thoreau, Walden
BecomeI stuck out my tongue at Hobbes. "I don't care about what you think."
"Fawkes…I usually would care if someone said that to me, but from you, no. I don't care. I'm sick and tired of it!"
"Of what?"
"Of you. Why don't you grow up?!" Hobbes spit out. He wheeled and left.
****
"Darien, please! I need to work!"
"Oh come on, Claire, you've been working long enough."
Claire turned toward him, gritting her teeth. "You just don't get it. Darien, I've tried to hint, and I've tried to be nice, but you just don't get it!"
"Aren't you being a little harsh…?"
"Oh, grow up Darien. Welcome to the real world." Claire sat down with a thump and attacked her keyboard, ferociously banging out words.
****
"Fawkes! What did you do?!"
I shrugged. "Take it easy, fat man. It's just a couple of files. Can't an invisible agent have any fun?"
The Official's face was completely red and he stood inches from my face as he bellowed, "Get out! Get out before you do any more damage! You can't be trusted anymore! When are you going to grow up!"
I stared at the floor and mumbled, "I just rearranged some files…"
"Get out!"
I plodded out and met Eberts at the door, who glared at me. "Now I have to put all those files back in order. Great work. You're worse than a two-year-old."
I just kept my eyes to the floor and waited until the door slammed shut. I sank to the floor, head in my hands. Grow up. Everyone wanted him to grow up. Didn't they understand? But, then again, they couldn't understand. They didn't have to deal with this damn gland and the insanity that came with it, not to mention the responsibility that was shoved on me. They didn't know what it was like, didn't know how stressed I was.
I wish they'd all just shut up and leave me alone.
Alone. That's what I want, to be alone, with no Hobbes sneaking into my apartment when I'm asleep, no scientists or bureaucrats blackmail him. No monster in my brain to haunt me in my dreams and hold me as a constant menace to everyone around me. No gland for punishment because of what I had done to innocent people.
Tears of frustration formed in my eyes and threatened to fall. "Grow up…" I spoke quietly to myself, "They want me to grow up…"
I rubbed my head; I could feel a headache behind my eyes. I composed myself and got up. I sulked down the corridor, not caring where I was going.
Hobbes appeared out of a corner, and he ran into me, interrupting my aimless wandering. "Fawkes! Just the person I was looking for!"
"Get away from me," I spit out, moving away from Hobbes.
"Hey…you're not sore about what I said? I wanted to say that, well…"
"Just shut up! Didn't you hear me?"
Hobbes opened his mouth, and then shut it again in surprise. Fawkes had never used that tone of voice toward him unless he was on another trip down the Silver Brick Road to insanity. Bobby looked closer at Fawkes' face, who caught the motion and read it correctly.
"No! I'm not quicksilver mad! I am in my right mind, and I am saying exactly what I mean. Get…away…now."
Hobbes backed off, watching me closely. "Whatever you say. I was just going to…"
"No! I don't want to hear it!"
Hobbes' face trembled, then strengthened into a hard look. "Fine, Fawkes. You can just go to hell then." He turned and went through a door, leaving me by myself again.
I crumpled to the floor again. What had I done?
****
"Hey Keep!"
"Yes Bobby?" The Keeper turned away from her computer with an irritated sigh.
"What's up with Fawkes? He's acting like he's off in silver hell but he's not. He reacting to the counteragent or something?"
The Keeper looked concerned. "Are you sure he's not quicksilver mad?"
"Yeah. His eyes weren't messed up."
"I wonder if this thing is starting to affect him. Remember we thought he would break under the stress of the project when we began?"
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking, maybe he's just stressed out. Do you think he's gonna need anything or will it just pass?"
"I don't know. Do you think you can get him in here?"
Hobbes' face clouded. "Might be a little hard. See, I was a little rough on him this morning and I tried to apologize, but he just shoved me away. S'why I thought he was quicksilver mad, cause he's never that mad at me. So I just kinda…"
"Kinda what?"
"Kinda told him to go to hell."
"That's exactly what I didn't want to hear."
****
I slouched in the corner of the bar, finishing off yet another beer. Maybe people were right, drowning your sorrows in alcohol wasn't so great the next day, but hell, it was definitely a temporary relief. "Why can't everyone just stay out of my business?" I mumbled to myself, a drunken stupor already settling over my brain.
I had just gotten a shot, so I figured I could run out on the Agency for a while. They didn't need me anyways. Obviously. Although I did kind of feel bad cause of the look on Hobbes' face when I wouldn't let Hobbes finish apologizing. Whatever. The man deserved anyway. I'm not sure why, but it got the blame off my back, so yeah.
Raising my head from the table, I took a good look around. Paranoid. Been hanging around Hobbes too much. I decided to go ahead and look around for anyone I know, even though most the people I know want to kill me. I don't really care at this point.
Wow. Check out the chick in the corner. No guy hanging around either. Very nice. Very nice. My mind, sluggish and uncooperative, just kinda sat in a heap, so I did whatever was the first thing I could think of, the obvious choice: go over there and be a man. A good looking man, to be exact.
I ran my hand through my hair, hoping I didn't look like I had just gotten hit by a train even though that's how I felt. Slow and steady. Just walk over there and try not to fall.
How do your feet work again?
Oh yeah. Here we go. Across the bar. One step at a time. Try not to look stupid.
I don't know if I can make that far.
All right! Almost there, just a couple more steps…
"Hey."
She turned around. Reddish-blonde hair, tan skin, perfect body, what more could a guy want? "Hey. Who're you?"
Ah. Straight to the point. I like that.
"Darien Fawkes. Who're you?"
She smiled. "Skyler Lewis. Call me Skye."
I smiled back. "Will do, Skye."
Four or five drinks later, maybe more, we were in my car. Half an hour after that, we were driving to her apartment. The next morning, I had a hangover, but felt like I was actually a real person, not some freak who never goes out.
Skye was still asleep, so I grabbed my clothes and wrote a note to her about meeting in the same place at eight that night, and left. Where I was going wasn't exactly a major thing for me. Who cared? I had gotten drunk for the first time in a loooong time (thanks for nothing fat man) and woke up this morning with a gorgeous (did I mention talented?) girl next to me in the bed. The day had to be good. So I started walking down the street.
My cell phone rang. "Yo Hobbes, took you a while."
"How'd you know it was me?"
"Who else would call me? It's not like I have any friends or anything."
"So you feeling better kid?"
"Why?"
"Cause maybe you'd like to come back to us."
I laughed. "Not on the ball today are you?"
"What?"
"Do you really think I'm going to come back before I have to? Do you realize how long it's been since I've done something that I wanted to do without checking with Claire and the fat man? This isn't a perfect world Hobbes, people get restless."
"Look Fawkes, you have to come back. The Official's blowing his top, Eberts won't stop running around like he's actually got things to do, Claire's worried to death about you, and I'm sick and tired of trying to find you."
"So don't try to find me. I'll come back when I have to."
"You are so full of yourself! News flash kid, the world doesn't revolve around YOU."
"Well, that's just too bad, isn't it? You can get used to the idea that I hate the Agency, I hate this damn gland, and I hate you," I snarled into the phone, hanging up. Dammit, he just had to ruin my good mood.
I slammed my fist into a brick wall, enjoying the pain that rose up, washing over my whole body. For some reason I felt uncontrollably mad. Why couldn't I control my temper? I felt like I had to kill someone, do something that would make everyone inexpressibly mad. Anything.
I started running down the street when I heard someone call my name. I turned, saw Skye coming after me. "Wait for me!"
She caught up with me, breathing hard. "Thought you were leaving. Didn't get very far did you? You thought you could lose me, but this girl used to be in shape," she laughed. Her sarcastic jokes pushed sharp into me. I knew she didn't mean anything by them, just trying to be funny, but for some reason, I suddenly cared.
"Let's go back," I said rather roughly, grabbing her by the arm.
"Hey, let go! Be careful, that hurts!" she protested, digging in her heels and wrenching her arm free.
I let my fist fly and caught her on the left cheek pretty hard. Everyone on the street turned and stared, speechless. Skye just stood there, disbelieving, until I hit her again and ran. Shouting began from the people, who rushed to grab me, as I ran down an alley and quicksilvered. I heard the shouts die down as they discovered that I wasn't anywhere, and they had lost me. I didn't want to waste my quicksilver, so I flaked and kept running, visible now. I stopped when I got far enough away that no one would have heard about what had happened.
My god Darien! Why did you do that? I mentally slapped myself. What the hell was that about? She was just joking and you had to go make a scene in public and lose her. I stood and bent over, catching my breath. Why couldn't I control myself anymore?
****
Hobbes turned to the Keeper. "Seems our invisible man started enjoying life a little too much and got himself in trouble with a new girlfriend."
"How do you know?"
"The police just called and said that someone called in a man of his description. Said the guy was punching his girlfriend in the street."
"Are you sure this was Darien? I just can't picture Darien hitting someone for no reason. The woman must have been working for someone or something, or it wasn't Darien." The Keeper looked worried, as if she knew the truth but wouldn't admit it to herself.
"Yeah, the description fits. And the witnesses and the girl say Fawkes tried to take her back to her apartment and she wouldn't go. He just let loose and knocked her."
The Keeper sighed. "I just can't imagine what's going wrong. I mean, first he ran off and you say it's cause he was frustrated by what was said to him. Usually he can take that. And then this girl refuses to go somewhere and he hits her? It's just not Darien. I think something's wrong."
"What?"
"I don't know. I haven't the slightest idea and won't know til I get him in here for testing."
****
I looked at my eyes, then down at the snake tattoo. By all accounts, I should have been quicksilver mad hours ago. Maybe even yesterday, when I left. But there I was, no green segments left, and no sign of quicksilver madness. The only different thing today was my uncontrollable temper, but Claire had told me millions of times that this thing was stressful and if I saw any signs of breaking down, it was normal, just tell her and she'd do something about it. I was just breaking down, that's all. Nothing wrong with me. And as far as the snake goes, who knows? Maybe the gland was suppressed by the breakdown. Any bum off the street could guess as well as I could.
Damn, why did this have to happen on my free time? I can't go back until I really have to, or else I'll never hear the end of it. And I don't want to go back. But this scares me. One second, I control everything, the next, I'm punching some girl out. I want to talk to Claire.
****
"Hello?" The Keeper answered the phone. "Hello?" She narrowed her eyes. "Is anyone there?"
"I can't," a voice said, and then the dial tone startled her.
She slowly hung up, staring at the phone. What was that? And why did it seem like that voice…
Darien. He was scared. She knew it, she knew he couldn't have hit that girl without there being something wrong. But he wouldn't come back. He wouldn't. She knew him. He would rather stay out there alone and confused, than come crawling back because he couldn't do it on his own. Fine. She would call him. Then it wouldn't look like he was asking for help, it would look like she was forcing him to take it.
She shuffled through papers. There it was. His cell phone number. She pushed her hair back from her ear and picked up the phone, dialing fast. It rang three times, Claire urging Darien on the whole time, "Come on Darien, please pick up the phone, please!"
"Hello." He was mumbling and she could barely hear him.
"Darien?"
"Keep."
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm enjoying myself out here alone." He stressed the word alone, and she knew he was hinting for her to stay out of it. But in his voice was a pleading note, and Claire knew she had to offer help, had to get him back.
"Well, I just got a call, and I thought it was you. I wasn't sure though and I wanted to make sure that you didn't need any help." Long pause from his end of the line. She couldn't even hear breathing, but she knew he was there. "I heard from Bobby that you got in a little trouble with the police." Silence. "Is there something wrong with the gland? Are you experiencing any problems or is it quicksilver madness?"
Nothing. He had shut himself and she wasn't going to get anywhere.
"Well, if you don't need anything, then I guess I'll just hang up, mate."
"You're not going to try and get me to come back?" He sounded relieved, as if he wasn't sure if he could have kept saying no.
"No, Darien. You're old enough to know what you want to do. And you know the risks involved with both choices. I think you can decide for yourself."
Click. Dial tone.
Claire hoped that had achieved something.
Oh God, I'm becoming obsessed.
I've been staring at my eyes probably once every ten minutes. There has to be some explanation for this. Anything. Not calling Claire again. I can do it myself, I don't need the Agency. They obviously want me back, since they have the police informing them of me, but I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of winning. I'm staying here. If I'm not going to go quicksilver mad, then I'll stay here forever if I have to. I don't care. They can't win.
I decided to go get a haircut. I stole some car, and drove way out of town, to some place where the police hadn't heard about my little thing with Skye. I found a shop called Verna's and got them to chop off most of my hair. It was hard, it really was, to let this ancient woman named Verna cut off my hair. I liked my hair the way it was. Not this short. But I did get rid of my most identifying feature.
Next, I went to a shoe store and got shoes with lifts in 'em. Shoulda seen the looks I got with that one, a 6'4" guy buying shoes that make people taller. I hate them, I stand about 6'6", 6'7" with 'em on. But I'm not the same height anymore, they can't find me.
Then I went and got some of those color contacts, and put them on. My eyes are blue now and they look horrible, but now they don't fit the description that the Agency put out.
Oh God, is this how Hobbes feels every day? Like he's being hunted? Am I becoming paranoid?
I went downtown and got a job at some thrift shop. That was the first place that I thought would hire me. Can't work behind a counter at McDonald's or anything most likely, they don't hire people who tower over the counter and intimidate people. But here, no one comes in anyways, so who can I scare?
I had to rent this little shack too, cause I couldn't live in the same apartment. They're not stupid, they'd be watching my apartment. So I don't have anything with me. Nothing. It's like I'm starting over. I hate it. I hate it all.
****
Claire hung up the phone. "They haven't seen anyone who fits his description. It's like he disappeared for real this time."
Hobbes clenched his fists, "Doesn't he know what he's doing to himself? Crap! Wait, no, I mean…I mean…"
Claire laid a hand on his arm. "It's okay. We'll find him, I'm sure. Or he'll get desperate and come back."
Hobbes ground his teeth together, then hurried out of the room. Claire could tell Bobby was hurting, but he wouldn't admit it or it would mean that he and Darien had meant a lot to each other, as good friends. Why did this have to be so confusing to everyone?
****
I won't go back. I won't go back. I won't go back.
This is the thought that constantly consumes me, day and night. I haven't slept in two days, and my eyes are going bloodshot, but otherwise nothing is different about my eyes. The quicksilver madness hasn't come. I don't think it will.
I wish it would. For once, I want to feel the spike of pain in my head, and I want Bobby or Claire to find me. But I won't give myself up. I have to be forced to go back.
Am I going crazy? Claire said it would happen eventually, that the strain of the gland and the stress that comes with its responsibilities would just break my mind in half, make me go off the deep end. Is this what being insane feels like? The constant paranoia? The uncontrolled attacks of temper?
The doorbell rang, and I went to open the door. A religious person stood there, and extended a tract to me. "Are you saved? Would you like to speak to me about my religion?"
I slowly looked down at the tract, then back up at the smiling face of the man. His smile faded as I just stared at him, not moving. He moved the tract closer. "Aren't you going to take it?"
"No one tells me what to do!" I felt the flash of rage blind me, and take control. As I grabbed the man and pulled him inside, it was almost like I wasn't even doing it. I felt like I was watching from the outside, watching my hands hit him again and again, watching me reach for the gun and my fingers curl around the trigger.
Then I was back in control, staring at the gun and the body on the ground that was seeping blood onto the floor. I dropped to my knees. "Please tell me I didn't just do that." I picked him up and stared at him. "Tell me! Tell me you're just joking! Tell me I wasn't the one!" I shook him, screaming at him now.
I have gone crazy, I have. I'm talking to dead people.
What they say about crazy people is true, they make connections normal people don't. Suddenly it fell into place. These bouts of temper, they must quicksilver madness. I must have hit another level, the counteragent must not work anymore, it must not be visible, maybe it doesn't hold on to me all the time. Maybe it just comes and goes.
Maybe I should have stayed.
Maybe I should kill myself. No one wants a killer. Even one who can go invisible. Hell, no one wants an invisible man. It's true. I'm just being used. Why stay here when I can leave? Why?
Why am I here? Why did I ever take the gland? Why did Arnaud screw around with the gland? Why didn't Kevin see? Why me? Why?
I pick up the gun, contemplate it. Why not?
I bring it to my head.
I hear it cock. I can't believe I'm doing this, and yet I feel so peaceful. This must be what I want to do, what I'm supposed to do. Everyone said this would happen. It's better than going invisible forever. Forever is a long time. Forever. Why should such a small word make me want to kill myself?
The phone rings. I pick it up, still keeping the cocked gun to my head.
"Darien?"
It's Claire again. Maybe I shouldn't do this. She'll lose her job, then where will she go?
"Are you there?"
But I have to. She might lose her job, but if I stay alive, I'll lose my sanity and I'll go invisible. Completely. Another one of those small words that means a lot.
"Darien answer me!!"
She sounds desperate, worried, sad, anguished even. How many emotions can you fit in three words?
I open my mouth. "Goodbye Claire."
Claire screamed as she heard the sound of a gun. She screamed when the sound of the phone hitting the floor exploded through her head.
Hobbes ran in. "Claire! Claire, what's the matter?"
She dropped the phone, sobbing. "He…he…"
"Who?" Hobbes folded Claire into his arms. "Who?"
"Darien…he…he shot himself...I heard it…oh God, I heard it…"
"What the..?"
"He did…he did.." she kept repeating as realization set in on Hobbes and his jaw fell slack.
"Oh God. No. Not Darien."
Claire kept crying, and Hobbes didn't move, didn't speak, didn't cry. What was there left to say? He wanted to scream. Why hadn't he taken the chance to tell Darien that he was like a brother to Hobbes, that Hobbes could depend on him, that Hobbes hadn't meant the things he said.
But how much can a dead man hear?
There's nothing left to say, nothing but empty words and late apologies.
All worthless. All meaningless.