10. [Chapter Ten: Delusional Disorder]
I would even say that my feelings for this book are love. Like a fetish.
I returned to school, feeling utterly disoriented. I had nowhere else to go. Lawrence had gone to New York. I was on the West Coast, and he was on the East Coast, 3,580 kilometers apart. It would take eight hours by plane, forty hours by car, and eighty hours by train, but I couldn't afford the expensive plane tickets, I didn't own a car, and I didn't even have the money for a train ticket. The money I saved from part-time jobs, plus my scholarships, was barely enough to cover my basic expenses at school.
Since I came back, I haven't seen Sarah again. I don't know if she's avoiding me, or if her wealthy father thinks his spoiled daughter should just stay home and enjoy her retirement, not needing a college degree. A year has passed, and I thought no one remembered my dramatic breakup with Sarah, but I was wrong. Everyone avoids me, looking at me like I'm a mad dog in a cage. Maybe they're right. I still wear the collar Lawrence gave me. At first, I'd wear turtlenecks to cover it up, but later I stopped. Their eyes remind me again and again of who I belong to.
I attended classes, wrote papers, and interned at a newspaper like a normal person. But I stopped participating in any club activities and minimized conversations with people. To put it extremely, I wanted to buy everything I needed from vending machines so I wouldn't have to face the cashier at the supermarket. I moved away from my old apartment near the school and went to a place near the industrial area—far away, but very cheap. I saved money like crazy, stretching every penny. If I hitchhiked, I might save on fare, but I needed to save enough for food, clothing, and hotels first, since no driver would be kind enough to cover those costs except Lawrence. I might encounter one or two road killers, but I wasn't afraid at all. If they weren't even worthy of being called "butchers," then they were simply not cut out for it.
I basically ate fast food for all three meals a day. It was incredibly unhealthy, making me lethargic and even causing weight gain. So I ate very little and ran at least five kilometers every day. I didn't want Lawrence to see me again with a look of disgust on his face. One day, I walked into a fast-food restaurant, starving. I practically snatched the tray with the hamburger, fries, and Coke from the server and wolfed it down. Only after I finished did I realize it wasn't vegetarian. It was a pure, sizzling, juicy pork hamburger—a blatant lie. I didn't feel like vomiting at all. At that moment, my longing for Lawrence reached its peak, and I broke down in tears in the fast-food restaurant, oblivious to everyone around me.
Every week, I would rewatch all the movies Lawrence and I had watched together. Most of them were extremely gory, and whenever I saw those scenes that would scare you half to death, it felt like coming home. I was so lonely that I had to play two roles: Lawrence in a deeper voice, and myself in my natural voice. "Lawrence" was responsible for picking apart the flaws in the movies, and "I" was responsible for identifying with him, just like we used to do. I couldn't kiss myself, but I could masturbate. At first, I listened to the sounds of blood splattering and screams on TV, recalling the notes I had taken for Lawrence, imagining his lustful eyes, and it took a long time before I could painfully ejaculate. Those memories couldn't satisfy me, so I turned my attention to the horror novel Lawrence had bought me. When I saw it, I could remember how Lawrence's long, bony hands caressed the spine of the book, how he turned the pages with a rustling sound, how he spoke to me in that deep, slightly husky voice, and how he put his arm around my shoulder and laughed loudly. Those memories flashed through my mind, and from then on, I only needed to read a few pages of a cruel story to easily reach a climax.
That book naturally became my favorite novel. I didn't just read it during my leisure time; I read it while riding the bus, eating, waiting in line, even while walking, holding it in my hands like a precious treasure, or reading it word for word from the version in my mind. Of course, I've memorized it, just as the most devout Christian can instantly recall which version, page, and line of the Bible a particular passage is on. If you ask me if I would recommend this book to others, the answer is absolutely not. It's a memory between me and Lawrence, mine alone, and no one else can share it with me. However, what pains me is that this book seems to be quite popular; it's on the shelves of bookstores everywhere, and more and more bookstores are placing it in the most prominent position in their windows. There's a morbid trend of worshipping serial killers sweeping through society. I can't fight it; all I can do is remain loyal to the copy Lawrence personally gave me. I carefully protect it, not allowing even a speck of dust to contaminate it, so that even if I wear it out, at least the words will still be legible, and I won't need to buy a new copy from a bookstore that wasn't handled by Lawrence. I would even say that my feelings for this book are love. Like a fetish. I hope I don't stoop to the point of needing to use it for masturbation.
One day, my boss informed me that the newspaper was selecting an outstanding intern to go to New York to interview a rising author, write a report for his new book launch, and even have the opportunity to be published in the prestigious *New York Times*. Coincidentally, the book Lawrence had given me was this author's debut, which gave me a preconceived sense of closeness to him. It wasn't just me who was crazy about this opportunity; all the interns were going crazy, desperately begging their bosses to recommend them to the big boss. One female intern even accepted the advances of her persistent male team leader. Not everyone was so extreme; most people relied on their abilities. After two weeks of working day and night, my boss finally agreed to try for me. Everyone signed up, and in the final round of selection, only me and a senior from the same university and major remained. His name was Jack Sutter.
Sartre went to great lengths to get me to give up competing with him. Knowing about the rumors surrounding me and Sarah, he subtly hinted to the big boss that I had mental health issues. Fortunately, the big boss didn't believe him; he maintained it was just childish play and only valued my work ability, for which I was deeply grateful. So, I prepared day and night for the final test: the author's editor would be conducting separate phone interviews with both of us. Every day before dawn, I would rush to the school's computer lab to grab a computer, voraciously searching the internet for information about the author. This star author was quite eccentric; he didn't use his real name, but rather a pseudonym like many writers of the last century. Stendhal's real name was Henry Bell, Mark Twain's was Samuel Chris, but this one was only known by his pseudonym Warner Essack; I searched high and low but couldn't find his real name. I tend to get extremely stubborn when I'm fixated on something, and at one point I even considered hiring a skilled hacker to help me find it if I had the money. But I had no money, so I had to memorize this tongue-twisting name and recite it dozens of times a day, afraid that I'd slip up during the interview and make the editor think I was disrespectful to his great writer. I swear I absolutely didn't; I recited this name only a few times less than I recited Lawrence's name every day—I almost had an emotional breakdown. Just kidding.
But in the end, I still lost to Sartre. I was so nervous that I even mixed up my first and last name during my self-introduction. Coupled with a whole month of non-stop work, my answers were illogical and incoherent; I was practically delirious by the end. I vaguely heard the editor call me "Mr. Lawrence," which jolted me awake, and I realized I had fallen into a brief daze. The other person was clearly very unhappy, simply and rudely saying "goodbye" and hanging up. The big boss was very disappointed in me. The next day at work, Sartre swaggered past my desk several times, brandishing his newly acquired press conference pass. I thought I was about to have another nervous breakdown, but I couldn't go back to Orwell for treatment anymore. All I could do was continue saving money, waiting for the next opportunity to go to New York.
No matter how I try to comfort myself, I must admit I'm jealous of Sartre, almost to the point of madness. A nagging longing, a deeply etched love, heart-wrenching sorrow, agonizing disappointment, hysterical resentment, agonizing hatred, and unquenchable anxiety—these layers of my paranoia build up like bricks. I can imagine what Sartre would do: he'd travel on American Airlines at his own expense, stay in comfortable hotels arranged by the publisher, and have endless free time outside of interviews. He could wander around New York; every street he walked might have bore Lawrence's footprints. He might even brush past Lawrence, perhaps even exchange a few words. Lawrence was bisexual, and I know Sartre was bisexual too. The thought of Lawrence possibly dating Sartre, whether as practice for "pretending to be normal" or simply to satisfy physical needs, fills me with a powerful urge to destroy. It was so brutal that it frightened me; I never knew there was such a dark side to my soul.
I don't confess my sins to God; I only confess to Lawrence. I close my eyes, and in the darkness, only his image remains. I close my ears, and only his voice echoes in my mind. I murmur his name. Caesar Lawrence, C, A, E, S, A, R, L, A, W, R, E, N, C, E, Caesar Lawrence. Those letters swirl in my mind like a tornado, constantly rearranging and combining, flashing with over six hundred million possibilities. They rush towards me like tiny, worm-like white dots when a bright light shines directly into my eyes, then vanish instantly. I collapse onto the bed, dizzy, wanting those things to stop, but they relentlessly attack my already muddled brain, as if eager to tell me something. I screamed, trying to escape that mentally polluting invasion, kicking and rolling around on the bed in agony, burying my throbbing head in the pillow like a useless ostrich burying its head in the sand in self-deception.
Those things suddenly stopped. My head felt instantly light, and I jerked my head up, accidentally bumping my head hard against the iron railing of the bed, seeing stars. But I didn't care about the pain; like an old man having a heart attack searching for nitroglycerin, I rummaged through the bedside table. There was only a pen, no paper. I didn't care about that anymore; I uncapped the pen and started rapidly working through the possibilities on the sheets. I didn't need to list out all six hundred million possibilities; I simply took apart a name I had fantasized about for countless days and nights, arranged all fourteen sacred letters in capital letters, and watched as, like a miracle, it transformed into another name before my eyes.
Warner Acesacle.
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