text: “I feel empty.” This statement rang out into the silent air, the oppressive stillness parting for a moment before returning once more. Nature abhors a vacuum, after all. That place was never truly silent, actually. Along with the constant *hum* of the noise machine, designed to make listening in to our conversation impossible from the outside, there was the steady *tick*\-ing of Dr. Schuman’s clock. But, when I say silent, I mean silent to me. I had learned to tune these things out. “And what does ‘empty’ feel like?” Dr. Schuman asked. Dr. Schuman asked me questions like this often, and never seemed to be deterred by my lack of a satisfying answer. I shrugged. “It feels like nothing,” I told her. Again, silence. I took this opportunity to study the wall behind Dr. Schuman. It was covered in peeling wallpaper which was adorned with small sailboats. I didn’t like the sailboats. “And what does ‘nothing’ feel like?” She put a peculiar emphasis on the word “nothing”, as if this particular phrasing was very important. For a long time my only reply was to stare at her intensely. I tried to make it look as if I was gathering my thoughts, but I knew that I really didn’t have any answer to that question. “It feels... empty,” I clarified, at last. Dr. Schuman opened her mouth to, probably, ask for more specificity when a small timer placed on the desk directly to her right rang sharply. She reached over and switched it off. “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow,” she said, extending her hand, which I took in mine. After a brief, awkward, downwards motion, I released it and walked back out the door and into the waiting room. The waiting room was full of dour people. Some were flipping through the boring magazines which litter doctors’ offices. Some were playing on their phones. Some even stared out into space, entirely motionless. I passed them and continued on to my car, turned the engine over after several unsuccessful attempts, and began the drive back to my apartment. Dr. Schuman always did her best, and I appreciated the effort, but these sessions did not seem to be progressing towards anything. I had not experienced the epiphany which the layman seems to think is the goal of psychotherapy. I assumed the fault lay with myself. The radio was playing a debate between a Christian and an atheist over the existence of God. I listened, found myself unconvinced by either side and switched it off. Afterwards, there was nothing with which to occupy myself but the white snow and monotonous rhythm of the traffic. My mind was blank until I arrived home. \*\*\* I didn’t like the way my apartment looked from the outside. I couldn’t really tell you why; I just didn’t like it. When I stepped through the door my girlfriend was waiting. She kissed me on the cheek and asked how my day had gone. I shrugged and told her that nothing had happened. She told me that something must have happened. Something is always happening. She repeated her question. I paused for a minute, thought hard, and replied that I had gone to my appointment with Dr. Schuman after work. She asked me how that had been and I told her that it was fine. She accepted this and we ate dinner together, mostly in silence. Afterwards we watched TV for a while and went to bed. We had sex and then set the alarm clock and went to sleep. \*\*\* “How are you feeling today?” Dr Schuman asked me. I shrugged. “I feel empty,” I told her. “And what does ‘empty’ feel like?” Dr Schuman asked. I told her that it felt like nothing. “You’ve been feeling that way a lot since your father died, haven’t you?” I nodded. “I haven’t been feeling much since then, I guess.” I could tell that she was about to ask for further clarification when a strange expression crossed her face and she seemed to change her mind. “Have you heard of philosophical zombies?” she asked me. “No,” I replied. “A philosophical zombie looks exactly like a human being from the outside and displays all of the characteristics of one. They eat and talk and answer questions, but they’re not conscious. Hence: zombies.” I nodded. “You, Philip, are not a philosophical zombie. You’re feeling something right now.” This was a joke. I laughed a little. “Would you know if I wasn’t?” I asked her. “Probably not,” she shrugged. “The whole point of the thought experiment is that they act exactly like a normal person.” “Interesting,” I said. It was interesting. \*\*\* The next day at work my boss yelled at me, but there didn’t really seem to be that much anger behind it. It almost seemed like a chore to him, something he just had to get out of the way. There was this queer emptiness behind his eyes, like nothing was there. I told him I was sorry for misfiling my report and that it wouldn’t happen again. He walked away. Karen from accounting asked me if I was okay. He seemed pretty mad, she said. I told her that everything was fine. He wasn’t really that mad; I could tell. She left with a concerned look on her face, but I could see that there was nothing behind it. \*\*\* My girlfriend wasn’t happy when I got home. Apparently, her sister had said something insulting to her aunt, despite knowing that the two of them (my girlfriend and her aunt) were close. They weren’t speaking now (my girlfriend and her sister that is). I told her that I was sorry and she said it was okay, that she just needed to vent. I nodded and went back to typing on my laptop. I had set myself up in front of the TV which was off. I didn’t want it to distract me, but since the conversation with my girlfriend had already done that, and since I needed a break anyway I turned it on. The President was giving a speech about a mass shooting. Twelve people had died. He was devastated. He offered his deepest condolences. He promised that “something will be done.” But there was nothing behind it; I could tell. \*\*\* That night, as my girlfriend and I lay next to each other, falling asleep, I looked at her and wondered what she was feeling. *Maybe she’s not feeling anything* I thought to myself. I looked into her eyes. She looked back. I saw nothing there. “Is something wrong?” she asked me, after this continued for some seconds. Dr. Schuman’s words echoed in my mind: “They eat and talk and answer questions, but they’re not conscious.” After I didn’t respond, she put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?” she persisted. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I told her. That night, I dreamt of zombies. \*\*\* My next session with Dr. Schuman wasn’t until the following week. Nothing happened in the interim, really. She asked me how I was doing and I told her that I still felt empty. “It might be time to try other methods, Phillip.” She took out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. “This is a prescription. I think it might help. Give it a shot and if nothing changes in a week or so, we’ll know that it’s not for you.” I reached out and took it. “Thanks,” I said. On the way home, I stopped at the drugstore and tried to fill the prescription for the first time. They told me it wouldn’t be ready for a few days. My girlfriend told me she was going to visit her parents and would be back later in the week. I said goodbye and she walked out the door. That night, I dreamt of nothing. \*\*\* The next morning the TV was playing the Presidential Debate. One candidate promised equality. The other responded by promising a balanced budget. The first said that the country wasn’t doing enough for the poor. The second insisted that we couldn’t allow rogue nations to acquire weapons of mass destruction. And never the twain did they meet. \*\*\* Work was not going well. Fixing my mistake with the report was taking longer than I anticipated and Doug wasn’t happy about it. He wanted the corrected report on his desk by the end of the day, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do that. I told this to Karen, and that worried expression crossed her face again. The same one. Exactly the same. “What are you going to do?” she asked. I shrugged. Somehow, I wasn’t too concerned. When I brought what I had managed to finish to Doug at the end of the day he was furious. I’d never seen him so angry. His eyes were wide and people on the other side of the office could no doubt hear his tirade. But, I remained calm. I knew there was nothing behind it. \*\*\* The next night, my girlfriend returned and asked me how my day had gone. I told her that I had been fired. She dropped the plate she was holding and spun around to look at me. I pushed past her to retrieve the broom and dustpan, then bent down to begin sweeping up the shards she had created. “What do you mean you were fired?” she asked in a shaking voice. “I mean that I don’t work for Walton Chemical anymore,” I told her. She knelt and put her arms on my shoulders, stopping me from continuing with my work. “How are we going to pay the rent, Philip? What about food and car payments and... medical expenses?” she guided my hand to her stomach. I was confused. “Medical expenses?” In response, she held up a pregnancy test. It showed positive. I took and examined it quizzically. “You’re pregnant.” She gripped my shoulders tighter. “Is that all you have to say? After losing your job and finding out you’re going to be a father?” I continued sweeping. “Well?!” she yelled, shaking me. This was annoying. “Could you move your foot a little?” I poked at her left shoe with the handle of the broom. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” her voice was rising in volume. It was beginning to hurt my ears. “There’s ceramic on the floor,” I murmured, gently moving her foot to get at the piece of plate trapped beneath it. A loud *crack* reverberated around the room as her hand connected with my cheek. I was surprised at how much it hurt. “Why’d you do that?” I asked, holding the side of my face. “To wake you up, Phillip! Jesus Christ! We have to talk about this. We have to *do something*! We can’t support ourselves on what I bring home, especially not with a baby on the way.” “So abort it,” I shrugged. She looked as if she were preparing to hit me again when, instead, a resigned expression crossed her face and she stepped out the door. I went back to sweeping. \*\*\* The next day my prescription was ready. The pharmacist handed me a small, colorless bottle. Later, I took my first dose, with food as the bottle had instructed. Though both Dr. Schumann and the internet suggested that no effects would be apparent for several days at least, I instantly felt something shift within my mind. \*\*\* I was growing to hate my own cooking. So, the next day, instead of making myself food as I normally would, I ate all three meals at the McDonald’s down the road. It was hardly more expensive. When I remarked on this to the cashier he just nodded and handed me my order number. It was usually a quiet place, but as I entered the building for the third time I saw a little girl sitting in the middle of the floor and crying loudly. I crouched in front of her. “Does anyone know who this girl’s parents are?” I asked. No response. I spent a few minutes just looking at her, examining the way her tear-stained cheeks rose and fell, how her little chest danced erratically back and forth. The salty droplets traced rivers and valleys on her skin. They reminded me of rain whipped against a car window. I thought of the canals on Mars. Still, no one came to help. After a while, her voice grew hoarse. She looked for all the world like a broken android. \*\*\* I was walking to McDonald’s again when a loud *pop* drew my attention. A man with a gun was walking away from a female figure lying on the sidewalk. Blood leaked from its mouth and onto the ground. Many people walked past her. A fair number were even forced to step over her torso or legs in order to continue onwards. Yet, nobody made any attempt to render aid or stop the murderer as he evaporated into the night. In fact, nobody other than me even acknowledged the dying woman. I knelt and clasped her hand in mine, looking deeply into her eyes as the life drained out of them. I wanted to see if I could find the instant when they passed from humanity to objectivity. She smiled at me as I attempted this, as if she were glad to be of service. Eventually, it became clear that she had died with that Chershire mark still upon her face. I never did figure it out. \*\*\* The next day was the election. That night, as the results were announced, I mused vaguely that I had forgotten to vote. It was at a dreary bar on the other side of town that I watched the tallies from the various states trickle in. The candidate of change pulled ahead, and I felt an electric wave of excitement wash over the room. It was quenched suddenly when the candidate of the people took the lead and held it until the end. As the victory and concession speeches played, I saw anger and confusion explode from the people sitting across from me. Their faces radiated frank horror. Then, a deafening *bang* sounded directly to my left and I turned to see the man sitting next to me slumped in the chair, his recently discharged gun held in a limp fist. Blood trickled to the floor. Then, another *bang* rang out, and another and another until most everyone in the bar met the same fate, and by the same means. The few who remained calmly raised their glasses back to their lips and continued to drain them one sip at a time. The floor was slick with blood and viscera. I got up, only to slip and tumble back down. I had fallen next to a young woman with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to her chest. She reached out to me and I put my hand on her cheek, whispering soothing words. “It's going to be okay,” I told her, again and again, stroking the side of her face. “No. It’s not,” she whispered back. I almost thought that I was witnessing the destruction of a human soul, amidst the mire and blood, in the bullet’s wake. She almost succeeded in convincing me that there was such a thing to destroy. As I looked into her dimming eyes, I saw their evaporating existence as nothing more than a facade wrapped around the unyielding void at the bottom of all human life. But, still, her heartrending final gasps and bloody caresses, which I received with gravity, were truly lifelike. Later that night the President-Elect gave a speech about the incident. He promised that “something will be done,” and offered his deepest condolences, but there was nothing behind them. I could tell; I could always tell. \*\*\* Every time I visited the library that room was closed. At 3 PM, no earlier and no later, I would walk up to the librarian and politely ask if the room was open today. “Not today,” she would tell me. The day after the election, however, she smiled at me instead of giving her customary rejection. “Yes, today it is open.” I nodded sagely. “Take me there, please.” She obliged, taking up a lantern and leading me into the space behind the librarian’s desk. We moved slowly, hobbled by her ancient legs. “Why, today, is it open?” I inquired. “All things closed must open eventually, elsewise they are not really closed, they do not exist.” This was a reasonable answer. “I am not open,” I told her. “Presumably, you have bled at some point?” “And if I hadn’t?” “Naturally, you would not exist.” This too was satisfactory. We came to the room and she left me and the lantern, the only light source available to me. For a long time, it was the two of us and nothing. Then, a ghastly scream began to echo in the dim chamber. For several seconds, it ricocheted wildly, as one would expect in a place with narrow walls. And then the echoes became more and more distant, as if the walls were drawing further and further apart. At that instant, the room was flooded with an unbearable light, against which I screwed my eyes shut, to no avail. It pierced my eyelids like rice paper and became more and more painful until I feared it would precipitate blindness. And, strange it was, strange indeed, that in the instant blindness appeared certain it came not. Spinning and blue, and green, red and yellow, and indeed all the many particularities of human ocularity came instead, laughing and crying and smelling gorgeous. An eternity passed like this, and then another in reverse. All of this, of course, passed through my eyes, but then, vision inverted itself and I stepped outside the vantage of these globular impediments and saw them instead, especially the pupils, and what handsome blackness they were! I saw them fold in on themselves, drawing the rest of my formerly useless body along with them, back into the nonexistence which gives rise to us all. Free, finally, from corporeal entrapment, the humor of it all became very clear, and the visions resolved into the form of a woman quite familiar to me: Dr. Schuman. “And how are you feeling?” she asked. “I feel nothing,” I told her. I ran my hand over Dr. Schuman’s body, and at every flinch, every shudder, I suppressed the urge to laugh. She smoothly undid my belt, with quiet efficiency. And then, the rhythm of the act, normally so primal, so human, began to grow metronomic and hysterically precise. She let out soundless gasps and arched in perfect stillness, suffering nameless, horrific ecstasy. Her sweet nothings, whispered directly into my ear, were most funny of all, for I couldn’t tell whether these responses were born of passion or programming. Images of violence and savagery flitted behind my eyes, all of them hilarious, putative outrages upon the body. And then, mangled machines: twisted, broken, unused. Everything dissolved into phantasmagoric splinters, swirling in cosmic uncertainty, and, of course, as above, so below. I couldn’t keep it all straight: man, machine and morality. Severed limbs, rusted engines, brains and motherboards. All of this appeared in my field of vision superimposed upon Dr. Schuman’s body, still motionless and writhing. And, finally, I was able to stand it no more and the sound of my laughter exploded against the unnarrow walls as I was forced to wonder, what difference is there between these things? forgetting To how I talk am. was Right that? and yoU aLl; -- It’s funny, isn’t it? W0r ds c1n **H**o w b**E** so broke,n st il**L** and so und3rstan;dable.