Shock
By [Docta Haus]
They call him the Tea Kettle Murderer.
About once a week, this guy decides that his morning coffee simply isn’t as exciting as he’d like, and decides to make his kettle of boiling water a little bit more interesting. So, he runs outside in his bathrobe, charges up behind the first person he sees, and pours the piping hot water all over them. Then, before they have a chance to react, he smashes them upside the head with his tea kettle, generally causing massive brain damage and killing his targets instantly.
The thing is, this guy always skips town after the act, and no one has been able to find him. Still, descriptions from witnesses have always been similar, so it makes sense that it’s the same guy every time. And, I thought, if it’s one guy, what are the odds of him finding me? I used to joke about it with my boyfriend all the time.
So, you can imagine my shock when I was walking to work last week, and out of nowhere I feel something agonizingly hot blazing across my neck and seeping down my back and arms. Before I could register that I was about to be murdered, a brilliant flash of silver light filled my vision, followed by a roaring pain, and then darkness.
* * *
I scraped the last of the dog crap off my shoe and got ready to clean up the porch. I sighed, staring at the mess of brown goo that had recently been deposited on my doorstep inside a burning paper bag. Seething with silent anger, I go inside and pick up the mop. I hate cleaning up other people’s messes, and I get pissed whenever someone tries to mess with my mind. Why can’t these idiots just leave us alone? This is Washington, dammit. I thought this sort of stuff didn’t happen here.
The cleaning took more than an hour, but fortunately George was there with me. Our movie night ruined by some high school punks, he decided he might as well help his boyfriend clean up the mess.
We cleaned up the doorstep without a word. We were used to this kind of thing happening. Ever since I came out of the closet with George a year earlier, people had been giving me crap about my lifestyle. Although people were mostly accepting of our life together, there was always the occasional Issaquah redneck that wasn’t comfortable “the gays” messing up his town.
I threw the mop down and stormed into the house. George anxiously followed me and tried to calm me down. Blinded by my rage, I started yelling in spite of myself.
“Why can’t they just leave us alone!?” I screamed in his face.
George calmly sat down next to me. “Just don’t let people like that get to you,” was his calm reply.
“I can’t! I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but get pissed! God, I feel so stupid sometimes. I can’t help but let it get to me, you know? It’s just so stupid.” I stood up. “I’ll finish cleaning it tomorrow. I’m so mad I can’t think straight!” I yelled, slamming the bedroom door in a fit of anger.
* * *
“I’m alive.”
The doctors are overjoyed to hear that I can still talk. The coherent, albeit unusual sentence that escapes from my lips signals that at the very least, the brain damage isn’t as extensive as everyone had previously thought. The doctors and family members standing around my bed all stare into my eyes with shining, happy smiles, thrilled to see that their loved one is still alive. They are all anxious to tell me about how I miraculously survived an attack from the Tea Kettle Murderer, and that soon everything will be back to normal. I stare at all of their faces and soak up their words, but all I feel is exhaustion. Over the next few hours it occurs to me about how very little I care about anything that’s happening, and how immensely tired I am after countless police interviews and family visits.
At the end of the day, George arrives with flowers, ready to welcome me back from the grave that I came precariously close to when the Tea Kettle Murderer paid me a visit this morning. I look up into his ecstatic face as he stands over my hospital bed, grinning from ear to ear.
“How are you feeling, Vin?” he asks expectantly.
And I feel nothing.
Not one ounce of joy at seeing my boyfriend’s face. Not a single shred of relief that I get to see him one more time. I’m not even surprised at my utter lack of emotion regarding George’s visit. I simply don’t care. I know that he’s expecting me to say something to him, after hearing stories about how I miraculously maintained my cognitive abilities despite being smashed in the head with a teapot. Looking up, I remember that he said he was going to get a haircut this morning. His hair, once an unruly mop sitting atop his head, is now combed and wavy, in a very symmetrical fashion.
“I love your hair.” I say blankly, without any inflection in my voice. George’s smile slowly fades from his face.
Days later, I am out of the hospital, and the verdict is in: I am suffering from Acute Stress Reaction. Apparently, my brain didn’t handle getting jolted by a flying teapot as well as everyone had hoped. Of course, while my family is mortified to learn that I am in shock, I can simply stare blankly at their faces and offer a few words of encouragement.
“Don’t feel bad,” I flatly tell them. “They told me it would wear off after a few weeks, maybe months.” I try to flash a friendly grin to let them know I’m alright. The lack of emotion in my face makes it look like I’m having a stroke.
My first Saturday out of the hospital since the incident, I decide to go to the park while George is out shopping. I’ve always felt calm in the presence of nature, and Lake Sammamish State Park offers it in bounds. A crisp win brushes through my hair as I wander over to my favorite park bench, overlooking the lake. The water is a dull grey, but this only serves to compliment the fiery colors of the leaves. As I breathe in the crisp, fresh scent of the air, I wait for the feeling of tranquility that I’ve come to know so well to wash over me as it has so many times before.
And I wait.
And wait.
It never comes.
I’m sitting on a park bench, wasting my time. What is the point? I stand up, as it starts to rain. Great, I think. Now I’m going to get soaked. This will cause me significant discomfort during the ride home—discomfort that could simply be avoided if I’d found something better to do.
As I walk out of the park, I can’t help but remember how good it felt, to relax and let go of all of my worries by sitting in the park, under the leaves of maple trees. On the other hand, I suppose it doesn’t matter, seeing as how I don’t have any worries at this point, having lost my ability to feel any emotion.
Whatever.
* * *
I anxiously sat in the doctor’s office, as the nurse rushed out the door. After a few minutes of waiting, Doctor Esuoh knocked, and opened the door slowly, so as not to disturb me.
“So?” I asked him, with a hint of desperation rising in my voice. “Can you help me?”
The doctor sighed, and sat down next to me. “You aren’t depressed. We can prescribe medicine to calm you down, but—“
I cut him off, leaping up and smashed my fist on the table. “I want a surgery! You know the drugs haven’t been working! I don’t care if you…” I ranted for at least a minute, as the doctor calmly stared at me. As soon as I calmed down, he put his hand on my shoulder and continued.
“Vin, I’ve told you, there is no surgery that can get rid of your anger. Emotions just don’t work like that. If there was another way I could help you, I would. I’m sorry that therapy hasn’t helped, but aside from the drugs, you’re just going to have to take care of your anger on your own.”
I sunk to the ground in cold despair. “I’ve been so mad lately I haven’t been able to concentrate. I just wish I had some way out of all this. Can’t you help me?” I begged.
* * *
I broke up with George earlier today. It was relatively painless, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. Two weeks after my failed assassination, my emotions haven’t returned, and this has put a serious strain on our relationship. After awhile it has become too difficult for us, at least for George anyway. The emotional attachment has always been important to us both; it has always been strong enough to get us through whatever hardships we’ve had to face as a gay couple, even in a particularly liberal part of the country. But not anymore.
I really shouldn’t complain. After all, what do I have to complain about? It’s not like he means anything to me anymore, now that my ability to feel any such attraction for a significant other has been dulled. He took it hard at first, but we have decided to “take a break”, at least until the shock wears off, and my emotions hopefully return—if they ever do, of course.
So now I’m sitting alone in my apartment, while George bunks at his friend’s house up in Kirkland. Unsurprisingly, I feel nothing about my new predicament. I absentmindedly turn on the television and begin to lazily browse the channels. As car insurance and Shamwow commercials blaze by, it slowly sinks in; I have lost someone important to me. I should be sad. As I realize this, I realize for the first time how close we were, and how much the attachment we had really meant to me. It’s not that I miss him; where there was once great pleasure in being around the person I love, there is now only numbness. Where love once flowered, there is now nothing.
I turn my gaze out the window to the trees, which are quickly losing their leaves to the wind. For a second, I almost feel something—self-pity? Longing? Sadness? It passes before I can tell for sure.
Feeling more tired than anything else, I close the shades and get ready for bed. Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow.
* * *
Understandably, I’m not worried when I hear a loud crash in the middle of the night.
As I get out of bed to go investigate this new mystery, I look for a decent weapon to arm myself with. My eyes settle on the aluminum baseball bat in the closet, an ancient relic from my little league days. As I carry it into the hall, I remark how utterly unconcerned I am about my current predicament. What if he has a gun? What if I’m about to die? Unsurprisingly, I don’t care.
As I reach the top of the stairs, I clumsily fumble for the light switch. I can vaguely make out the faint figure of a person standing at the end of the hall. Without any feeling of dread, I decide to turn on the lights so I can tell this intruder off for interrupting my perfectly good sleep.
As light fills the room, I get my first look at the guy; he’s dressed fairly blandly, the sort of average dark sweatshirt and jeans you would expect from some delinquent braking into your house. On the other hand, his weapon is not what you would expect at all. I had expected a gun, or some sort of crowb
ar or an ice pick, but it quickly registers that the item in his hand is not a crude blunt instrument of the sort at all. The man is holding a shiny silver tea kettle.
“How rude of you,” he drawls, a maniacal glint in his eyes. “You never gave me a chance to dry you off after your bath.” He begins to slowly advance towards me, and I can hear water swishing around in the teapot. “And look! You’re all dirty again. Well we’ll soon fix you right up.”
I clutch the bat limply, groggily staring at my assailant. There is no adrenaline coursing through my veins. No desire to save myself from this immediate threat to my life. All I really want to do is sleep.
I drop the bat. The Tea Kettle Murderer appears confused at first. “You aren’t going to run? It’s always more fun when they run,” he croons.
My voice shakes as I reply. “I don’t want to run. I want to end this.” I look into his eyes. I can’t keep living like this. There’s just no point.” My voice becomes even more unsteady, and I feel a lump forming in the back of my throat.
For a second, the man looks a little disappointed. “It’s too bad. I thought that our fated second encounter would spark a little bit of fear. Too bad!” He swings the kettle high over his head.
Without any awareness of what I’m doing, I dive to the side, and pick up the bat. As the teapot hits the floor, I wail on his legs, shattering a kneecap. The Tea Kettle Murderer screams, rolling to the side and clutching his left leg.
* * *
“Don’t feel bad,” they told me, as I lay in the hospital bed with a freshly-bandaged cranium. “I don’t,” I lazily replied.
“They will come back. It may take weeks, or months, but it will happen. You won’t be without your emotions forever.”
“Meh,” I retorted.
* * *
It’s like having a massive headache, and then feeling the utter relief that only painkillers can bring. It’s not the my emotions are rushing back; I can only feel a slight reduction in the utter numbness that has been clouding my senses for so long. But it’s fantastic. I can feel adrenaline begin to flow through my body, as a mixture of fear and anger begin to surface for the first time in weeks.
For the first time, I chuckle at the irony. It turns out I’ve been running away from the wrong thing this whole time. And to think that it took some lunatic with a teapot to make me realize that! Suddenly, I can’t stop laughing, even as the Tea Kettle murderer stands up, brandishing the tea kettle. “I need to give you your bath!” he screams, and staggers towards me.
Even as I’m face to face with someone who wants me dead, I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time. “Come at me bro!” I swing the bat as he raises the tea kettle once more.
