Squirming - 2

The rule of thumb was that if someone was called to see the counselor, then it meant that their time at this university would soon come to an end. As a freshman, on a good week, you’d see one or two of your classmates suddenly disappear, averaging about ten per semester. Anyone who survives past their freshman year will in all likelihood remain. That was typically what would happen if someone saw the interior of this room, a final destination of sorts, the end of the line.

That being said, it wouldn’t be surprising to me if I was one of the select few in the history of this institution that was called here for different reasons.

I walked in.

Dr. Newcomb: “Abel, is it?”

He reached for my hand to give me a handshake. It was firm, much like any other handshake, and if I didn’t know any better, that’s where the thought would have ended.

“Sorry for the intrusion. I’m sure we both know that this is just convention.”

Dr. Newcomb: “It is. You weren’t really called here for a meeting, or a true emotional assessment. We both know those things don’t really apply to you. However, my question was more of a segway into asking if you had a nickname you wanted to go by, more than an actual question.”

Newcum motioned for me to sit down on a cushioned chair diagonal to him, and obligingly, I sat. In the chair, I snuggled back and spread out my arms. A mere table separated me from the epitome of death.

“Is that so...A nickname? For sure. Y'know, a lot of people tend to call me Abel. I’m not sure why.”

Dr. Newcomb: “...I'll do my best to keep it short, then…To start, let me just say that the incident you witnessed was recently deemed a suicide.”

“Right.”

Dr. Newcomb: “Is that your reaction to the news?”

“Am I supposed to have more of a reaction? Fact of the matter is, I didn’t even know the guy…”

Dr. Newcomb: “Sure…but you witnessed it happen. It isn’t something to be ashamed of if you have problems dealing with that experience.”

“Listen listen. I’m sure you’re already aware, but people here rarely react to that sort of stuff…And besides, I hate that when someone dies everyone suddenly pretends to have been their bestfriend. I wasn’t. I didn’t even know the guy’s name, nor have I ever cared about him.”

Dr. Newcomb: “I see. Well, given your status at this university, I’d be prone to let you go right about now. But, you witnessed something most people would have found traumatizing, and we both know I can't just do that. So, if you wouldn’t mind, despite convention, I have more questions, if that’s agreeable to you?”

“...Sure, I’m an open-book. Ask away.”

Dr. Newcomb: “Thank you for your understanding. I’ll begin.”, he shuffled in his seat and cleared his throat…“Has the memory of the event impacted you in any way? Are you having a hard time getting it out of your head?”

“Aside from the shock of it even happening, I haven’t thought about it much since then, no.”

He picked up a tablet from his desk and started to write down something with a pen he took out from his coat pocket. While I don’t respect Newcomb for his past exploits, I don’t blame Newcomb for having to do this, it’s his obligation, afterall.

Dr. Newcomb: “Alright. How about your work, do you believe it's suffered in any way following the event?”

“Not at all, my work ethic and work quality has remained the same. I’d refer you to my teachers to corroborate.”

Another mark on the tablet.

Dr. Newcomb: “How would you describe your emotional state following the event to right now? Down or agitated, normal or slightly-off? How do you see yourself?”

“I didn’t feel much of anything, really. I was shocked at first, but that quickly dissipated. As you know, I was the one who called it in, a few minutes or so after it happened.”

Dr. Newcomb: “Right, I’m aware of that. What I want to know is why you believe you reacted the way that you did. I’m sure you know that that isn’t a normal reaction to have…”

I was never in any real danger of being expelled, this was a formality more than anything. But it seems I misjudged the situation. I’ll change my approach.

“I think you know why I reacted the way I did, Dr. Newcomb.”

“...You think so?”, he shuffled in his seat.

Nothing was said for a while. He scribbled away at his tablet.

“...Okay, then tell me, Abel. What exactly are you?”

What are you?

What are you?

What are you?

What are you?

What are you?

When I heard those words, an odd feeling enveloped me.

It was a tingling sensation throughout my entire body, almost like I had been called out for doing something wrong. Then a white noise began to pound in my head, it pounded and pounded. My brain was being racked inside my skull. Its soft tissue felt like it was about to explode. It was an incredible amount of pain in such a short amount of time.

And then it stopped.

I took a moment to recollect myself. I never gave any indication of what had happened. To Newcomb, I had just been thinking, “What's the point in asking me questions you already know the answer to? If you want to ask me something specifically, just go out and ask.”

I took advantage of that, and I blatantly said:

“I’m only Human, Dr. Newcomb.”

The following went as one would expect from the previous questions. After a while of badgering me with his cutthroat demeanor, I was free to go. I didn’t waste any time with my exit. I shook his hand and that was it.

It felt to me that I was still yet to understand what had begun. I wasn’t aware or all too concerned about it, but I was weary of it. I knew that, at the very least, it was something I should, “look into”. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m not one to let these events go unrealized.

To that end, I didn’t go back to my dorm right away. I detoured a while until I had made sure that whoever was going to follow me, wasn’t.

I knocked on the door several times in quick succession, with a light kick to the bottom.

Some semblance of a deep light was peering from underneath the door, it was obvious that he was still awake.

The door opened soon after.

“Alpha A Dash Seven”

???: “Who is it?”

“I’ll show you.”

I walked toward his closet and pushed all the hung clothing to the left. A light tap to the hangar’s far right end was all it took to dislocate itself from the wall. I took the squeezed manilla folder from inside the pole.

From the folder, I grabbed a huge catalog of simple names and faces, ages and blood types, histories and transcripts. I scrolled through all the pages until I reached the end of the list.

“Nothing in the fourth year undergrad catalog either. She could be listed under the non-photo profiles.”

???: “She’s a Petri Dish, then?”

“Maybe.”

???: “Does it go any deeper?”

“Probably.”

For a moment, everything was silent. The world felt invisible. In all of its instrumentation and in its beauty, we alone had shied away from it for a time.

And then I spoke.

“I only ended up checking because I hadn’t reviewed yesterday’s additions yet. I’ll head out for now, I’ll be back later.”

I left.

Outside, other students were walking the street beside me, possibly returning from their PM classes. It was difficult to discern their identities from only a blurry profile in my peripheral vision, but I assumed it wouldn’t have mattered either way.

I was only thinking of a single thing.