‘The Targeter,’ a Surreal Novel, Chapter Six

I close my eyes and open them.

I see my living room again, with my TV turned off, the drugs and bourbon on the coffee table immediately in front of me, and the Indian music finishing. I take a sip of my drink, take a few puffs off the joint that’s almost finished burning away on the side of my ashtray, and I get up.

I stagger over to a mirror on my wall opposite the one for my TV and bookshelves. I’m still feeling the warm buzz from my high on the ecstasy half-pill. I hear the gunfire and far-away bombs from outside, since the end of the Indian music means I have nothing to drown out the explosions, only silence here inside; but my ketamine high is still giving me that illusory sense of safety. I look at myself in the reflection.

I close my eyes and open them.

Instead of seeing my present self, I see myself as a toddler looking at himself in the mirror for the first time.

I’m having difficulty staying on my feet: is it because I’m a child again, or is it because I’m so wasted? Am I all in one piece, as I see in the mirror, or am I in many pieces? Am I solid, as I see in the mirror, or am I melting into a liquid…as I feel?

Am I a distinct I, or am I an indistinct, chaotic mass?

I close my eyes and open them.

I see Queen Maya holding me in her arms and smiling down at me tenderly. She’s so beautiful in her regal robes. To see her loving eyes is to see myself as I’d like to.

I close my eyes and open them.

I see myself as a toddler looking at myself in the mirror again.

I close my eyes and open them.

I see myself in the present, stoned out of my mind. I note the far-off bombs and gunfire outside.

I close my eyes and open them.

I see what looks like my mother, the queen, but something about her is different this time. Physically, she looks exactly the same: beautiful face, hair, and robes, but no smile. Now she looks down at me with a scowl as she holds me in what seems mere obligation, not love. She doesn’t want to take care of me; she’d rather toss me aside and forget about me–I can feel it.

I close my eyes and keep them shut.

I remember the words of the old man with the cane, the one who said I would one day be either the great head of the family business and of the state, or I’d become a great revolutionary and spiritual leader.

I’d naturally prefer to be the latter.

I chuckle to myself about how I’m obviously flattering myself with these fantastical prophecies.

I open my eyes.

I see my present self, still high as a kite.

I see neither a great king nor a great, revolutionary, spiritual leader.

I see only a loser.

I hear the explosions and gunshots of the war outside, and I remember that I’m going to die before any possibility of my achieving greatness comes about. The K still feels as though it will shield me from the pain of my violent demise, though I know that, as high as I am, the thought of being shielded thus is ridiculous.

I stagger back to my sofa and sit down.

I close my eyes.