[5] Coding Humans: Dr. Quasar’s Nightmare; Pray for Death

CODING HUMANS
CODING HUMANS
[5] Coding Humans: Dr. Quasar’s Nightmare; Pray for Death
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[5 | Pray for Death] Download or Read PDF

{“Nothing goes better together than death and physics.” “What world are you living in? Are you here with us, or have you created your own reality?” “The end is near, my dear, but not close enough to hear.” “Wait, and you shall see that nothing is more than you and me.”}

August 24th, 2016

(Gun – the gun. I need the gun. I need it. I need to buy a gun. I’ll put the gun next to my head, pull the trigger, and then I’ll be dead. ‘What?’ The gun, I said. I must buy the gun—not for fun, but to have the gun, my son. I’ll put the gun against my head, pull the trigger, and I’ll be dead. For fun is not the gun—it just must be done; the gun is to make me done—done. I’ll put the gun against my head, pull the trigger, and soon I’ll be dead. ‘He puts the gun against his head, pulls the trigger, and then he’s dead.’)

J.F. goes on in a tireless sleep. His brain repeats itself like a broken record, (The gun – The gun, I need the gun. If I put it next to my head, pull the trigger, I’ll be dead, he said.)

The poor man lays in bed, unaware of whether he is asleep or has been tossing and turning for hours. He is twisted up in the sheets, surrounded by darkness, wondering where he is. His body excretes droplets of sweat from head to toe, soaking the mattress beneath his naked body. His brain rants in uncontrollable loops, (The gun I said – the gun, wouldn’t it be fun to have the gun for if I had the gun soon, I’d be done. I’ll put the gun against my head, pull the trigger, and I’ll be dead. The end is near, my dear. I am so eager to hear, but first – we need – to get – the gun.)

Between mental ravings about suicide, a single lyric by Ray Conniff and The Singers – Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree plays in his head. The lyrics drive him mad. The terrifying sound of the singer’s voices makes him feel like he is in some sort of an interdimensional hell where the only available punishment is listening to sweater-wearing racists from the 70s belt out gay music. 

Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree

Round the Ole Oak Tree

the Ole Oak Tree

the Ole Oak Tree

the Ole Oak Tree

Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree

Round the Ole Oak Tree

the Ole Oak Tree

the Ole Oak Tree

the Ole Oak Tree

Oak Tree

Oak Tree-Oak Tree-Oak Tree-Oak Tree-Oak Tree

The song will only stop when he switches back to obsessing about suicidal fantasies.

The repeating lyric doesn’t seem to have a beginning or end for him; it just goes on in endless successions. His inability to recall the start and the end of the song drives him mad, so he switches back to his gun obsession. Focusing on the gun allows him to put a stop to the repeating lyric. 

J.F. rolls over, feeling air brush against his sweat-soaked back; it cools him for a moment. He then uses all his strength to slide himself over to the dry half of the bed. Once positioned, he pulls the blankets back, lifting them off the wet areas hoping that the area will dry by the time his body soaks the other side of the mattress. 

The delusional state continues as he lays on a queen-size foam mattress tucked in the corner of the small bedroom in his unfurnished apartment. The repeating song lyric feels like someone stuck an icepick in his brain, and he cannot get it out. The only thing that stops it is the obsession about getting a handgun and blowing his brains out. 

He sleeps naked with a single white sheet covering his genitals. He cannot stay still and flips side-to-side, feeling bits of sweat build up, on his back. He fantasizes that he is not alone and grabs a pillow squeezing it tightly, pretending it is a woman that loves him unconditionally. For a brief moment, he has feelings of bliss as he fabricates the perfect female. This lasts only a fraction of a second before the mind wanders back into hell: (The gun – it should be a 6-shooter pistol. We wouldn’t want any chance of failure. Hollowpoint bullets too. The gun I said, it should be bought to make me dead. All I have to do is put the nose to the head, pull the trigger, and I’ll be dead. ‘Hopefully, sooner than later, I said.’)

A sudden urge to vomit comes over him, and he is grateful for this. The dehydration and absence of substance within his body mean he will be dry heaving until gobs of bile can make their way to the esophagus. This unpleasant use of stomach muscles will give his brain a break from obsessive and repetitive thoughts. 

He pulls the blankets off his body and rolls over to the edge of the mattress, and then feels the sticky sheet peel from his back as he plops onto the floor. His body’s muscles are in such a sore state that he can barely crawl his way out of the room. Once he drags himself to the hall, he uses all his might to prop himself up off the ground. He then uses the wall to keep himself erect while he inches to the kitchen. He thinks to use the toilet or sink to vomit but knows from experience that he will be intermittently sick throughout the night. The best solution is a bucket or pan by the bedside, but he has only a cup in the kitchen and doesn’t even possess a trashcan. So, he decides to hold himself over the sink and get the job done. 

Once braced to the sink and crouched over the garbage disposal, the urge to vomit is no longer there, but he still needs to get it out. So, he turns the sink on, wets his fingers, and shoves them into the back of his mouth, penetrating the gag reflex until the dry heaving begins. The first five attempts give nothing but air. On the sixth attempt, greenish-yellow slime oozes out of his throat, slipping off his tongue onto the stainless-steel tub. The progressive streams of bile extraction make his abdominal muscles feel like he has just done a thousand sit-ups.

After fifteen minutes or so, the ritualistic act emptied his thoughts. 

Upon returning to his fantasized death bed, he falls asleep. He wakes back up only a few minutes later to find himself right back in a self-inflicted hell.

A new lyric pops in J.F.’s head by Ruth Etting singing “Button Up Your Overcoat,” and the sound of a shrill woman’s voice sings on repeat, (‘Take good care of yourself you belong to me! – Take good care of yourself; you belong to me! – Take good care of yourself; you belong to me! Take good care of yourself; you belong to me! … Eat an apple everyday – Eat an apple every day.’ GOD STOP!! God, please stop! ‘The gun.’ ‘Fuck, we need the gun!’)

J.F. shivers like a child stuck in the snow as he lays coverless. He pulls blankets back over his moist and naked body and then feels it instantly overheat, so he pulls them back off. A minute later, he feels cold again and rewraps himself in blankets. He then swaddles his legs and torso, positioning his arms back across his chest like a mummy. He rests flat on his back and imagines he is stuck inside a coffin, and his death is near. 

He repeats his vomiting ritual and continuous movements throughout the night until his body exhausts itself, and he finally falls asleep.

(I’ll put the gun against my head, pull the trigger, and I’ll be dead.)

 

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