“Too soon.”

The voice buzzed across an absolute blackness of the kind that physicists only theorise to exist. The kind of darkness that cannot truly exist in real space and so only exists in the minds of those filled with a gibbering terror at the nadir of the mental trough they find themselves in. The kind of darkness that becomes the totality of existence for a suicide.

“Nonsense,” came a reply sounding of slate dragged against gravel, mortification, and centuries of undisturbed decay “there are seven to be taken by seven in the seventh month. We have done it annually since His Lordship straddled Earth and brought disharmony among men.”

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A sound like a gentle rush of steam from a breached pipe, slowly filling the air with humidity and heat. A sound that announced some imminent, turgid thought about to issue forth from between the teeth that made the sound a sigh by the pernicious act of holding in a soul crushing groan.

“I’m still really pissed off that my lead didn’t come through.” Harvey said, grinding his molars.

This was the present.

A time in which a thing merely is.

Trey, however, was still preening his nails.

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Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to squeeze out some of the tension forming around his eyes.

He’d been to a Thai massage parlour recently. A beautiful place that just seemed to perpetually smell like sandalwood. It hung in the air, thick but still light, and pleasing in an odd way. And so much red laquered wood that he guessed was probably the sandalwood, but didn’t know for sure as he’d never seen it as anything other than a scent for oil burners. He assumed it was some kind of wood at the very least, although a lot of things had a peculiar habit of being named for things that they clearly weren’t.

Like “sweet breads”, something he was intent to never order for dessert again if he could help it. The memory of the place filled his consciousness, and again his nosed promptly flooded with the olfactory recollection. His supraspinatus could feel the pounding of hands that seemed to grip like iron, but were gentle enough to relieve the aching tension that seemed to perpetually bubble beneath his flesh in that particular spot to the point that his neck would be slightly askew some days. The last thing they did before sending him on his way was to massage his face in a manner that not only relieved the scowl that was by now a nearly permanent fixture, but also clearly demonstrated that they could crush his skull at any point they wanted to during the fifty-five minutes in which they caressed his naked, oiled body. I’m going to have to get some sandalwood incense for in here, he thought to himself.

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“Sometimes I feel so empty, you know?”
An rhetorical, existentialist question the doctor had heard uttered, asked, probed and pondered upon many times before. To say yes, or to agree in any way with the patients would have shattered their fragile illusions that they were the only ones that ever felt this way. That they were all alone in their suffering is what brought them to the doctor, what he liked about them, what kept them returning to him week in week out, and he was in no particular mind to change it all too quickly for them.

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