My name is not Jim

It’s cocktail Sunday at the campus and every floor of the house is bursting with chatter. As I walk past some students, I hear them describe their weekend as immortal but the only thing that lingers from those nights is a strange taste in the back of their mouths and night-club stamps on their wrists.  By cocktail hour, all the hands raising glasses are proudly branded and everyone feels like they belong.

I hear them sipping away and laughing as I open the basement’s door. It looks just like a storm cellar. I walk down the edgy stairs with a basket in my hand. The outside noise disappears at once and I meet alone the silence.

Right away, I feel a gaze upon me. I am halfway down the stairs when I stop to look. There is a man at the bottom of the stairs, sitting behind a desk. He is surrounded by shelves and bottles. I think he is sheltering from something but he is not afraid. He feels heavy compared to the lightness of everyone outside. He has consumed all the air in that bunker and I feel like I can’t breathe.

He knows. He keeps staring at me motionless, like a stale photograph. His eyes have a shine, a dark light inside them. He is watching me walk the last stairs, amused at my attempt of playing it normal.

I need to get oranges and limes fast. But they are on a shelf close to him. He knows what I need and waits for me to come closer. Nobody could ever sit that still, I almost think he is not real if it wasn’t for his smirk. It changes like running water.  

I know I should not be here. He does not want me here. I think of the people I left outside with their strawberry mojitos and their salty margaritas. They seemed empty a moment ago but now that I see him, I can actually feel in my skin what void really is. I want to rewind and block the door of the cellar and tell everyone to just drink the booze with milk and sugar. But I can’t, I have absolutely no power here.

I remember they say to not run, never ever run. That’s okay because I can’t. I feel so heavy myself now, like I have tons of wax on my arms and my shoulders. I grab the oranges with one hand, with the other I grab the shelf to stop me from falling.  I flex my legs to get up and my bones crack, gravity is crashing me and he looks ready to jump.

“I am getting some fruits to mix the cocktails Jim”, I tell him in a desperate tone. Desperate to sound friendly, to show him I know who he is, that I am not just like everyone else who forgot him here. But as soon as I say “Jim” I know that is not his fucking name. That’s when his face really changes. He is openly smiling now, like mad, I can see his white teeth and the darkness in his eyes is shining so brightly.

But he still does not move. Not yet. He seems to be controlling himself, I can see the effort in his sweat.

I am so fucking scared now, but I know better than to apologize. Not without knowing his name. And so I just start to walk upstairs but the stairs are so long and so steep and I am so tired. I feel like I am climbing them in slow motion but I refrain from looking back. He likes that. That I am trying hard.

I make it to the door and I push it with my last strength until it opens. The sounds of the party rush in and I feel safe again. “See you Jim”, I hear myself say. And as soon as I say it, the door shuts with such violence. I look back at him and he is standing now, he is happy I said it, he wanted me to say it.

I know now I’ll never leave here. I’ll never hear laughter again, I’ll never see a Sunday again. I am right next to the door but there is no exit. I can’t stop looking at him. If I had never pretended to be better, he would not have bothered. I try to speak but my voice has become silence.

He dislocates his jaw to open his mouth and it looks like he is drinking the silence.

I scream and scream silently while he says: “My name is not Jim”.