Saccharine

By: Jason Christopherson

Jason Christopherson is an English major at NMSU. He wants to warn his readers that this story contains graphic images of self-destruction and violence. The discretion of the reader is advised and invited. Enjoy this Sweet Story. So Sweet. Perfectly Sweet. Sugar.

The TV was the only light in my apartment, save for the ambience of the city lights polluting the night sky so it was void of stars, leaving the moon in isolation. I wasn’t giving any attention to what it was playing, it mostly functioned as background noise while I watched a stream of nonsense on my phone. It felt less alone when something else was playing in the background. After two, or five, or seven, videos that were something I didn’t like, I shut my phone off. The TV broke to commercial, bathing the apartment in a cool white light.

“Feeling like nothing happens anymore?” A woman’s voice asked her viewership as a clean, manufactured, song played in the background. “Like nothing ever fulfills your existence, and that happiness can only be sought through memories or vapid experiences that you hate?”

At that, I turned to the TV. That felt too specific, or at the very least, too pointed for it to be in a commercial. It’s like she was talking to me, about how the past few months have melted into a gray mess that I couldn’t extract any specific memory from, how I’ve spent hours every week laying on the floor, the thought of raising any of my limbs being some illustrious goal for the hour.

“We here at November Pharmaceuticals have finally found the answer to give your life meaning once again. Introducing our newest product: Lemon Drop.” The stark white background gives way to a small piece of what looks like cake. A perfect yellow square, with thin white stripes crossing it. “With just one dose of Lemon Drop, any feeling of ennui, depression, or existential boredom, will melt away and out of your mind for six months. For just this month, to celebrate the launch of boundless satisfaction, we’re offering a fifty percent off discount to your first dose of Lemon Drop. Simply dial the number in the corner of the screen and secure your slice of happiness today.” A small phone number in the bottom left of the screen appeared in basic black text. “Side effects may include—” I turned the TV off, and quickly grabbed my phone.

I dialed the number. My heartbeat sped with each expectant ring. “Thank you for calling November Pharmaceuticals. To speak to an associate, press One. To file a customer complaint, press Two. For more information about our newest product, Lemon Drop, Press Five. To order Lemon Drop, press Six.” I fumbled a bit as I pressed the button. ‘Finally’, I thought to myself, ‘I can feel like myself again.’

For a moment, as the call was connecting to whatever sales agent I would need to speak with, I questioned why I was requesting this so urgently. Perhaps because of the deal, or maybe I was, at that point, so desperate to feel ‘normal’ again that I was willing to do just about anything to regain that sense of, if not happiness then, productive neutrality.

“Thank you for calling November Pharmaceuticals Sales Department, I’m Autumn, how can I help you this evening?” The voice on the other end said with a practiced kindness.

“Um…I’m looking to purchase Lemon Drop?”

“Well you’ve come to the right place. I’ll just need some basic information, as well as a payment method, and we can have your dose shipped within the hour and at your door within a day, I can also answer just about any question you might have about our newest product.”

“Oh, ok. What information do I need to provide?”

“Well just your name, your address, any allergies, and then no insurance is needed because this is an over-the-counter drug, the first of its kind actually.”

“And is it addictive?”

“Nope! The doses are so far apart, and we keep very good track of who buys what, when, that the chances of addiction are significantly low. Additionally, due to the nature of the drug, it’s quite hard for it to be sold and redistributed for profit.”

“Oh.” I pause. Everything sounds so effortless. Just say the magic words and all my problems would wash away like anemic lines drawn in sand. I almost zone out as I ramble off all of my details. “No, I don’t have any allergies.” I finished talking, and the other end was replaced with the clicking sounds of a keyboard.

“Alright, thank you, we will get that shipped over to you as soon as we are able to and your expected delivery day is tomorrow before seven. Have a wonderful rest of your night.”

The line went dead. I stand, frozen, in my living space. ‘It’s finally happening,’ I thought to myself as I numbly walked to the bedroom. I splashed water on my face, frowning at the sleep lines that shadowed my eyes. I remember how light they were in pictures. I remember feeling lighter in pictures, too. As I walk to my bed, my mind always drifts to what got my here. Why my heart always aches like some cavernous void that yearns only for its own absence. I believe it started with the lost of my sister, Ismene. It was a car accident, not her fault and late at night about two years ago, and it was like the sun had went out in my family.

I shake as I think about her, so cruelly ripped away from me. I spiraled harder than the rest of my family. Started drinking again, hard. Shut myself off from the world.

My thoughts continue down this path of ‘what happened’ until I eventually fall into sleep, a drop in an ocean. Morning comes, and I slowly get out of bed after laying in it, awake but immobile, for a half hour.

I get dressed, go to the coffee shop and get a cheap latte and an admittedly pretty good bagel sandwich. I work in a corporate office where its efforts to be casual and relaxed actually make it seem more soulless and depressing than if they just stuck everyone in cubicles with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like some sort of beehive ambience. I clock in, I close my eyes, and suddenly it’s 5pm and I’m clocking out. I never remember much about work. Not that there’s anything to truly remember.

I get home, and just as the person on the phone promised, there it was. A small white box that looked like it would hold a ring, at my door, a tag displaying my address and name. Lemon Drop, in my hands at last, a salvation away from this malaise that’s consumed me with such gluttonous fervor. I quickly run inside, the autumn sun setting away into nightfall, and open the box. A one inch square of lemon cake, drizzled with white frosting was inside.

Was I being fucked with?

This can’t be it. Right? I pick up the pastry and, in the golden light of the sunset, eat it in a bite. Even if it was some joke placebo, the cake was good. Not too sweet, with a nice aftertaste of fresh citrus. I wasn’t expecting some magical instantaneous shift in my mental state, but I was looking for any sign that it wasn’t just a scam or a publicity stunt.

I sat on my couch, twilight stealing away the final strands of daylight, waiting for it to kick in with a baited desperation.

It started in my fingers. A low buzz, like they were falling asleep. The feeling pulsed to my palms and started in my feet, moving to arms and legs, torso, until finally it felt like my head was filled with soda; fizzy and fluid. I turned my head and my vision was on a second delay, everything felt so far removed from me, that I couldn’t possibly comprehend it. It was the most liberated I had ever felt, to feel the world of anguish ejected away from me, and as I stood, waves of numb roiling through my body, I realized that I couldn’t feel my body.

I pinch my arm, and that same fizziness came through my body, no matter how hard I tried to feel something. Six months of blissful nothingness, what could possibly be better? I gaze down at my fingers, so blissfully unaware of any sort of sensation or feeling. An impulsive thought echoes through my vacuous mind, a collection of trivia crossed with opportunity. Closing my eyes, I bite down on my finger with the same force I would bite into food; I hear a crunch, but nothing but tat same sweet static overwhelms any yawp from my pain receptors.

I realize there is a finger in my mouth salty crunchy from the bone why do I like it?

Why does my mind now wander not in thoughts that are complete and nuanced but now in disarray?

I spit out my extremity savoring the taste of my blood but it needs something more it needs something…

Sweet…sugar perhaps. I have sugar.

I walk to the kitchen, my steps not my own I grab the sugar and dip the phantom limb into it the blood turning into syrup and I taste.

No words can describe the ecstasy I feel as my own ferrous ichor drenched in sugar coats my tastebuds, it feels exalted and like the paragon of taste there’s the ticket blood I need more it would be so good to taste more to feel more. I begin to destroy myself. My mind screams. It’s so pleasant against the static. Eventually, I begin to resemble those old folktale myths of flayed folk that wander deserts. Perfect. Sugar. Make it sweet. Make it perfect. Sugar. Make it sweet.

I pour more sugar into my wounds, the bloody muscles becoming a congealed syrup of tendons I take another bite, drinking in this ambrosia, savoring the sugary copper that runs down my throat, somewhere somewhere distant somewhere recovering consciousness screamed in infinite and undying agony to stop please stop what are you doing something isn’t right you have to stop but I just ignore it and continue my breath echoing in my head like a ragged respiratory rave where the bass is the frantic and terrified pounding of my quickly dehydrated heart veins got in the way I rip them from my arm and throw them onto the floor they stain the tile that same beautiful red delightful red perfect red everything red I continue to eat and consume and savor blood sprays across the tiles the room spins the apartment whirls I collapse to the floor and I just can’t stop won’t stop can’t stop never stop

I collapse onto the floor blood cascading from the gnawed abyss of my arm consciousness flowing back into my veins I bitterly think to myself that the ad was right that Lemon Drop did indeed work I felt so changed so new so differently exciting my mind began stir and look at the meal I made of myself and registered with the rest of everything.

As I felt my heart slow to a stop, I made a horrifying rational thought.

I was delicious. I am delicious.

I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was

delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was

delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I was delicious. I am delicious. I am.