Schnietz Marphis

There it was. Right there on the curb. Who would abandon such a beautiful thing? It was all black and about six feet long. The cushions cradled your buttocks as you sank into a position of pure, unparalleled comfort and optimum television watching.

It was the couch of couches, and his name was Schnietz Marphis.

He called to me that bleak October morning. As I walked to classes (Physics of Ren & Stimpy 204) I felt a pull, a force drawing me to an alley. I didn’t know it then, but I know now. It was the presence of Schnietz, compelling me.

Thoughts of attending class immediately vanished from my mind. There was only The Couch. With infinite care, I managed to drag, pull, carry it back to my apartment. The going was easy, The Couch wanted me to take it. It needed a home, a host, a vessel. I would be the caretaker of The Couch I and I alone was worthy to own and sit in such majesty.

Once we reached my abode, I quickly pushed aside all other furniture. My old, unworthy couch was tossed out the window in haste. It landed unceremoniously on the lawn, where it disintegrated onto pieces. My apartment was on the tenth floor, it was quite a fall.

I sat down in an ordinary, nameless chair across from my new acquisition and studied it. Who knew what adventures it had encountered? What lives it had changed? What mysteries were woven within the threads of the seat cushions? I could hardly contain my excitement at the thought of what my new relationship with Schnietz.

A knock on the door drew me away from my flights of imagination. It turns out that it was my friend Frost asking where I had been for the last three days. I looked down and realized he was right. I was still wearing the same clothes I’d been wearing when I first met Schnietz Marphis.

He asked me who that was and I pointed to The Couch. Frost looked appalled. He asked me where I got it and expressed disgust at its condition.

I was shocked by his questions and observations. Who was he to cast aspersions at my dear new friend? And why did he want to know where I got it? Was he jealous? He must be! He wanted a couch for himself, to show off. No, even worse. He wanted mine! He was going to steal my beloved and keep it for himself. 

I eyed him wearily. His facial expression betrayed his intentions. I knew his schemes now, there was no hiding them. And for Frost, there could be no escape.

Wait. Who said that? Was that my idea? Frost was my friend, he had no use for a new couch. Why would I think otherwise?

Then Frost’s eyes grew wide. I followed his gaze and saw that The Couch was pulsating with a deep black glow. It was a shade of black I had never seen before. A shade I’m sure nobody had seen before. It was too black. It hurt my eyes and I began to feel nauseous looking at it. The glow bore into my skull and my brain throbbed with an incredible pain. But I was trapped, unable to look away. I doubled over and started to retch. Near to me, I could hear Frost doing the same thing. Then my legs buckled. I collapsed on the floor. Dead to the world.

I woke up sometime later, not entirely sure where I was. Then I felt the fabric beneath me and immediately knew where I was. I jumped up with a shock and fell to the floor. At Schnietz’s base. I had no idea how I had ended up on The Couch, or where Frost was.

With no warning (but to be fair, what kind of a warning can a couch give?) one of the seat cushions raised up and a limp arm partly fell out. Crawling over, I looked under the cushion and there was Frost, staring back up at me. I say at me, but it was more like through me. Lifelessly. Whereas I had been passed out, Frost had not been as lucky.

I stood up on shaky legs and leaned over to pull Frost’s body out of the couch and figure out exactly what had happened. Maybe he was still alive and I could get him to a hospital.

That’s when the cushion snapped down, severing Frost’s arm. It fell to the floor, blood lazily seeping out. A little club soda would take care of that stain, I thought. With a bit of a manic giggle. I couldn’t believe I was making jokes while my friend’s arm lay on the floor, his body lodged somewhere in the bowels of a piece of furniture.

I tried raising the cushions. They lifted easily. I was scared to look inside, but I had to see. With my eyes half-closed I warily looked in. It was empty, save for a few pennies and a cheeto (which tasted extra stale). There was no Frost.

Out of nowhere the front door burst open in a cloud of splinters. A man ran into the room yelling at me and brandishing some kind of gun in his hand. He kicked me away from The Couch and aimed his weapon at it. A flame shot out and engulfed (such an overused word when paired with fire and flames, in my opinion) Schnietz completely. Still yelling, the man dropped the weapon and began to awkwardly drag me out of the apartment. I got to my feet and ran out of the door as the fire spread around the room. Everything was burning, even my copy of Requiem for a Dream, starring Jennifer Connelly. I could swear that I could hear a high-pitched scream coming from within. With a last look, I saw The Couch shake and twist in ways that were physically impossible, almost as if it were bending in and out of this reality. And then my view was obscured by smoke and I was outside, coughing my lungs out.

I felt a sharp pain in my left arm. Looking over, I saw that the man had stabbed me with a needle. That’s when I passed out. Again.

I (again) woke up woozily. I looked around and saw that I was back in my apartment. Or at least a duplicate of it. Standing over me was the man who had randomly burned down my place. Or so I had thought at the time. He was standing over me with a smile. He identified himself simply as Chester and helped me to sit up.

My confusion over what had just happened kind of had most of my attention. I tried to ask what was going on, but my mouth was dry, full of smoke and useless. Seeing my trouble with words, Chester decided to speak. He told me that he worked for a man named Mr. Brooks. He said that they had been tracking The Couch for months in an attempt to destroy it. With a straight face, he told me that it was possessed by a being known as Roseus, who enslaved and killed men. She seemed to really have a thing against people born with penises. He also said that once The Couch has been consumed (there, that’s much better than engulfed, right?) by the fire, it was gone, along with all the damage done to my place. Unfortunately, Frost had not reappeared.

With that, Chester left and I was on my own. Everything back to the way it was, minus two couches and a best friend. Also, I had missed a week of classes as well as showers. I was failing and smelly. I sat on the floor and wondered if I’d ever see things normally again.

It’s been five months and shit is not normal. I swear that Schnietz keeps showing up in random places. And I don’t mean that I’m seeing it out of the corner of my eye (although I have), but places it shouldn’t be, like TV shows, movies, (including movies that came out decades ago) books, magazines and even blogs. I have no idea when or where I’ll see it. But the sightings are becoming more and more frequent. It’s only a matter of time. See, Schnietz Marphis is still in my head, like a comfortable seat with plush cushions. And I can just feel my mind sinking deeper and deeper. I have a new sofa. I think I’ll go take a nap now.

A Brand New Day

The first thing I was aware of was a general feeling of numbness. It was all over my body, so engulfing that it felt like I didn’t have a body at all. I wondered if I was laying down, or floating. And if I was laying down, where was I?

I opened my eyes. The only difference was that instead of everything being the usual black hues a person sees when their eyes are closed, everything was a foggy white. Am I blind, I thought? And if so, are my other senses enhanced? Because I’m all about being a superhero.

“Hello? Sir, are you awake?” said a female voice, somewhere in the haze.

I tried to answer, (assuming she was talking to me) but it seems that I’d left my mouth in my other pants (is that even a saying anymore?) and all I could get out was a string of drool and random vowels.

“Aaaaaeeeeeoo?” I responded casually.

“It’s alright if you can’t talk sir. One of the side effects of the medication is dry mouth. Here, have some water,” the voice said. “Wait a minute, let’s get your eyes clear first.”

I felt a cloth rubbed across my eyes and my vision cleared. I looked around to get my bearings. I was on a bed in a white room, surrounded by white things. White walls, white towels, white curtains and white uniforms. The only things that weren’t white were the IV bags and the tubes going into my arms. One bag-tube combination was a very bright, dark red. Blood. I was in a hospital.

I slowly turned my head to my right. There was my family. I instantly felt depressed and embarrassed.

My mother took a step forward and pushed the IV stand to the side so she could put her hand on mine. Her cheeks were wet.

“Hello son. How are you feeling?”

“Head hurtsh,” I managed to say.

“No shit,” I vaguely heard my father say. “You banged the crap out of your head on the floor. You have no idea how much blood I had to clean.”

“Hush Lloyd,” my mother turned her head to admonish my father. “He really doesn’t need to hear that right now. Go buy a soda or something from the cafeteria.” She turned back to me and gave me the saddest smile I had ever seen. It broke what was left of my heart. My father muttered under his breath as he left the room.

“So why did you do it son?” Mom asked me.

I turned away. Partly out of disgust that I had failed, partly because I didn’t know how to explain it to her. I wasn’t sure I understood it myself.

“Please son, I want to know what I can do to help you.”

Leave it to a mom. They carry you (unbidden, I’d like to point out) for nine months, in their bodies and they think they own you. They’re always proud of your accomplishments, always there to make you feel better when you’re sick, damn, stupid supportive of you in the choices you make in life. It’s enough to make you… well, not do what I did, but it sure makes you wonder if you tell her you love her enough. It’s that crazy combination of love and guilt that helps form us into whatever we are as adults. And today I felt as if I’ve failed her.

 “I dunno,” I mumbled.

“Ma’am,” the voice of the nurse on my left returned. “He’s still recovering. It may be best to let him rest a little while longer.”

My mom nodded weakly and gave me that damn pitiful smile again. Then she turned and took my little brother’s arm and began to walk out of the room. My brother broke free and ran over to my bed. Great, just what I need. What do I say to him? Not only does he look up to me, I’m not entirely sure he gets what happened.

Instead, all he does is punch me in the arm, tells me scars are cool, shows me his scar from falling off his bike last fall, and then runs out of the room. What a relief. The drugs do their work and I go back to sleep.

When I wake up again, the lights are off. It must be nighttime.

“Good evening,” says a deep, masculine voice to my right. The voice has some kind of accent, but I can’t tell what it is. It’s oddly continental, as if the voice’s owner had been everywhere and absorbed a bit of every place he’s been.

I looked to my right and saw a man, dressed in a black suit, sitting on a black couch and looking at me with curious, amused eyes. He looked as if he was ready to offer his hand to shake, but saw the tubes and decided not to. Instead, he introduced himself as Mr. Brooks and said he has an offer for me.

“I know why you’re here son,” he says, without a trace of pretentiousness. “Tell me, what’s her name?”

“Roseus,” I say weakly.

“Ahhh,” he nods in affirmation. “I thought as much. She does manage to make the rounds. Oh, no offense son.” He said with a slight chuckle.

I know I should be pissed off, but I can tell that he doesn’t mean it as an insult. Besides, I’m in no condition to do anything about it.

“Tell me, what if you could forget all about her? Erase her from your thoughts and go on to lead the rest of your life any way you see fit, with nary a passing memory of her to burden you ever again?”

I must be dreaming. Hooray for drugs!

“No, you’re not dreaming. I’m very real and I’m here with a one-time offer.”

Wait, did I say that thing about dreaming? Or think it?

“It doesn’t matter,” he offered. “So what do you think?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Brooks, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s talk hypothetically. Let’s say that there are two doors in front of you. One door leads to the rest of your current life, the eternal agony of memories of “her” and all the shame that comes when you leave the hospital. Not to mention who knows how many more…um attempts?” He waved generally over my injured body and the room I was in.

“The other door leads you to a life that is yet to be discovered. You have no idea what will or won’t happen. All you know is that you’ll never remember her or anything about her ever again. So again, hypothetically, if you could choose one door, which one would it be?”

I’m no dummy, I’m proud to say. Well, taking into account my current situation, I guess I’m a dummy twice over. Anyway, I know my Monkey’s Paw type situation when I hear it. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is a simple one. It all depends on how far you’re willing to go. You might find that you don’t want to get rid of some memories. You might find that some memories are intrinsically connected to others. It all depends on the person and the depth and length of the memories. And, it all depends on how well you choose to navigate your own mind and memories.” He stood and walked over to me. Well, I want to say walk, but as far as I can tell (maybe it’s the drugs again) it looks like he’s gliding. “It’s really a small price to pay to be rid of “her” and all memories, good or bad. No need to feel that pain again. No need to put your heart though such torment. It’s a Brand New Day for you son. What do you say?” He smiled, somewhat hypnotically.

The possibilities are more than I can imagine right now, but I know that if I could have erased my memories earlier, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t hurt so much, physically or emotionally. I wouldn’t have made my mother cry or disappointed my dad. I can think of only one question. “What is it?”

His answer is one, enigmatic word.

“Oubliette.”