The Gene Chain Fulfillment Center is the type of center that packages bulk orders that arrive at random gift shops and small stores around the US. After three weeks of working the graveyard shift there, I decided that unless I found some enjoyment in this work, I would not return the next day. The ceiling shone particularly bright with the moonlight leaking through the oddly scattered industrial skylights. The fulfillment center reeked of strawberries and cake. It reeked chemically. You could smell the sweat from men too forlorn to work anywhere else but the graveyard shift of a small fulfillment center. The sad men weep as they work. Their tears fill the aisles and flood the conveyor belts and stacks of boxes and compounds of items. No happy thought exists. Has it ever? This everglade held a safe mix of immigrants working their second job and trashy whites who smoked and drank their sorrows into each box they packaged. The center is exactly how you would imagine it: dingy and unpleasant. The items I labor on in each box are inexcusably carefree. They laugh their bright and glittered colors towards the muted folds of the men who sent them away.
We were really all just jealous of these items. They lived a life most of us could only wish for. They get to travel and are taken care of, and someone desires them. They are cheap, but don’t hide that fact. They don’t need to. They are loved all the same.
On the third hour of the third day of the third week, I packaged a box full of keychains with little animal heads smoking blunts and cigarettes with an assortment of small collectible figures (the kind that a child may choke on). I packaged a box of vacuum-sealed stuffed animals. I thought to myself, I would see this stuff in the ocean or a landfill in the next few months. I packaged clothes woven with fibers so small that I couldn’t imagine what a washing machine might do to it. I figured it must never be washed; if it were, it would disintegrate. I even packaged a mix of sex toys next to Bibles, next to pacifiers, next to bottles of lube. I couldn’t imagine which company bought these items altogether. I felt like a cog. I am a man who packages. I am not a man at all.
I stayed after my shift. I know that the factory manager will come soon. I don’t know if I was confident, sleep-deprived, or high from some weed I had borrowed and smoked during my most recent break. Regardless, I waited. The morning sun felt shameful and scornful. I never stayed up to watch the sunrise. I never wanted to.
That’s when it happened. A well-dressed man came in and took the stairs to the higher offices. These offices had a one-way mirror tint that allowed the big wigs to watch us. These were the offices of the people who managed the people who managed the person who managed my section of the fulfillment center. Not to be confused with the people who owned the place or the people who managed the people who owned the place. And especially not to mix it with the people who worked at the parent company who managed the companies that managed the factories. Though, even they are managed by a group of investors and the board (who might as well run the world). I thought skipping two managers to get to the factory overseers would be sufficient enough to turn in my resignation. Or maybe request a new position. Or a raise. I had not eaten. This made my head pound loudly. Too loudly to allow any other noise. I could feel my thoughts dilute. A war within my brain. A battle of growth versus decay.
I don’t even know why I was upset anymore. I don’t even know who I was upset at. There is no real power or reason in anything I do. I am not upset that I contribute to distributing goods that litter the ocean. I am not upset that I amount to nothing. I am a baby sucking the milk from a middle-aged man that controls what I eat and where I live. I am his child as much as I was my mother’s son. He controls the money I get, the hours I work, and the center I work at. I am under his care. Does he love his children? No one loves us.
I remember now. I hate this fucking job, and if I don’t get a change, I can no longer be. With this renewed vigor, I marched after the man going into the office. I swiftly stumped past a door with the title of Jeff. I opened it up, slammed the door shut, and sat down. This all startled the man, prompting him to say“Woah, What are you doing? Who are you?”
The unfamiliar morning light reflected off of his shoulders as he spoke to me. I don’t exactly know what he does, but if he’s in one of these offices, he controls me. He spoke with a particular arrogance that allowed him to talk down to me. He was a tall man in a classy white button-down. A man of cosmopolitan descent. He was polished. He was well-shaved and had the face of a gerbil. A refined one. A plastic one. A doll.
His face had not held a smile in quite some time. His face probably didn’t remember how to smile. His face showed signs of smile atrophy, I think. He is as sad as the rest of us. Sadder even.
I grunted something like: Do you feel like a god?
He yawned: What?
I belted: You observe us. You control us. You give just enough money to get by and need to crawl back for another handout. We do everything for you. We labor away, blood, sweat, and tears. You sit here and watch us through your tinted windows. You will probably make more money this week than I will make this year. Doesn’t this make you feel like my god?
He, rather disdainfully and regrettably, sighed: I don’t make all that much.
Me: You are like my mother.
Him: What?
I started getting emotional: She never listened to me. I ran away and she never forgave me. Will you listen? Will you comfort me? I don’t think so!
At this point, I started to get angry. Animated. The sun was too bright. It was the sun’s fault for distorting my will, my resolve. It was not my fault. I, the simple factory worker, could hardly hope to address a man with a button-down and an office that looked over his workers. I had less than nothing left. He had won. I was alone in a den with a man so hungry he could eat ten of me alive and not feel satiated.
He confusingly asked in a voice of impatience: What do you need?
I assumed he looked at me like an outcast. Like a man who has wandered the woods. Not a wise man but a mountain man. A man from the forest inside a forest. Uncivilized. Unruly. Un-human. I responded as such:
I need more. I don’t like this. I need something different. I need change. You will help. Give me what I want. Give me.
He said in a tone mimicking that of a parent talking to a child: I wish I could help you. Unfortunately, I am just this fulfillment center’s in-house controller. I only deal with Cash flow, Accounts receivable, Depreciation, and the like. I regretfully have no real authority to deal with the human resources department. No real sway, do you understand?
I didn’t. I responded yes but began to sweat feverishly. My eyes twitched to a photo on the ledge just under the tinted window. Jeff had put three different incomprehensible art pieces, three signed baseballs, and three bright pink framed photos of what I could only assume was his wife and dog. I shifted in my seat and refused to look at him. My face must have been unforgettably uncomfortable. I twitched slightly. This was a mistake, as he said:
I am an accountant, you see? I can’t help you. I work to make sure this company is profitable and runs smoothly. I can’t help you with the change you are looking for.
As a boy who was just told no, I started to tear up. I couldn’t seem to grasp this. Accountant. Manage my account, then. You have this office. Why can’t you change my account to something? Something I don’t quite know. Something other than nothing. I said: I think I understand, so what should I do now?
He looked like he was thinking, or at least pretended to think. At the same time, I grab a paperweight off Jeff’s desk and play with it in a way that seems like I plan to throw it. I mumbled to myself, rocking slightly in my chair, while he put a questioning expression on his face: can’t help me. Can’t help. Me. Can’t.
He grunted in discomfort, got up, and looked at his left wall full of shelves, his face shifting from a gerbil to a rat. He grabbed a phone and dialed a number. I got up, too, thinking that was what he wanted of me. I continued to play with this paperweight. I feel like having a temper tantrum. I saw a red being reflected behind me in the mirroring of the window behind the framed photos. A being of red light. A deadly and discouraging light. I turned around, and nothing was there. I turned back, and nothing was there.
heard Jeff say: I think you need to leave. I have called for some help. They will be here soon to help you.
He said, Help you, in such a way that broke a tooth in the skin of my shoulder after it bit down. A way that made me cringe and my sense of sight narrow. So painful and scary as to force me to sit back down in my chair. I think I cried. I am crying. I will cry. He said it in a way that wrapped those words around my neck and took my ability to breathe away. A panic attack. Death. I didn’t want this.
I heard a large crash, and light poured into the room from behind the desk. I no longer held the paperweight. Unnatural light flooded around me. Light from oddly scattered skylights. My eternal enemy. The early sun. It greeted me with an acidic breath. I dropped to the floor, writhing in the pain of his ugly rays. They rived me. My skin melted away as I balled up on the ground of Jeff’s office. I grabbed my knees and held them to my chest. I rolled back and forth at the foot of Jeff’s light wood desk and between two rolling chairs. I was kicking hard. A wave of rats jumped over my now screaming skeleton. The rats opened Jeff’s door. I saw, now, the small titling under it. Controller.
As I rolled and kicked, I was being cut. My reflection mixed with crystal. Glass. My desolate yet rigid face reverberated in my hollowed sockets. Blood dripped from my bony arms. Blood dripped, and I rolled, and blood dripped. As this was happening, two creatures entered my reflection. Two beings of light. Subordinates of the sun. They soaked in the rays of this grotesque light. They walked upright and reflected back the light they soaked. They were here for me. One of them said something indistinguishable from the crunching of grass and the sound of the sun. The other grabbed my left arm and pulled me while I lay on my back. This split my back open in a million places. A trillion places. Blood dripped. The blood showcased my fragility. I was cheap. I was hiding that I was just a cheap, pale impression of a real person—a lesser Jeff. The blood dripped, revealing my secrets.
I was being dragged by these light creatures. I was being dragged, and I bled. I bled, and I cried and screamed. I cried and screamed and wondered. I wondered and bled some more. I saw other supreme creatures observing my bleeding self. Then I saw nothing at all. Or maybe I saw too much. It was too bright. I was being dragged to meet the sun.
I was dragged outside next to the backpack I usually brought to work. It greeted me without disdain. The sun greeted me, too, from a distance. He told me to come to him. I was afraid, but I suppose all this morning led to this. This meeting. I dislike the sun. He is too real. Too tangible. Too saturated and respected.
Regardless of my personal feelings, I was being summoned, and I had no other choice than to go to him. Flies were buzzing my name when I stood up and grabbed my things. The wounds on my forearms congealed slightly, and the dripping of my blood slowed. It made me slightly dizzy when I woke up. The flies were swarming around me. Massive buggy flies. Flies and a rat and the beings of light. It was overwhelming; it wasn’t real. They were not really here, or maybe they were. The sun shone the brightest it had all morning. It glows brighter and brighter each minute I stand there.
A fly: Are you ok?
Another: Just stay here; the police are on their way.
And another: your arms are bleeding.
And a few more gasped when I removed an itchy piece of glass that was just below my elbow.
One of the subordinates of the sun, a sun being, said: Don’t worry, Help is on the way.
There it was again—Help. Who are you helping? Why do they talk as if I were a child? I graduated high school. I have lived on my own for many years. I paid taxes. I paid for our roads and your children’s public education. This word, Help, made me spit on the ground. It made me walk towards the summer from spring. It made me forget who I was and remember who I wasn’t. It made me. Maybe this is a form of shadow projection where I hold disdain towards help because I need help the most. An ego? No. A condition, maybe.
This help seemed troublesome, and I started to walk briskly towards the street. The flies swarmed harsher. The subordinates followed closely. I was faster than them. I was a car while they were bikes. I increased my speed the closer they got. I was running. Fast and with ease, I escaped my pursuer. Beads of sweat formed on my neck and forehead. I haven’t run like this for years. I was late for my meeting. I ran and saw a different world than what I was used to. It was the same, but the obscurity of life was lifted. Only then had I lived. I ran faster.
I started to observe. When I observed, I felt invisible. I was not under surveillance; I was the surveillance. I ran towards the sun and saw a cute, disobedient dog receiving love. The dog was tiny and had a loving family. I saw a dog observing that dog. A dog people often considered as gross or for the streets. As I observed the observer observing, I felt nothing. I was removed from them and all of that. The dog longed for the love of a dog who takes it for granted. They were just dogs. I was a passive god. My power was that of observation and passivity. So long as those conditions were met, I could sustain myself.
I jogged towards a park. The sun was so bright it was almost dark. I began to have trouble seeing again. The sun was close. My meeting with him was near. It was in this park. I slowed to a crawl. I was being observed. The sun is watching me as I approach. Who is the sun? The sun is watching me.
I reached the edge of the park, and my eyes remained closed. It was so bright that even my eyelids glowed a somber amber. This radiance penetrated deep into my skull. I had almost forgotten I had no skin. I almost forgot what the sun did to me earlier. I rubbed the skin of my forearm, which wasn’t skin. Glass shards sprinkled around my feet as I did this. I could hear their fall. I could perceive them reaching the ground.
As I took my first step into this park, I could feel my atoms split. This was the domain of light. The people around me stopped moving and stared. Their eyes were perceivable, even with my eyes closed. Ten—no, fifteen—people, in all directions except in front of me, stared at me in awe. I started to feel silly. I felt almost ashamed to even consider walking into this park. A bird froze mid-flight and gawked. The bugs in the grass in the lawns across the street stared, too. As time stopped, I was perceived infinitely. The sun commanded as such? I was ashamed. I cringed but kept on.
In the sun’s domain, there was no wind. The lack of wind exaggerated the crunch of soil under each of my tiny steps. It was no longer real. I went to the closest bench and sat down. Fear. I hadn’t realized, in my sprint of delirium, how actually terrifying it is to meet the sun. Why was I called? It must be some kind of misunderstanding. I don’t actually hate the sun, I thought. The morning light was harsh, that’s all. I want to leave. I will leave. But when I stood to attempt it, I heard a voice to my right. A marked voice. It was also not real. Wait, Please stay a moment.
The combination of all octaves of voice. All these octaves are not overwhelming. No, it was soft. It was a sonata. The early morning birds sing in imitation. All music must root from this voice. It was passionate and empathetic. It was heavy like tungsten but light like air. It almost had autonomy—free will. It was the voice of my mother in all stages of our relationship. It was the sound of flowing water and a quiet park. It was excessively articulate. No consonants were left unspoken. It was absolutely lovely. I should have expected as much. I sat back down and said shyly: Hello, Sun.
Hello
He replied without an ounce of indignity, comfortable and supremely in control. I said quietly: I don’t know what to say.
With a long pause, I said again: I’m unsure what to say to you, Sun.
Why have you sought me today?
I did not seek you, sun. I had been brought to you from my place of work. I had been dragged by your subordinates. You had told me to go to you. Do you not remember this?
With an eternally youthful expression, he responded: That was not me but you. You came because you needed to come.
But I do not particularly like you, Sun. Why would I look for you?
When I said this, I instantly regretted it. I felt disobedient. I felt internally shunned. I thought that this was the best time to leave. I should have run like I had run away from the fulfillment center. But without a chance, he responded:
Have things been difficult for you?
Yes, Sun.
How?
When should I start?
When you would like.
Are you all Seeing? You should know when.
The stillness in the park irked me. The unnatural light fogged my vision, and I was pretty sure there was no air in this space because when I breathed, no air came in or out. I looked down and brought my hand to my mouth. I blew hard and felt nothing. This unnatural space was on par with my understanding of the Sun—unnatural. Anything so perceivably natural is always perverse or at least unnatural. The sun is, at minimum, the latter. When I looked up from my hand, the Sun was gone. It was darkly illuminated. I could see clearly, but the sun was not here anymore. Where is the sun? Where is the Sun!
I was tapped on my shoulder, and it startled me. I turned around quickly. While my vision was blurred from moving my head quickly, the world was illuminated again. It was my mother. No, it couldn’t be. It looks like her. No, it seems like an older version of her. The age of the woman she would be if I were to see her now. She spoke in a voice that was her own. It was the voice of songbirds in the early mornings of late spring. It was divine. But it was hers. Had I forgotten her voice? She said:
Hello, Son.
It was my mother! She was here; how? I felt my spine contort. I felt my bones concave and crumble. I was no longer a skeleton. I was nothing. I was two eyes and a silhouette of my being just hours before. A phantom’s shadow. I looked at her; if I had tear ducts, my eyes would have swelled, and I said:
I’m sorry, mom. I always meant to come home. I know how hard it was for you. I know you always tried your best. I know it.
Don’t worry, Sun. I Forgive you.
The voice of god. It was hyperrealistic. It was my mother’s voice, but it was all the voices of all the mothers. I responded with the inflection of crying, though I had no physical capabilities to:
I’m sorry, Mom. I love you.
The sun was setting, I think. The sun was orange and distant. There is snow on the ground. Was it not just June? There was no wind. I had no skin, yet I bled. There wasn’t snow; it was just very cold. I have skin, and it is bleeding. The sun is setting. The world is mine. Is this forgiveness?