American Delusion

By Jake Kornmehl

Auggie awakens shivering and slides out of his bed, his feet reaching down towards the warm embrace of his fluffy bunny slippers. His digital clock reads 2:48 AM— the electronic glow of the red-orange numbers just detectable through the rheum covering his sleepless eyes. Surrounded by darkness, he grabs the flashlight from the lower drawer of his gray-painted oak nightstand. Quickly, Auggie turns on the flashlight and looks around his room searching for any sense of familiarity.

Unfortunately, all of his own drawings and family pictures have disappeared into obscurity. Even the seemingly permanent dusty old toys lodged in the wooden spindles of his foot board have vanished. The column of light originating from his flashlight leads the way as he grabs the cold nickel door knob and looks down the hall. He wonders if he was even in the same house he fell asleep in. The stark white walls, usually blanketed in family photos of him, his parents, and older sister, are as barren as a vacant canvas. Hoping this was all a dream, he turns back towards his bedroom, wraps himself in his fleece duvet, and falls back asleep.

Auggie awakens once again and turns towards the clock hoping to see 7:00 AM. The clock reads 2:48 AM. Once again, freezing, he slips out of his bed. He grabs the flashlight from the bottom drawer of his nightstand and turns it on. There was no light— he soon realized the yellow and black cylinder was void of any AA batteries.

“How could this be…there were batteries just…wait…were there ever batteries?” August thought. August walks towards the window in his room and looks out onto the rows of parallel, brick suburban houses, knowing each of them are also full of jobless post-collegiates living with their parents. After shifting his neck in hopes of easing his headache, he wonders, “Did I really get no sleep at all? Am I sick? Should I take my temperature? I mean…I do have chills.”

In his high school years, Auggie had often utilized his electronic thermometer as a tool of deception to skip school. He was intimately familiar with the typical range of febricity required for a flu diagnosis. His parents were both doctors, so it was vital in validating his entire charade. Auggie sticks the white plastic tip into his mouth and waits for a beep to end the mild discomfort under his tongue. A “BEEEEP!” cuts through what seems to have been years of silence. For a teenage boy, silence was a rare commodity and this much of it almost made Auggie physically uncomfortable.

“Ah…102.3…classic fever temperature. I should go back to bed,” thinks Auggie as he yawns and wraps himself back in his blanket. Then, he falls asleep—ready to return to his typical morning routine.

12 Years Later:

August looks outside his broken window only to see a city full of oil slicks and manmade dumpster fires. The blue, red, and white glow of cop cars flying down the maze of streets were visible from his apartment. He hears the sound of automatic gunshots echoing off the peeling, beige walls of his sparsely furnished apartment and returns to his cheap, lone mattress. Despite the mattress’s springs and cotton oozing from the jagged lacerations in its cheap fabric, it seems to be the most put-together thing in the entire city —including its citizens. The Nakeds…they live in the Outside.

That night, August carries himself back to the comfort of his room after working his day job as a waiter at the local dive in his condominium complex. His customers, all of whom wear plain, grey suits, contrast with the Nakeds running frantically outside, screaming from their harrowing faces as they bang their fists on the steel gate of the complex, the pounding ringing with their desperation.

He hears a loud knock on the door of his apartment and drags his languid legs and arms towards the small foyer. Holding out what looks like a matte grey business card, a man in a sleek, black suit speaks quietly but sternly, “Take this.” August awkwardly grabs the card and reads its contents printed in an eye-catching silver.

LIVE 923-411-2382

Hoping to ask for context, he looks back up only to find an empty hallway with two broken ceiling lamps and the old painting of the landlord's now dead Pekingese. August turns back to his mattress, and rolls over on his side to return to his favorite activity, watching the endless anarchy in the Outside. He watches the sun set over the perilous wasteland in front of him.

Despite his apartment falling apart, the High Blocks provide more luxurious living than how any of those Nakeds lived—the homeless, ragged children and low-priced call girls. Instead of drifting back into the void of hallucination August usually enjoys, he could not help but to think about the card that he was given. He reaches for it, now shoved into his sweatpant pocket, and dials what seems to August to be some type of phone number.

A deep, guttural voice answers the phone, “This is LIVE. If you called this number, you most likely have been hiding. All you do is hide out in your apartment building watching the pain and disgust that everyone else in the world is living in. You do nothing to improve the Outside, and you hold dear the bleak, disappointing routine you convinced yourself provides any meaning. If this is true, congratulations…that is all about to change. Welcome to LIVE.”

The line went dead.