Cabiling / Catharsis /

CATHARSIS

By Alaric Cabiling

Basil played guitar in a band. People in town used to think the band members were Satanists because they played metal, but they were just guys who loved to play music. The band was named Catharsis. Basil could play all the instruments. He also wrote all of the music. Essentially, Catharsis was Basil. The band was Basil’s outlet. It was his life. He and the other band members needed the band as a means of catharsis, hence the name. Basil bought the guys beers; he pitched whenever they needed new gear, advances from records. They appreciated him.

Basil had his long hair cut in his early twenties and exclusively wore long-sleeved black t-shirts and black denim. He also wore a black hoodie, hiding his cautious eyes and pale face. Basil was street smart; he occasionally glanced in all directions when he made his way through poorer neighborhoods alone. He was fleet-footed and felt reassured about making a dash for the fences if he got in trouble.

Basil’s tattoos paid tribute to his Mom, Lucretia. Lucretia’s name was tattooed over his heart, while the words, ‘Rest In Peace,’ were tattooed on his torso.

Basil eventually withdrew from the world-at-large. He only came out for gigs, to buy food at the grocery store, or to take his sister, Selena, to her doctor’s appointments. He was mostly a shut-in and liked hanging out in the woods close to his house whenever feeling the need to be outdoors. Whenever taking leave from writing new music, he obsessively rehearsed. He had a drumkit in his rehearsal room, a set of guitars, stacks of amplifiers, microphones on boom stands, desks full of computers, and recording equipment. His split releases never amounted to much money. He had to scrape for every last dollar he earned.

Besides his musical talents, Basil was once a bright student. Despite his high IQ, his grades were mediocre. Teachers also tried to reach out, but he remained introverted, and he would place greater importance on his love for music over his responsibilities as a student. Basil was stereotyped for his musical tastes, so he always had few friends, eventually dropping out after his junior year. Another friend of his, another shut-in in town named Paulo, was also a musician.

Young fans appreciated the band’s unique blend of metal sub-genres and the use of intricate melodies. Basil’s influences spanned many genres, using atmospheric touches from the world of dark ambient music, taking the raw, lithe, and progressive guitar touches of progressive black metal, and the intensity of thrash-metal-inspired first wave black metal bands that saw their heyday in the ‘80s. The music would sometimes lull listeners into quiet introspection. Sometimes, the music would rev them up. Listeners would listen alone, or in camps, in the woods, or in their rooms, enchanted by the voice of Basil’s guitar, drubbed by the weight and grit of the riffs, or be brought to sorrow by its melancholic wail.

Basil had one knock on him—he was a heroin addict, believing that he needed it to de-stress after long hours of playing, particularly when worrying about Selena.

The band’s earnings were never enough. Basil sold plasma for extra cash. He even risked severe withdrawal symptoms by selling some of his stashes to afford Selena’s medications.

Selena suffered from mental illness, so the medications were crucial. She believed that bugs crawled under her skin. Left alone, she would look for something hard, sharp, like a coat hanger, to scratch her arm with the intent of ridding herself of the bugs.

Selena was too fragile to endure the teasing she suffered from classmates in school. Her psyche was like gossamer. A prodding finger in its gauze-like texture was enough to cause it to disintegrate in form. Should someone push her buttons, she would scratch her arm until it started bleeding.

It didn’t help that Selena looked like a girl who bigger kids liked to pick on. Her hairstyle ended at one length along her neckline, poised just above her shoulders—the type you didn’t usually find on popular teens. She had soft, delicate eyes. She generally avoided eye contact. She never bristled when unhappy; she always looked sad. She often bit her lower lip when anxious. She smiled shyly to classmates who were nice to her, but she only showed true joy whenever smiling at Basil or Paulo.

Basil had to take care of her now. After their mother passed away, no one was interested in taking them in. They were poor, so Basil had to quit school to put food on the table. There was also the matter of his sister’s expensive psychiatric medication. He got some of her meds from the State Pharmacy, with the county behavioral health services department’s assistance. Still, Basil continued to worry about her future should something happen to him. No one would look after Selena.

Basil refused to let Selena go to a long-term facility. Selena might have needed a higher level of care, but Basil refused to let the social workers take her. He believed that she would deteriorate further without him. She was all there was left of his family, and he was all there was left of hers. Therefore, he managed to convince the courts to assign him as her guardian and allowed social services to follow up with her at the county’s behavioral health center.

They lived in a ramshackle home in St. Louis, Missouri. Far from the plush suburbs but close to the Interstate, helmed in poorer areas with decaying starter homes and vacant lots where looting was rampant, Basil and Selena lived cautiously, locking doors and boarding windows. The only time Basil left for the city was when he had a gig. Selena would often spend the daytime watching TV and sleeping. Sometimes, at night, she would go into Basil’s room and sleep next to her brother. Basil knew that she was prone to nightmares. He would hold her until she could sleep.

Then, he would leave her sleeping peacefully, going to his rehearsal space to play guitar until dawn.

* * *

“Selena, good news!” Basil cried out, barging through the open door, fresh from a jam session with the band.

Selena looked up at him from her favorite chair in the living room. She smiled, distracted by her favorite cartoons.

“We’ve been offered to record an album,” Basil cried. “An album! Can you believe it?”

Selena smiled just a little wider for her brother.

Selena did not listen to her brother’s music, nor did he want her to. He feared to make her uneasy. His slender fingers quickly moved down the fretboard with frightening dexterity, and his hands skillfully wielded the drumsticks. Still, Basil was scared that Selena would be affected by the music’s dark atmosphere and abrasive sound.

“The label will promote it. A tour, Selena! The label owner says he’ll book us on tour!”

Basil was overjoyed. He headed to the kitchen to get a beer. Selena returned to watching Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, occasionally grinning, without ever breaking out into laughter.

Basil opened a beer can and took a sip. He wiped some froth from his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He reflected on the day and grinned at the prospect of recording a full album’s worth of music. For years, he’s released split EPs with other bands. This was his first opportunity to record a full-length album’s worth of brand new material. He was so elated, he felt like pinching himself.

He peeked inside the fridge and found nothing to eat.

He went to the cupboard to take out a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly. He searched for bread in the pantry but found none. He grumbled out of frustration, but he did not let it dampen his mood. He found a can of sardines in the pantry and settled on it.

However, Basil realized that Selena would have nothing to eat. He decided to open the can of sardines for her instead. He put the sardines into a bowl and went back to the living room to give it to her. “Here, Selena,” he said. “It’s all we have. I’ll run to the store and get supplies, okay? Before it gets dark.”

In the meantime, he decided that he would have to go hungry.

Selena smiled at him and began eating the sardines. Her smile faded as she watched him walk out the front door.

* * *

After Basil came back from the store, he entered his rehearsal space and settled in for the night to work on his music.

The day was proceeding well. Basil was still giddy over the record deal, so he excitedly rehearsed tracks for his upcoming album. It was afternoon, and Selena had gone back to her room to nap. Basil took a break and briefly checked on her. He stood at her doorway, watching her sleep snugly while clutching her stuffed penguin. He felt such deep empathy for her—she looked so vulnerable. He remembered the first time she came home from school with her arm heavily bandaged after a classmate had bullied her; the student had teased her by insinuating that there were bugs in her arm. Their Mom was furious; she complained to teachers. Basil intimidated Selena’s bullies, but even after bullies in school left Selena alone, she still repeatedly scratched her arm until it bled. Watching her sleep made him reminisce. Their Mom decided that Selena would no longer be safe in school. They couldn’t afford the schools recommended for kids like Selena—schools specializing in helping kids with mental illness. Their Mom promised she’d find a solution, but their Mom was diagnosed with cancer a short time later. Basil pledged to their Mom that he would take care of Selena. When their Mom passed away, Basil and Selena took her death very hard. Basil held Selena at the funeral while she wept; he watched her closely for weeks after the burial, taking her to all her appointments with the child psychiatrist while playing her role as guardian to the best of his abilities. He started taking heroin when he had difficulty coping with circumstances—something he didn’t want Selena to know, even though he wouldn’t be able to hide it for long.

Inside Basil’s own frayed world, he lived a tragedy similar to his sister. Basil also had trouble in school. He was a metal fan growing up. Classmates made fun of his black shirts and choice of hairstyle. He got into fights, almost getting kicked out of school for violently attacking a classmate who called Selena a weirdo.

Rehearsing for the upcoming album, Basil held a guitar on his lap and was ready to play. The padded walls and ceiling of the rehearsal room sealed in the noise so Selena could sleep in her room in peace. The sun began setting outside the window. Basil was working on a difficult melody for a song.

He switched the amp on and twisted a knob to lower the volume. Then, he did a brief soundcheck and sent feedback screeching out of the speakers. He muted the strings, and the warm hum filtered through the quiet. He positioned his hand above the pick-ups, so he would be ready to strum away. His dexterous fingers pulled notes from the strings, bending them, sliding across frets and tapping the strings with his right hand, then switching to his pick, shredding, milking the instrument of some emotionally stirring music.

* * *

When Selena woke up, she decided to check on Basil. She pulled some of her short hair aside while inspecting herself in the mirror. She rubbed her eyes and smiled to herself.

She walked out into the hallway and saw the light coming from underneath the door of Basil’s rehearsal space. She nudged it open and found Basil asleep in his chair, snoring. She entered the room and plucked at a few strings on his guitar. It made a pretty sound. Basil stayed asleep, snoring to her chagrin, and she was glad he didn’t stir. After all, she didn’t really want to wake him. She examined his black Les Paul and realized that he had never owned a guitar with a different color. She smiled, knowing that it was familiar.

She remembered Basil coming home after guitar lessons when they were kids. Basil would master guitar during summers when school was out. She remembered the sounds seeping out of his rehearsal space while coming down the hallway towards her room, and she remembered feeling proud of him. She would peek into his rehearsal space and watch him play intricate melodies with his eyes closed, his fingers effortlessly moving down the neck of the guitar, playing the blues. His body moved to the natural rhythm of his playing.

She watched him breathe with difficulty, still snoring. She ached for him.

Her attention turned towards the drug paraphernalia on the side table next to his chair. The syringe looked sharp; therefore, it looked inviting to her. She glanced at her arm, and she thought that bugs were probably crawling under her skin again, even as doctors told her there weren’t. One particular doctor, Dr. Sheridan, her first psychiatrist, told her that such delusions were out-of-step because patients were trying hard to connect dots that didn’t even tie in together.

“You’ll try to think of reasons why bugs might be under your skin, why your doctors are wrong, why no one seems to believe you, but that’s the delusion at work,” he said. “People even used to say that the devil appeared to people in the form of bugs back in the old days. People throw things back and forth because they don’t understand certain things, so they try to assign mental images or draw conclusions based on loose associations that are completely false. Do you understand me, Selena?”

Selena thought she understood. Her Mom and brother withdrew her from high school due to her illness, but she had keen senses and always followed lessons in class well. She frowned a little after thinking about why Dr. Sheridan even bothered explaining it to her.

She pictured a dark alley somewhere, a swarm of gnats and an army of small cockroaches amalgamating into a dense cloud of buzzing, otherworldly terror. She imagined the entity reaching out for her, its clawed hands unfurling and its mouth opening into a buzzing, foul-smelling abyss.

She snapped out of it and heard Basil’s Les Paul still humming after she had lightly plucked at some of the strings some time ago. She checked back to see if she’d woken Basil, but Basil was still sound asleep.

She turned her attention back to the needle and imagined Basil with his eyes half-closed, his arms or legs twitching, the needle stuck in his arm. It made her wince. She took the needle and scrutinized it, then frowned at Basil. She wished that he would quit his habit.

Meanwhile, it looked like just the thing she needed to get the pesky bugs out of her arm. She remembered her doctors telling her that the bugs weren’t real. They’re all in your head, she repeatedly thought to herself.

She took the syringe with her for safekeeping; she believed that she had to do it for Basil.

* * *

Basil took Selena to see Paulo at his cabin. Basil and Paulo were meeting to discuss his record deal and the possibility of collaboration. Paulo was a multi-instrumentalist like Basil, but Paulo specialized in folk-rock and ambient music. Basil was interested in using ambient sounds for his upcoming album and knew Paulo was the right guy to turn to. Selena would also welcome seeing Paulo; Paulo was like a brother to both of them. Basil, Selena, and Paulo grew up together. Paulo was the only person their age in town who didn’t shun or make fun of Selena.

On the contrary, Paulo treated Selena like a baby sister since Paulo’s younger sister had moved across the country with his Dad after his parents divorced. Paulo opted to stay in Missouri with his Mom, and he and his Mom even used to invite Basil and Selena over during summers when Paulo’s Mom was still living. They all had that in common—their Moms were now deceased, and they were on their own, depending only on each other. Their bonds grew tighter as a result.

Basil and Selena drove a short distance down the Interstate, eventually exiting into a small rural town leading further away from downtown St. Louis. After several minutes driving down a long two-lane road with few houses in sight, they turned into a long driveway cutting through the trees. Paulo’s cabin stood in the middle of a clearing in the woodland—a cabin inherited from his grandparents. Rather than live closer to congested St. Louis or other cities, Paulo preferred the seclusion of wooded areas. He often fished in the nearby lakes and grew his own vegetables. He was a simple man, though artistically inclined.

He had a part-time job in a recording studio in town, maintaining the recording equipment. He kept his hair short, and he wore plaid overcoats, printed graphic t-shirts, and black denim almost exclusively. He wore military boots instead of work boots when working at his property. Unlike his thermal henleys and rarely-used raglan shirts, which were classics in American casualwear, the military boots looked contraindicative of Paulo’s personality—Paulo was one of the nicest guys Basil and Selena had ever met. The military boots had lasted Paulo a long time, longer than his other pairs had—he didn’t carry arms or belonged in militias.

The cabin was old. Mold covered the front porch, and vines climbed up one side of the house. The oak had an intense brown color, and the ground at its foundation was sodden from a recent downpour. Up ahead, parked in the driveway, was Paulo’s old Ford Bronco.

Basil was happy his own Chevy truck made it to Paulo’s place, as it showed signs of age. He didn’t have enough money to have the truck fixed, so he planned to trade it in when the time came. He dreaded the notion of getting a cheap, run-down Japanese sedan that would have a hard time plowing through the snow.

Selena enjoyed the drive through the countryside. She smiled at Basil as they got out of the truck to look for Paulo. The two quietly made their way out back deep into the woods.

They heard a thudding sound. It sounded like Paulo was chopping wood. They followed the sound to the clearing in the woods where Paulo did his work and found him rubbing the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

“Nice day,” Basil called out.

Paulo looked up and smiled. “Hey,” he responded. Paulo was mostly a quiet man. He smiled at Selena.

“Nice of you two to visit,” Paulo said to them. “Hey, Selena.”

Selena just smiled. Basil did the same.

Paulo stood leaning against his ax for a while, looking at the trees, recuperating from the hard labor.

“Let’s go inside,” Paulo said to them. “I heard about your record deal. I’m eager to help.”

Basil and Selena stood aside and allowed Paulo to lead the way back to the cabin. They walked without speaking to one another, listening to the sounds made by various birds and insects.

* * *

Basil and Paulo took turns playing Bob Dylan on guitar on the patio. Paulo did a Buck Owens part, and Basil laughed along. Then, Paulo got real goofy, playing some honky-tonk.

The two friends stopped for a chat and set their acoustic guitars aside so they could relax. Paulo was the first to speak.

“What about the drugs, Basil?”

“What about them?”

“You won’t last too long hooked on heroin. What about Selena?”

Basil pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Paulo did the same, and the two guys lit up. Paulo tried to read Basil’s expression. He was worried about Basil. Basil didn’t open up to Paulo about getting treatment, and neither did Basil open up to his bandmates. He refrained from mentioning it to anyone.

“I look after her, don’t I?” he said to Paulo, eyes on the floor.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Basil. For her sake.”

Basil stared into the distance.

“And for yours.”

“If something happens to me…” Basil began saying. It was Paulo’s turn to look away.

“If something happens to me, you have to take care of Selena.”

“Do you think she needs to live in a facility?”

“Paulo, I don’t want that for her. She needs to be around the people she trusts. You don’t know what it would do to her.”

Basil and Paulo looked inside the glass patio doors into the living room, where Selena watched cartoons.

* * *

A few hours passed, and Basil and Selena were heading home. Basil got the truck ready while Selena stayed behind to chat with Paulo. Paulo gave her a jar of wild honey to take with her. He wrapped the jar up in plastic and handed it to her, telling her to hold it from the top and bottom with both hands, so it wouldn’t slip. Then, he walked with her to the driveway.

“I know about Basil’s drug habit, Selena,” he told her.

“Everyone knows,” she whispered. She rarely spoke, so Paulo understood. She tried to smile but couldn’t.

“We’ve got to get him help, don’t you think?”

Selena nodded, watching her brother load up the truck, looking worried.

“I’ll think of something,” Paulo said to her.

They stopped to watch Basil at some distance from the truck. Basil waved at them, letting them know that it was ready.

Paulo and Selena smiled at Basil, then Paulo walked Selena to the truck.

Paulo opened the door for Selena, and Selena got in. Paulo watched Basil get in from the driver’s side. It was time to go.

“I’ll be seeing you both soon,” Paulo said to them.

* * *

A few days later, Basil was at the rehearsal studio with his band. He was showing them some riffs he had worked on at home. They were just as excited about the record deal, enthusiastically taking in Basil’s tips, asking questions, so they felt sure they got their parts right. Basil first sat on a large amp, playing guitar. The guys nodded along to the chugging rhythms, and the melodies grasped at their ears like tendrils on vines. Next, he got up and sat behind the drumkit and played the drum parts. He played rudiments and crossing hi-hat patterns, playing various tempos. Finally, he got up and sat on a chair, and played the bass. He plucked at the bass guitar’s thick strings with conviction, playing beautiful lines that closely followed the melodies he played earlier on guitar. The band members stood back and nodded, acknowledging that they understood. When the band members picked up their instruments and jammed the songs out, they all looked at each other, then at Basil, and they all grinned from ear to ear after hearing the live take.

“Okay, hold it,” he said to them. “I do the vocals this time.” Excitedly, he stepped up to the mic. Pavlos, the band’s drummer, and second-in-command, looked confused. “Are you doing something different?” he asked Basil.

“This will be more intense,” Basil told him.

Pavlos didn’t let his skepticism show. He knew Basil was a good vocalist, but, for the most part, Basil looked docile on stage during shows. Basil used to stand in front of the mic and rasp and sing almost timidly, and the approach suited the band’s material, so Pavlos and the others had no reason to complain. When Basil took the microphone and played the instrumental demo that he recorded at home, the other band members instantly knew that they had hit gold. Basil nearly blew out his larynx while wailing and screaming at the apex. Basil had thrashed and banged his head wildly in between turns, screaming like it wasn’t just a rehearsal. It was a different Basil—inspired, vitriolic, liberated of all restraint and reservation. To close the performance, he trailed off like some ancient evil had come to rest in the pit of his belly, sealed off by his diaphragm and sleeping somewhere in the dark coils of his bowels. Exhausted but quietly satisfied, Basil returned to his seat as the guys celebrated.

A short while later, the rest of the guys left the studio to prepare for the gig. Catharsis was going to perform a teaser of the future album material live. Paulo approached Basil from the back of the studio.

“Hey,” Basil said to him. “I didn’t realize you were watching.”

“This is a big deal, Basil. The music rules! You’ve been working at it.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Listen, I gotta go get Selena. You guys are playing live in half an hour at the club, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I’ll be following shortly. Just have some business to handle.”

“Okay. We’ll see you there,” Paulo said.

“Should I be excited, Paulo? This is Selena’s first time to see me,” Basil told Paulo. Paulo smiled.

“Everything will be fine,” Paulo said to him before stepping out.

Basil took out his bag and fumbled with the contents, realizing his syringe was missing.

He took out another one—with a much bigger needle—a bigger hole at the tip to inject the drug. He didn’t think there was any difference. He took out his stash and prepared to inject himself.

* * *

Catharsis was playing live at a club in downtown St. Louis. The lines extended outside, with young men and women wearing black shirts, black denim, and black leather coats. The band members were inside the dressing room, rehearsing. Basil was nowhere to be found.

Pavlos looked for Paulo, but Paulo was picking up Selena. He called Paulo’s cell and asked if Basil stayed behind at the studio. “He’s supposed to be here,” he told Paulo. “We only have five minutes before stage time!”

Paulo knew better than tell Pavlos that Basil was probably high again. If it was one thing the band members disliked about Basil, it was his drug addiction. Paulo knew that the band members were wary of upsetting Basil since Basil wrote all the music. If Pavlos and the rest of the guys wanted a free ride, they had no choice but to put up with him.

“I’ll swing by after I pick up Selena," Paulo told Pavlos, but Pavlos was irate. "Basil can’t do this to us! He’s never been late for a show," he exclaimed. Pavlos heard the door to the dressing room open and slam shut as soon as he said it. "Wait, that’s probably him," Pavlos said to Paulo. He returned to his cell and told Paulo that Basil had arrived. "Wait. He’s here. Never mind," Pavlos happily announced before suddenly hanging up.

Basil stormed past band members and sat on the couch at the band’s lounge area. He took out a cigarette and lit up.

“Something wrong?” Pavlos asked him. Basil wasn’t usually moody before a show.

“Nothing,” Basil said bluntly.

Pavlos cussed under his breath and joined the rest of the band members elsewhere backstage. Basil never rehearsed before shows. He always came out ready and never had bad nights—momentously terrible performances. He practically performed in his sleep.

Basil’s eyes were different. They looked like he wasn’t in there—like he was someone else. He grabbed his backpack and took out a large hunting knife. He planned to make the night more special.

* * *

A short while later, Catharsis took the stage. The crowds cheered. Basil walked out on stage to the sound of clapping, and the pyrotechnics erupted. The band members picked up their instruments, then they started to play.

Paulo walked in from the back, accompanied by Selena. They watched Basil nervously. Basil was snarling like a man possessed.

Selena grew more anxious watching Basil’s impassioned performance. Paulo was slightly in awe—not expecting Basil to look so engrossed in his material. Basil screamed and bellowed, making clawed gestures with his hands in theatrical fashion. The crowd cheered further as the music hit a crescendo. He sustained a long scream into the microphone and howled like a man in excruciating pain. He then began singing and chanting like a monk, his voice rising and sustaining each note before he returned to rasping and screeching. It sounded like a macabre operetta.

Paulo and Selena watched as Basil took out his hunting knife and cut himself along the arm. He bled profusely. Paulo and Selena couldn’t believe what Basil was doing—something metal audiences called, enacting ritual—self-mutilation during a live show. The media sensationalized such acts of self-mutilation. They spotlighted musicians who appeared demented beyond reason. Still, some fans who didn’t take such things to heart found musicians who perpetrated the act as gimmicky—the one difference in Basil’s case being the size of his knife and the seriousness of his wounds. The crowds screamed for more.

Paulo knew that Basil had miscalculated just how deep he planned on cutting his arm. He could barely watch as blood flowed freely from Basil’s wounds.

Selena cried out as Paulo held her back. The crowds grew louder and rowdier as Basil cut his chest down the center. The cut would prove fatal. His screams grew hoarse; he lost his balance; then, he collapsed in a heap on stage.

* * *

Basil lay in a casket, dressed in black. Minutes after paramedics had declared him dead at the back of the club after attempting to tend to his wounds, Selena went into shock. At the funeral, Selena had yet to speak to mourners. Paulo promised to look out for her now.

It was a bleak day in the memorial park. Paulo and Selena stood before Basil’s coffin. Selena covered her mouth, trying to muffle her crying. Paulo gently held her arm, doing his best to stay strong for her. Then, they touched Basil’s coffin one last time before it was lowered into the ground. Selena watched in horror as the gravedigger shoveled dirt onto Basil’s coffin.

After Pavlos and the other band members left, Paulo and Selena remained at Basil’s grave. Paulo and Selena stayed behind for several hours. Selena imagined Basil’s remains buried underneath the mound—cold, discolored, and ready to decay in his once-radiant casket. His dreams were stillborn in his brain, no longer nurtured by bright, red hemoglobin. Beautiful music would no longer make manifest such enormous talent or devotion to craft. His face, smile, or the shoulder she used to cry on and lean on were memories. Selena remembered Basil’s clawed hands unfurling and stiffening in rigor mortis, his chest cavity opening up like a flower of carrion—a living sculpture—a flesh cathedral, enacting ritual for a first and last time. Selena pictured Basil’s face and asked the blank, dead expression why. Why did you leave me?

Selena also remembered Basil’s tattoo of their Mom’s name on his chest bisected in the middle, like their Mom had done something to make him mad, somehow. She wondered if she’d done the same. She choked back more tears after remembering the trip back from Paulo’s place and recalled Basil wave at her from beside the Chevy. She imagined him waving at her again like he was heading off without her this time, and for good.

Paulo and Selena headed back to his cabin in the woods. A light drizzle swept the windshield, and the windshield wiper noisily cleared away the tiny raindrops. A mist coated the skin on his cheeks amid the humidity.

Paulo stayed with Selena as she watched cartoons. She didn’t smile this time. She waited for Paulo to leave her alone, aware that he would be too busy to watch her all day.

Eventually, Paulo did get up. “I’m going out to the back to chop more wood, Selena.” He examined the blank look on her face and worried for her. “I’ll be back to check in on you after a couple of hours, okay?” He disappeared behind the draped patio door of the living room.

Selena blinked, then looked over to see if he was gone. She looked out the window and watched Paulo head to the woods. Selena went to her room and looked for something in one of her bags.

She took out a syringe and pricked herself with the sharp needle. She looked at her arm, remembering the blood flow out of her brother’s wounds, and thought that bugs must have been crawling under her skin again. That was what he might have been doing, she thought to herself. The moment she watched him cut his arm with the knife, she knew that he must have been feeling the same way she did. After seeing Basil lying lifeless on the operating table in the hospital, she believed that her brother was free of those pesky bugs crawling deep in his own arm.

She stared at her arm and imagined bugs crawling underneath her skin. She repeatedly struck herself with the syringe, drawing blood, trying to kill the bugs. She knew that the syringe was too small, too thin to open up the muscle tissue. She remembered her brother, the look on his face after he’d passed out from losing too much blood—his eyes rolling back, his body growing limp. She decided to look for something sharper. She got up and looked out the window for any sign of Paulo. She trotted over to Paulo’s kitchen and found a knife in the cupboard. The knife was smaller than Basil’s hunting knife. Still, she felt that it had to do—she could use it to part the skin, flay the muscle tissue from bone, and see…

What else? Those pesky bugs in her arm, in her chest. Like Dr. Sheridan said, the devil appeared to people in the form of bugs. She tried hard not to remember the look on Basil’s face, snarling like a man possessed, unfurling his fingers and making clawed gestures with his hands—like he was the devil himself. She realized that Basil hadn’t been mad at her or their Mom; he was trying to save them.

She had tried to do the same when she had rid herself of those bugs. Basil had let the devil in when he had chosen to take heroin. He had cut himself open, and now, he was free. He freed himself of the devil coursing in his veins. The devil might have simply been heroin, which he injected in his body with the needle, the only evil Selena believed Basil was ever guilty of. She pictured him waving at her from beside the old Chevy, letting her know that it was time to go back home. He smiled radiantly. He would never have to make music again, never make clawed gestures with the hands he used to delicately strum the guitar, never snarl like the madman who could actually sing but chose not to out of love for his music. They would have more food to eat; they wouldn’t ever need expensive medicine; more importantly, he wouldn’t ever need heroin. He had achieved Catharsis. There was no need for anything else.

Then, she smiled for the first time since Basil’s internment.

THE END

Next Chapter: Sixth Story: Love Him to Death