Chapter 4 - Mind's seat

Broiled, bubbling cheese shimmered for a glorious moment before the lasagna disappeared into Paul's throat like slop down a duck's gullet. His hands and the tentacles were faintly sizzling as they tilted the casserole up and shook the last bits of pasta into his mouth.

In a highly coordinated frenzy, the tentacles lapped up every last trace of sauce while Paul scraped free all of the crunchy bits.

The dish clattered down onto the stovetop, and Paul dropped into one of the kitchen's chairs.

“Aaaaaaaah!” He sighed, steam billowing from his mouth.

Aaaaaaaah! Echoed his hair, contentedly, That taste, it's incredible. Less nourishing than living flesh, but far more palatable.

Paul nodded in agreement. Lasagna was indeed very good, even though he hadn't really tasted this one. And yes, certainly, pasta had to be more palatable than human flesh. Such observations didn't seem out of place after the day he'd had.

He felt uncannily like he was having a well earned meal in the company of a new friend, one who just happened to be sitting on his head rather than in the other chair.

What was that called?

“What, lasagna?”

Oooh, yes. Lasagna. We'll have to have that again. It was only missing… something. Hmmm. Lymph? Or perhaps cerebrospinal fluid.

Paul distractedly considered his body as it healed itself. New skin rose from beneath, pushing out fragments of glass that plinked on the ceramic floor.

“You know,” Paul began, conversationally, “I'm curious. I mean, I have a lot of questions. Is this, like, uh, you know?” Paul floundered.

Yes? Prompted his hair

“What I mean is, I really don't know what's going on. And this is all starting to be a lot. So, I gotta ask. Are you… and am I… uh, like, stuck together, or what?”

But the only answer he got was the angry growl of his stomach, along with the return of powerful hunger. His body had stopped rebuilding itself.

We have finished the lasagna. We need more food. Talk later.

Paul stumbled to the cold box, tripping on his disarticulated feet, and dove in.

A noisily gluttonous moment later, the floor was littered with empty jars of condiments and containers of leftovers. It wasn't enough.

His hair pulled him along the wall to the pantry, where they worked together to systematically ransack every shelf of its goods. Tentacles pierced bags and cans, sucking at their contents. Paul stuffed handfuls of food into his mouth without even looking at what it was.

Paul's mind was nearly blank, wiped by the all-consuming satisfaction of filling his body with food, as well as the sensation of energy and life swelling down from his head.

This is amazing. He thought, pushing a lump of cheese into his mouth.

It really is, answered his hair. It felt like they were together, within Paul's head, pigging out side by side.

Paul's feet clicked back into place. A pressure left his back as multiple bullets dropped out and rolled lazily away. He flexed and extended his limbs, taking particular relish in the sight of his unsevered fingers.

Is there nothing else to eat? Inquired Paul’s hair, disappointed.

“Not that I can see,” answered Paul, kicking some empty bags of cereal away.

What about those two people? Proposed his hair, hopefully.

Paul suddenly felt guilty as he considered the upended kitchen, now totally devoid of foodstuffs. “I’m not going back in there. We’ve done enough stuff to those people as it is. I’m not gonna let you eat them.”

They would destroy us if they had the chance. They would not hesitate.

“How do you know that?” argued Paul. He knew his voice was getting loud, but he couldn’t hold himself back, “They look like very nice people to me! Yeah, ok, they threw some pillows at us, but that’s no reason to eat someone.”

If I hadn’t fed on those guards we'd be in a box again.

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“Fine, so you did, and I guess that made sense, but I won’t let you feed on everyone we meet!” It struck Paul that he was referring to him and his hair as ‘we’, and he briefly wondered when he’d begun doing so. An urge rose in him to grab the tentacles and rip them from his scalp.

Their kind is weak. They will wait to be many, to have strength, and they will attempt to destroy us.

Paul’s fists balled, “What the hell do you mean ‘Their kind’? I’m their kind!” he fumed.

No, you aren’t. You are one of us, stated his hair, quietly.

Paul was dumbstruck. The words ‘you are one of us’ sent his thoughts and emotions whirring like colors on a spinning top, blurred into a meld of anxious confusion.

But one color dominated the others, and it was red.

Paul’s hands shook as they rose like claws towards his head.

His hair pulled away and upwards. Paul had the distinct impression that it was getting nervous in that unpredictable way dogs get when someone raises a hand to hit them.

Words welled up in Paul's throat, “I. Am. -” he began, uncertain of what he was about to say, of what would spew out.

Perhaps by luck, or perhaps by misfortune, Paul and the tentacles didn't get to find out what the next words were.

The nearby entrance door blew flat off its frame and was instantly replaced by a surge of Gorp enforcers.

Window!

Paul dove out of the kitchen in time to feel it be ripped apart by a hail of bullets just behind him.

He landed face to face with Kaynard and Berthaline who were still cowering under the bed. Their terrified eyes glowed from the phone's ongoing call with law enforcement.

Paul abruptly realized that they couldn't hear the voice in his head. Nobody could. They’d just listened to him having a loud, one-sided argument about eating them.

He couldn't blame them for calling for help. But still, it pissed him off.

Either out of spite or necessity, he pulled the shag blanket from them and shouted “Sorry!” over the gunfire, but wasn't sure he really meant it.

We should have eaten them, chastised his hair.

“We should have eaten them," tittered Paul, mockingly. He felt very out of sorts.

The main loft space was strewn with broken glass. The guttering glare of the fire in the high levels of the Gorp building still illuminated the space outside.

Paul sprinted for the shattered window, trying to reassure himself that they'd survived a window jump before. He squeezed the blanket against his naked body in a vain attempt to be comforted but skidded to a stop when a Gorp patrol car swooped in and opened fire.

Paul leapt sideways and felt his hair shoot out and pull him towards something quickly. He fell into a large, thick-walled, lion-footed bath in the center of the open-space bathroom.

Bullets tore after him, ripping apart the curtains and picking the feet off the bath, which then toppled over.

Do something! urged his hair.

Paul wasn’t a complicated person. His only compulsive and uncontrollable behavior was to always attempt to ready himself for unforseen circumstances. However, this past day had been particularly difficult to prepare for.

He'd never known or heard of anyone that had gone through something like this before. What should someone do, aside from die, when stuck in a bath being riddled by bullets in the company of sentient hair?

He curled into a tight ball around the blanket, barely aware of his own screaming under the blare of the barrage. The tentacles hugged his head and neck, shaping once again a black, writhing mask.

The spinning top of Paul’s mind was still whirring, sucking in all of his new thoughts and emotions. It had been predominantly red with anger, but was quickly getting so full of different colored feelings that it darkened to nearly pitch black.

Bullets slowed, pinging off the bath's insulated ceramic and buzzing by like lazy hummingbirds.

I don't know what to do, thought Paul, clear like a pin drop in an empty room.

Neither do I, answered his hair.

I've never done anything like this before.

Neither have I. You're my first We.

Paul was unexpectedly moved by this. He hadn't given any thought to this entity having experiences of its own. He, too, had never been ‘We’ before. Not like this.

Then, what do we do?

Let us decide together, it answered, its mind's voice nearing Paul's.

Paul was reluctant to let it near, but then felt stupid and petty, like a pouting child. He made room for the other, as though scooting his mind over on its seat, and patted the place beside him.

Distantly, hot pressure burrowed into Paul's arm and his flank, but it didn't matter.

The other mind settled next to Paul's. It was a tight fit, but now they were more together than they'd been before.

Are we ready? asked Paul, as though standing on the edge of a diving board.

We are.

Ok, then, let's do this, breathed Paul.

We already are, answered his hair.

And indeed they were, already moving towards whatever their combined minds had come up with, the shag blanket billowing behind them as a cape.

-End of chapter 4-