Supermarket(50)

“Got rid of who?”

“The part of myself that refused to let go. I killed him.”

“What?” I said. “How can you kill a man who doesn’t exist?”

“Therein lies the question, kiddo,” said Red, bringing out his bishop.

“Wait a second, Red. If you did it—if you made it through your delusion—why are you still here?”

“I tried, kid, I really did. I went back out there into that world after ten years of living in my mind. I went out into that world and I realized . . . it wasn’t a world worth living in without her. And so I came back. Because here is all I really know now.”

I stared into Red’s eyes as he looked at the board.

“Your move, Flynn.”

“How do I kill a man who doesn’t exist, Red?”

“Don’t you get it? Even if I told you how to do it, it wouldn’t register. I can only help you, show you the way. But you have to step through the door!”

My forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Okay, Morpheus, how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Flynn, think of it like this: it’s like depression. Nobody can cure your depression for you. Pills only suppress the real issue. They force the mind into a synthetic state of happiness, which is immediately undone once the substance has left the bloodstream.”

This made me think of my jacket pocket full of pills.

“So what then?”

“I’m saying he’s real because you’ve made him real. And yet, there’s the part of your brain that refuses to believe the impossible.”

“Because you can’t kill a man who does not physically exist, Red!” I shouted.

“Oh, you can’t?!” He pulled out a straight razor, flipped it open, and sliced the palm of his left hand diagonally from the bottom of his index finger down.

“Jesus Christ, Red! What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled, the deep gash making my stomach churn.

“Can I heal the wound with my mind?” Holding his hand out in front of him, Red clenched his fist, hiding the wound. Drops of dark blood began to fall on the chessboard. “Can I heal this wound?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I said.

“Can I make this wound go away with my mind?”

“Of course not, you crazy son of a bitch!” I said, our voices only intensifying.

“Why the hell not?!” he shouted.

“Because it’s . . . just impossible, Red! You need stitches!”

“You’re telling me it’s impossible for this wound to heal using the power of my mind?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” I told him, starting to stand. “I’m getting you a doc—”

“Sit the hell down!” Red demanded, pulling me back to the ground with his right hand. “Do you know what an ulcer is, Flynn?”

“A, wait . . . what?”

“Just answer the fuckin’ question, kid.”

“Yes, okay?”

“And do you know what creates ulcers?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Do you know what creates ulcers?!” Red repeated.

“Stress! I don’t know!”

Red smiled. “Exactly! And do you know what creates stress?”

“What the fuck does this have to do with anyth—”

“Do you know what creates stress, goddamn it?!”

“Yeah! Old guys slitting their fucking hands open, okay? You need a doctor!”

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT CREATES STRESS?!” Red screamed, forcing my hand over his clenched fist.

“I don’t know!”

“What creates stress?”

“THE MIND!” I screamed as loud as I could. “The mind . . . ,” I said again, finally coming to a realization.

“Yes, Flynn,” Red said calmly. “The mind.”

As I sat there frozen, Red slowly turned his fist over and opened his hand. When he did, blood drained onto the chessboard. My eyes fixed on his hand, Red grabbed the handkerchief from his front robe pocket with his right hand, then wiped his palm, revealing a healed hand. There was no visible wound. Only a faint scar from where the gash had been.

“Holy shit, man!” I screamed, shooting to my feet and backing away. “What the fuck was that?! Who are you, David Blaine?!”

Red began to laugh.

“Do you see what I’m trying to show you, Flynn?”

I slowly sat down.

“Still your move,” Red said, gesturing to the bloodstained chessboard.

“If you think I’m touching that shit, you’re fuckin’ mistaken,” I said with a laugh.

“Do you see, Flynn? Do you understand now?”

I thought about how I’d been running from Frank, telling myself he wasn’t real. And the denial of his influence had given him the advantage. It made him stronger. But now I knew the truth—Frank’s existence had real-life implications. He was real. Maybe not flesh and blood, but real in my mind. He had a distinct personhood in my head. By denying his existence, I hadn’t been able to get rid of him because . . . I had no way to fight him.

Until now.

“I have to kill him, don’t I?” I said. “But how?”