SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue 1 - Journal - Page 105
SINE QUA NON
stopped shopping after that and began to order food online. But when I cooked up the ingredients,
they turned to charcoal in the pot while I spilled an essay onto a ream of paper towels, which
became sodden and illegible. When the eviction notice came, I used it to start an ode.
At work I filled ledgers with science fiction, customer receipts with whimsical poems, all of
which ended before I could end them. I’d be called into a meeting, or into the manager’s office for
a performance review. The unfinished works are still there. I am not.
I don’t sleep. I found an empty apartment and at night I lie in this strange bed with a
notebook for a pillow. I let the pen move while I close my eyes, and then can’t read my writing in
the morning. During the day I catch the prologue to an epic world-building story, but then nod off
and the world is gone, obliterated as if by a death ray.
If I could just get one complete story out, maybe I could
It was here that the pen ran out of ink. The last words, invisible now, might be revealed
by shading them in with pencil. But Rodriguez didn’t need to read any more of it. He saw
how it had ended. The dead body slumped over the last page was the greatest spoiler.
Denisovich peeled off his single glove. “Text interpretation was never my thing. How
do we classify this? Suicide? But geez, look at her eyes; it’s like she was struck by an idea or
something.” He looked up. “Hey, you proud of me? I just came up with an allegory.”
It was a metaphor, technically, maybe a pun, Angel thought.
“Death by literature, that’s it,” Denisovich went on. “My English teacher in high school
I swear to God almost bored me to death. I should bring him up on charges—attempted
murder.”
“It was a sickness,” Rodriguez said.
“I agree,” Caderno said. Rodriguez jumped. The coroner hadn’t needed to be invited
over the threshold after all. She’d been reading over his shoulder the whole time. “I was going
to be a psychologist,” she said.
“But they didn’t like your slab-side manner?” Denisovich asked.
“The dead are less complicated,” she replied. “This is a classic case of advanced
maladaptive daydreaming, and possibly a touch of fictophilia.”
“Huh?” Denisovich said.
“The patient prefers the company of fictional characters over real people. The patient
spends vast amounts of time constructing imaginary worlds built around these characters
involving complex and detailed plots. These story-like daydreams are often triggered by reallife events. The afflicted is so engaged with fiction that they will neglect everyday tasks and
stop eating or sleeping.”
“What’s the difference between a maladaptive daydreamer and a writer?” Rodriguez
asked. It was a rhetorical question, but his partner didn’t know the difference between that
and a question that demanded an answer.
“Easy,” Denisovich said. “One of them tries to sell their daydreams for money; the other
one isn’t as crazy. I think we’re done here.” He nodded at Caderno, giving her permission
to wheel the stretcher in through the precarious stacks of books. He clapped Rodriquez on
the shoulder. “Well, good thing what she had is not contagious. Would make a good story,
though. Put that in the novel you’re working on.”
The two detectives walked out of the place where death lived. As they stepped onto the
pavement, Rodriguez stumbled although there was no threshold to trip him. The world tilted
and righted itself. He put a hand against the brick façade of the building to steady himself.
A woman passed by, pulling a two-wheeled shopping cart. She wore thick glasses and had
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