The Horton Dilemma [ONC 2022]

A PSYCHONAUTS MEETUP

The day after my second Vivectica™ trip, I remain in my apartment, feeling lost, confused, and most of all angry with myself, knowing these feelings will endure and will probably be harder to combat now that they've been reified by my second experience. Why did I have to do this to myself, again?

Sometime after noon, my pocket computer starts ringing, and I wince when I see Nakomi's name on the screen. Not answering isn't really an option; she'll want to make sure I'm safe and sound after the night's events.

"Hello?" I answer using the video option.

Nakomi studies my face. "Rough night?" She probably notices my bedhead, brown ringlets askew; no brush has touched my hair today.

"No. Rough morning."

"How was your night?" she asks suggestively, with an overly lewd smirk, assuming, of course, that Lenny and I must have done the dirty deed back at his place, one of the four Fs.

"It was great," I lie. I dislike lying to my best friend, but the omission is necessary for avoiding questions about what did go down.

She squeals. "My night was wild! After we got back to my place..." Nakomi proceeds to fill me in on all the dirty deets, and I half-listen. Your friend's nightly escapades don't seem as important when you're questioning your current infinitesimal existence in the whatever-verse, or maybe it's your infinite existence outside of this possibly-not-real life. When you're wondering about Crocodile-Lizard Man, about that thing he put inside of you. When you're wondering if you are even actually a "you."

My hand goes to my stomach, and where I can nearly feel his scale. A slight pressure originates from my core, and I think, it's really, actually there. And he's really, actually out there.

"Earth to Izzy," Nakomi says loudly, and I yank my hand from my stomach.

"What?"

"Where did you just go?"

"I told you. Rough morning. I need to put myself together."

Nakomi pouts. "Fine. I'll call you tonight, when you're feeling better. Maybe you'll actually, you know, listen to me."

Apologetically, I hang up. I can't help thinking of just yesterday, when I told Nakomi I wanted to go back to Psyche-Delish Drug Center. Her response: I should stay tethered to reality.

I fear she might have been right. Because now I feel so far from reality: I feel further convinced that Crocodile-Lizard Man is real. That his scale is inside of me. That the two of us aren't done with whatever it is we started.

During my shower, I recall that Lenny said something about "psychonauts." The term intrigues me because it's new to my lexicon. It reminds me of the word "astronaut," and as I get out of the shower, I look up the word on my pocket computer, noticing it's spelled similarly.

I towel dry my hair. Psychonaut. Aquanaut. Astronaut.

I've had to do astronaut training. When I leave for Mars, I won't technically be considered an astronaut, as that term is reserved for those space sailors who serve as crew. Unless something goes wrong and I'm required to take on a position as a crew member, I will never be an officially designated astronaut. But I will probably fancy myself an astronaut, anyway, especially since I've already emerged from the grueling training process intended to prepare me for the lack of gravity, potential space-sailing hazards, and newfound isolation I will encounter on a spacecraft traveling away from the only planet I've ever lived on. During the final quarantine preceding my journey, I will endure another period of this training, and it will probably be equally terrible to the first. I will doubly consider myself an astronaut after that.