ANGEL DUST
Stephen is smart. He excelled in high school and then college, devoting much of his studies to science. Graduating with honors and a perfect grade point average, Stephen had managed to expunge any distractions that may have taken away from his pursuit of science. But this left Stephen very alone. Not that he minded. The company of his work was all he wanted though not necessarily what he needed, for this seclusion began to wear on his mind.
For Stephen, It was the small things that intrigued him. During this time of his life, he worked mostly on dissecting the smallest particles down to their core. And then dividing the core into as many smaller parts as possible. Stephen felt that the root of existence was bound to be found in the smallest detail. Up to this point, Stephen had funded his research through investors and government grants. Initially, the money came easy. There were many people willing to invest money in such an obvious genius. It is people like Stephen who break down the walls of contemporary thought. People like Einstein, Hawking, Freud, Newton and Plato. People like Stephen. But the money was quickly drying up and Stephen had nothing to show for his time. His impossible search for the smallest detail was seemingly for nothing. To make matters worse, Stephen’s self-created exile combined with his obvious frustration was chipping away at his hold on reality.
Already unstable, Stephen was rapidly growing angry and violent. He would have explosions of outrage after any failed attempt, whether it be losing ground in his research or failing to convince an investor to give him more time. He was also showing signs of schizophrenia and paranoia. With most of his adult life committed to looking at everything through a microscope, both literally and figuratively, Stephen was beginning to see the world differently. His environment, everything he could see, touch or taste was just a frame around the bigger picture; a useless divider between him and the truth.
One afternoon, on the brink of a breakdown, Stephen sat on the floor of his lab near a window. Desperately trying to compose himself, Stephen stared through the pane of glass at the clouds in the sky. He thought back to his youth, when he would see mythic animals and spaceships from the shapes of the clouds. Now he sees only a combination of gasses.
While studying the cloud formations, sunlight broke and shined in through the window. It was in these rays of light where Stephen had, what he considered, a breakthrough.
In these yellow beams floated hundreds, if not millions, of tiny particles. Seemingly, the particles were just specks of dust from an unkempt laboratory. But to Stephen, the sunbeam had uncovered much more. It had broken down a divider to the bigger picture, a divider Stephen had never even considered. These weightless particles were part of the detail he had been searching for his entire life. The root of existence. And here he was breathing them in all the time.
Like any scientist who collects data to reach a conclusion, Stephen’s first thought was to capture the specimens. But the mind is a complex instrument to which Stephen was losing hold and to him, how could he collect something that he was just as quickly destroying.
He considered wearing a surgical mask to keep from breathing in the tiny mites. But they were too small, they would easily make it through the porous mask. Besides, they were everywhere. They were surely getting under his nails and in his ears, washing through the vast canals in his head. Caught in the hairs of his nose. Sticking to the tacky surface of his eyeball or his moist tongue when he spoke. Stephen didn’t want to consider what happened when he defecated. These thoughts ravaged Stephen to the point of exhaustion. Eventually collapsing from the weight of a panic attack coupled with a neurosis he could not resolve.
For two weeks, Stephen lay in the corner of his lab. Balled up on the floor. Paper stuffed in his ears. Refusing to open his eyes or mouth. And trying not to breath. Several times, he would pass out from holding his breath only to wake and repeat the process. Feeling very weak and dehydrated, and having no intention of killing himself, Stephen gathered the strength to fix himself some water. But as the water streamed from the faucet and rolled around in the glass, Stephen couldn’t help but notice the discolored bubbles and gangs of miniature debris overtaking the water. Dropping the glass to the floor, a noiseless shatter pushes Stephen over the edge.
One week later, succumbing to malnourishment, Stephen dies.
It is presumed by most, that in one way or another, death is a form of release. For Stephen’s family, they hope that in death, Stephen finally finds the answer he was searching for or at least an escape from a world that he couldn’t understand and couldn’t bear not to. Either way, their hopes go the way of the glass, for the afterlife is just the beginning of Stephen’s troubles.
The walls are made of glass bricks and fake wood paneling, just as they always were. All the equipment and furniture is just the way it should be, though Stephens’ lab appears different somehow. The colors are too washed out. And the temperature in the room is unusually pleasant. Another odd thing is the air. It feels too thin. Manufactured. Stephen looks around his lab through squinty eyes. The light in the room is dim. Feeling much better than before, Stephen rises to his feet and reaches to take the paper from his ears. Gone. He tries to remember if he took them out. He didn’t. Something is different and Stephen knows it.
Soft footsteps, like someone walking in socks, near the door. A bitter smell
passes under Stephen’s nose as a knock on the door reverberates off the walls.
“Yes?” Stephen says, standing motionless in the corner where he had passed out earlier. A man enters. He’s tall and wears a European style suit, very modern. Good lines. No tie.
“Stephen,” the man asks, “do you know where you are?”
“I think so,” says Stephen. “This isn’t really my lab is it?”
The tall man shakes his head and motions Stephen to follow him out the door. Stephen does so with curious enthusiasm. The man motions Stephen through the door and into the hallway. Once stepping over the threshold of the door-frame, Stephen is taken back by a bright silvery-yellow glow at the end of the hall. The glow dances and twirls flirtatiously, beckoning all to come near. It’s the first and only thing Stephen has ever seen where an explanation for it would hinder its purpose. Placing his hand on Stephens shoulder, the tall man leans down.
“Go to the light. You are expected.”
Stephen lowers his head and, with an embarrassed grin, says, “I’m an agnostic. Did you know that?” He begins to weep. “I’m so sorry.”
The tall man looks towards the light. “That doesn’t matter now.”
With that, he escorts Stephen down the hall. Stopping just short of the light. “This is as far as I go.”
Stephen nods graciously, shakes the hand of the tall man and steps into the light, eyes closed.
Feeling the light wash over him, he spreads his arms wide and smiles wider. Opening his eyes slowly, Stephen wonders what’s in store for him. What marvels await him in this place. It is at this point when Stephen notices the light reflect off something in the air. He pauses; there it is again. And another. The rays of light shimmer, continuing to uncover a flurry of particles in the air. Each beam seems to be clouded with a mob of vagrant debris. Distressed at the sudden realization of the corrupt atmosphere, Stephen looks back at his guide to this place, hoping for a calming glance or soothing words.
Taking two steps backwards, the tall man turns to walk away; but not before flashing a rascally smirk in Stephens direction. Panic stricken, Stephen covers his mouth with his hands and pulls his shirt over his head. He looks urgently for a break in the light, any place to get away from the ever-increasing bits of dust and ash that flourish in the air. Finding no such space, Stephen shuts his eyes tight and falls to the floor. Folding his knees to his chest, he begins to rock back and fourth; desperately trying to find a peaceful place in the corridors of his mind. But all he finds is dust.

- jason byron nelson ©2006