myles zavelo – the perfect face

It’s a mental hospital in London, which is a brand new experience for me. I’ve only ever been hospitalized in America. It’s important to try new hospitals.

I’m chained to the bed, propped at a forty-five degree angle. I’m thinking about white sheets and clean slates and second chances and zero chances. I’m ready to thrash the world. I’m ready to forgive myself, once and for all.

They’ve got me chained to the bed because they know I want to rock and roll. They know I’m willing to pay the ultimate price. They know I'm in way over my head. They know I’m not a rich kid. I screwed up big time this time. I really got the point across this time. I want to be a little boy again. I feel like the little girl in The Exorcist.

My girlfriend has an upper crust British accent. She works out all day, every day, but I’m barely concerned. I am very, very busy. Take a look inside my life.

Her last name is my first name. Her hair curtains her face. Her parents are healthy, wealthy. Her parents must feel terrific all the time. Ask them how they feel all the time.

My girlfriend’s face is stunning. I took a long moment over dinner the other night at a fancy restaurant to admire her perfect face.

This morning, she’s seated across from me and my bed and chains. The look on her perfect face is convincing me that everything is going to be okay, that everything was already okay. There are no problems. She’s not even mad at me. She’s smiling directly at me. Take a look at the perfect face. Her legs are crossed. This is my view for the rest of my life.

The look on her face also shows me she doesn’t understand where she is, the kind of person I am, what my name is.

Take a look at the bad person, the nameless name, the hospital with no meaning on top of it.

Am I a bad person? Try calling (917) 463-XXXX if you need more information. That’s my last ex-girlfriend’s phone number. She’ll definitely supply you with information. I'm not sure what she looks like. I never got a good look at her face. I met her at a place where women called me a misogynist because I gave the best massages.

My arms are itchy. The problem is my life.

And my girlfriend says, “I hate sports centres. I would stop exercising if I could only go to sports centres. Everyone gets warts on those disgusting floors. All those poor little kids tripping and slamming themselves against the hard floors by the pool. All those fat mothers showering with their kids, shouting at their kids. And the bright light is so nasty.”

She has a point. The lights burn bright. How long has she been talking? How long have I been awake? Is my right foot broken? Is my left foot sprained? What about the bathroom?

I try to sit up straight, but can’t. I need to rearrange some things, but won’t. I want to hurt myself more effectively, but shouldn't.

“It’s all so heartbreaking, life’s so heartbreaking,” she says.

The morning is always turned on and I’m not a morning person. The hospital ceiling is full of dead stars. I want so many things from them. The bed next to mine is a pit full of bugs, broken glass, and bad memories.

Somewhere deep down in the big bright red intensive care unit, six or seven years ago, my father was disappointed in me. He sat close to my bed. He would not stop talking about hard work. He said I had to work harder. He said I had to start my life, not end it. He said I had to take a chance, and try. He said he attends my funeral every day in his head. He said I was killing him. He said I had to move out of his house immediately. He was practicing tough love. I was soaking up his advice. I was watching his lips move. I had no choice. I was bandaged up. I was not chained.

After the ICU, after ten days in the psych ward, I moved in with a friend, sleeping on his couch, and crying myself to sleep. After the couch, I did start trying: got myself a good, well-paid job. I became a software developer, guaranteed to succeed, with a bachelor pad to call my own. I was experiencing satisfaction. I wasn’t scared. I liked my bachelor pad. This is all true.

Six or seven years later, I’m stuck in chains, and it’s a rough adjustment. It's exactly what I always expected. At the fancy restaurant, I touched her perfect face.

I’m reaching for my father’s voice, but I can’t touch it. I’m more possessed than ever. I’m having a major breakthrough. I’m going to tell her what she needs to know. There’s hundreds of golden coins moving around inside me.

“I've basically been living a lie our whole relationship. I don’t have a lot of money. I only have a little money. I take criticism like a child. My uncle is a very important person when it comes to the Christian film industry. My mother should’ve gotten a fucking freaking abortion. My aunt is out of control when it comes to her drinking. My arms are beyond itchy. My thoughts are absolutely alive. My worst nightmares are coming true. I’m a fucking circus freak. I’m probably in love with you. I’m pure garbage all over. 100% is 100%. You better believe I’m working hard. You shouldn’t trust a word I say.”

Then? What? Next? After I have said too much? After I rip my fucking heart out? After the truth finally comes out? The chamber opens up and the perfect face looks disappointed and my hair hits the ceiling. And the giant pale nurses who always knew I was full of shit? They do backflips through the hallways of my new home.


MYLES ZAVELO lives and writes in New York.

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