Kuebiko stood on the side of a dirt road somewhere in the Ozarks. All around him grew spindly grey trees and long wispy grasses of the same color. The dirt of the barren street was a bit reddish, and he would have considered it beautiful, had he not been standing exactly where he had been dropped off by his teacher, nearly two hours ago. The Fool was not going to come back—he had made that abundantly clear—but Kuebiko still stood, watching the empty road so far away from a society he knew, watching for any sign of his…no, not father, but as close as he could possibly get to one.
He was twenty-nine years old, and the only thing he could call a family had left him on the side of the road, with only the command to “Get lost, go hungry, and die alone, Kuebiko.” In fact, could he even go by the name The Fool had given him? Kuebiko was his name given for his place in town. If he was no longer a part of his family, then could he lay claim to the title they had given him? Most certainly not, if the voice in his head had any say.
He was no longer of any use to his town, so he could no longer be a part of his town. The Fool said that this was a punishment far less severe than what other residents would get, and that he should be thankful, but he had to find fault in this situation. If he were killed off like all the others, at least it would be a quick death. Now, on the side of a road that lead to a place he did not know, he was faced with only himself, his thoughts, and the thoughts that were most decidedly not his.
—–
“I’ll have the, um… uhh… number eight c-co-ombo meal?”
‘Don’t stutter.’
He flinched, and the poor woman behind the counter who had to put up with him did not react to the command whatsoever, because of course she wouldn’t. Why would she? It was spoken for his ears only.
“That’ll be $3.58.” The Woman sounded bored, and he wished he had the ability to relax enough to get bored. He stared at her, and she slowly met his gaze. She raised an eyebrow and repeated herself as if he had not heard her the first time, “You owe $3.58.”
He continued to stare, then looked down at himself and blinked rapidly. He wasn’t sure what that meant. He reached into his pockets to find something he knew wasn’t there and looked back at The Woman who was growing impatient.
“I don’t suppose I can pay in favors?”
“Sir,” she said, “if you can’t pay, I’m gonna have’ta ask you to leave.”
“I-I can do magic, please, I could make anything you want.”
“Make three dollars and fifty-eight cents appear,” she said, and there was something in her tone that was harsh, made specifically to hurt him.
“I-I-I-I—” he whimpered and tried his very best to ignore the voice yelling at him to ‘Finish at least one goddamned sentence for once already!’ He shook and sweat was collecting at the high collar of his pink button-down, hopefully not leaving a stain. “I-I… don’t know wha-at that is.”
The Woman’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Is this some shitty performance art? I don’t care if you’re from that fancy art school the next town over, with your hipster haircuts and cheeky bowties, you’re holding up the line!” She gestured behind him, and he turned to see that the amount of people behind him had multiplied since he had last checked. Their stares sent chills down his spine and planted hot smoke in his stomach. With shoulders vibrating like a lawn mower’s engine, he turned back to The Woman and his lip wobbled.
“I-I-I-I… I-I-I….”
‘Is that all you can fucking say? This is why your town left you. Get a grip.’
A heaving sigh came from behind him, and a man with his hair in a bun and a knit sweater rolled up to his elbows pushed past him. “Just add his food to my order, I’ll pay for him.” The Man glanced back at him with a roll of his eyes. “He’s obviously not all here, might as well get him out of your hair quick.” The Woman behind the counter smiled at the man, who he couldn’t determine was being nice or not.
‘Pathetic, you made someone do all the work for you. All you’re good for is st-st-stuttering and mumbling and making a fool of yourself.’
“I know….” he mumbled at the voice, and The Man gave him an odd look.
The order was placed, The Man gave The Woman some slips of paper, and then came to stand beside him – near the pickup counter, but out of the way of other customers.
The Man looked down at him curiously. “You aren’t doin’ alright, are you?”
He wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head. He felt far to exposed here, even while pushed up in a tiny corner.
“Where are you from? Somethin’ tells me you’re not from that art school little Kathy had mentioned.”
He opened his mouth to answer but found the words were a tacky dough in his throat. His grip on his arms tightened, then his forced out his reply in a hoarse whisper, “Idumea.”
The Man, who had been putting little metal discs into a pouch, froze and several of the discs clattered to the floor when they missed the pouch opening. The Man was staring at him with a mounting horror. “Je-Jesus Christ, you’re a Witch Cult kid, aren’t you? What the hell are you doin’ all the way out here? You get dumped or somethin’? Run away?”
His nails—uncut and chewed ragged—dug into his arms, and his lip wobbled so much that his teeth clacked together as he tried to keep himself from showing weakness in front of all these strangers. He closed his eyes and saw black and yellow rings against his eyelids “I-I-I… I… He… said I was lucky, and that I should th-th-ank him for his kindness…. He doesn’t need me anymore, I’m useless, I should just—”
“Hey, whoa,” The Man said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Stop, you need help, I’ll help you find a uh, I dunno, Cult Survivor Support Group or something. Let me get our food, and then we can figure things out, okay?” The Man smiled. “What’s your name?”
Despite the voice in his head screaming just inside his ear about being weak, he couldn’t help the surface tension behind his eyes from breaking, letting fat globs of salt water stream down his face. The Man was startled at the choking garbles that made their way out of his throat, but he couldn’t find any other answer for The Man. He had no name. Not anymore.
Wheeler Graye 