Read Online Numb by Sean Ferrell - Free Book Online Page B

Tan liquid spilled over the cup’s rim and settled into the saucer. He stirred at it as if beating it back and then laid the spoon on the table. A trickle of coffee trailed from the spoon’s underside.
    He lifted the cup to his lips, one hand positioned underneath to catch drips that would have landed in his lap. Before setting the cup back in the saucer he pulled three paper napkins from the serving tray. He lay them in the saucer, then placed the cup on top. He cleaned the spilled coffee from both cup and saucer. He lifted the cup and removed the napkins. He wiped the spoon and stray drops. He placed the cup in its saucer and the spoon to the side on a napkin, then threw the ball of used napkins in a wastebasket in the corner. He leaned back in his chair, and I examined the perfect still life he’d created out of his cup of coffee. The mess made just moments before gone, Michael returned his gaze to me. He’d obliterated disorder. This is what Michael does, I thought. He takes the mess away and makes things neat and organized.
    â€œAs I was saying,” he continued, “you’ve never donemore with your talent than a quick display here and there. Few people have seen it, but when they do they are impressed. Despite this, you don’t seem able to get anywhere. You feel like you’re skimming along the surface. You don’t know if you know what’s happening. You don’t know if you can trust people because you’ve been let down.”
    I was sure it hadn’t been so warm when I’d come in. “Could I have some water?”
    Michael nodded at the glass he’d already poured for me. “I know how hard it is to hear your own story from a stranger. How do I know all this? Because it’s every artist’s story.”
    â€œArtist?”
    â€œSure. Why not? You have a canvas; it just happens to be your skin. I can see the marks of your work on your hands and neck.” Michael pointed at the window. “See the crowds out there? They don’t know they need you yet, because we haven’t made them need you. We’ll carve them up into two camps, those who hate you and those who love you. When they argue about you, you’ll be more than just a guy with pins in his skin. You’ll be your own work of art.”
    I said, “I’ll be a commodity.”
    Michael followed my eyes. “Exactly.” He drank the rest of his coffee.
    As I sipped my ice water I spotted something floating along the bottom. Something black and hard and crusty.“You haven’t even asked me where I’m from. About my past or who I was working with in the video.”
    â€œThat’s because nobody cares. It’s not important.”
    â€œIt’s not?”
    â€œOf course not.” He went to a cabinet in the wall and opened it, revealing shelves filled with cameras, carefully laid out files and pictures, and a column of drawers running up to the ceiling, each neatly labeled. He removed a packet of film from one and loaded a Polaroid camera. “You want to tell your story. I’ll help you tell it. Show me your biggest scar.”
    For an instant I thought about leaving. Then I felt myself scratching at my right leg through the stitched-up pants. Maybe there is something about wounds that makes them want to be seen; the ones Caesar gave me itched.
    Michael mistook my delay for embarrassment. “Trust me.” He locked the door. “No one sees this picture if you don’t want them to, but when I take it you’ll see what is important about your story and what isn’t. You’ll see who you can be.”
    I unbuckled my belt and lowered my pants. I showed him the scar that ran along my thigh.
    â€œOh, God. That’s big,” he said. “Hold still.” He took a picture. I expected him to take more, to use up all the film from different angles and then create a file filled with my scars. Instead he took just