But when Martin arrived at his door twenty minutes later, wearing a guilty smile, it didn’t matter that he was him. As far as Sam was concerned, it could have been anyone. In fact, Martin had put on some weight around his midsection in the months since they’d last seen each other, which was welcome for Sam; it meant that he would feel less self-conscious, less ashamed of his body, reasoning that, on some level, he couldn’t be rejected by a guy who was fatter than he was—and the ugliness of that thought, and the security it gave him, made Sam feel even darker—but still, he was safer here than with any of the strong-jawed guys with trim physiques who crowded Santa Monica Boulevard just east of Robertson on weekends, spilling out of gay bars, their foreheads dewy with sweat, liquor-tipsy and free in their bodies. And as Sam tugged Martin into bed, he had the sensation of sinking, into his basest impulses and into that uneasy crevice that existed between desire and disgust, junk-food sex, his chest heaving, his worst self, soft bellies, all that hunger.
After it was over, they lay next to each other, panting. Then Sam turned over on his side. “Do you think people can change?” he asked.
“Oh God,” Martin said. He scrunched his eyes closed, then opened them again. “Do we have to do the deep pillow talk thing? I get enough of that at home.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Of course people can change,” Martin said. “People are always changing. Like rivers or whatever. We never stay the same. Personally, I’m getting worse all the time.” He side-eyed Sam. “Why are you asking?”
“I was at this thing last night and people were talking about a shaman who can fix everything that’s wrong with you in three days,” Sam said.
“Well, that sounds like a stretch. Unless you’re already pretty close to perfect.”
“What would you change about yourself?” Sam asked.
“I dunno,” Martin said. “I could probably be a better husband. I should be more grateful for everything I have, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes. “You?”
“I’d probably hate myself less, if I could,” Sam said, and as soon as he’d said it, he realized it was too unvarnished a thing to say, but it was too late.
“Why would you say that?” Martin asked. “Why do you hate yourself?” He rested his hand on Sam’s head, in a way that was more intimate than they really were; Sam jerked away.
“Oh, fuck, I don’t know,” Sam said. “I just do. I always have. Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not to make you feel worse.”
“Really? I think of self-loathing as being so universal. We all have so many symptoms.”
“What do you mean by symptoms?” Martin said.
“You know,” Sam said. “Symptoms. You drink or you take drugs or you smoke or you fuck strangers or you don’t fuck anyone or you codependently entangle with people or you overeat or you starve yourself or you binge and purge or you compulsively exercise or you spend money you don’t have or you gamble or you self-harm or you throw yourself into work so you don’t have to bother with having a personal life or you binge-watch shit on Netflix because fictional characters are just so much easier than actual people with all their very real faults and shortcomings or you stay in bed all day trying to blot out the world on those days when it’s all just too much to bear.” He stared up at the ceiling. “But all those behaviors, even though they look so different, are symptoms of the same problem—you can’t be with yourself. Because you don’t like yourself.”
“But why don’t you like yourself?” Martin said impatiently. “You’re a good person.” He cocked his head. “I think. There could be bodies under your bed.”
It was a good question. Sam thought maybe there was no why. Maybe some people are just born self-hating and self-destructive and we die that way. And so we go to therapy and twelve-step groups and we take antidepressants and anxiety meds and we journal and go to yoga and exercise and take baths and drink pressed juices and repeat affirmations to ourselves in the mirror and listen to Brené Brown podcasts. But we’re just swimming against the tide, because the darkness always comes back. All we ever do is learn to manage the symptoms.
“I’m not sure,” Sam said. “I wish it didn’t feel this way.”
Martin fumbled in the bedsheets for his underwear, like he was uncomfortable. He stood and pulled his shirt over his body, as if suddenly realizing that he was exposed, and Sam felt a brief flash of tenderness, and then, just as quickly, it dissipated.
“I’m sorry that it’s so dark for you right now,” Martin said. “Maybe you’re depressed. Have you ever been to therapy?”
Sam fumed silently. Tears sprang into his eyes. He blinked them back. He would not cry—not here. Not with this guy. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of therapy. Therapy can be great. But it can also be so...diagnostic.” He said the word like it was a slur. “What about when you already know how and why you’re fucked up, but you can’t seem to fix it, no matter how hard you try? What then?”
“My therapist helped me see how much my unhappiness was a choice,” Martin said. “It was really useful.”
“So you think people choose misery over happiness because, what—they prefer self-hatred?”
“I think you might be attached to it,” Martin said. “I mean, I don’t know you that well.”
“You were inside me five minutes ago,” Sam said.
“That’s like a gay handshake.”
“Oh,” Sam said, “now who’s being dark?”
Martin raised his hands as if to say, I surrender. “I’m gonna go.” He stood and kissed Sam on the forehead. “I hope you find a way to be nicer to yourself,” he said. “You don’t have to be unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy,” Sam said. “I’m trying.”
“Right,” Martin said, and he shut the door behind him.
* * *
The third sign came later that night in the form of a dream. At first, Sam was falling through an inky sky. He moved his arms, but they weren’t arms—they were wings, only they didn’t work. As he descended into the darkness he heard something that sounded like an ancient hum, a long buzzing. His plumage was spectacular but he was broken. He knew exactly what he was, this sad and mangled thing. Thin spindly bones. Webbing as sinuous as lace. When he opened his mouth, no noise came out. Just a gust of feathers, cobalt as a tropical sea.
He landed at the surface of a window, or maybe it was a mirror. He stared back at himself, the long stem of a pincer obscuring his face. And then he was beating at his reflection, so violently. There was a spray of blood. Finally it cracked open and there were shards of glass everywhere, like diamonds in the soft down of his bloody feathers.