Fears Without Answers

by Paco

I’ve seen my share of spooky films in my time. Ever heard of Frankenweenie? Sure, cinema’s got a certain knack for the eerie. But do you want to know what’s scarier than the scariest horror movie? To answer that, I’ll have to tell you a little story.

One of the central themes of my life is my futile fight for control. Zoe, for example, portions out my every meal. Pours it out when she feels like it. Only gives a little snacky treat when I’ve met her ever-shifting standards of what a pet should be. But I digress. Until the other day, I resented her iron grip over my eating habits. I thought it was just another way for her to exert control over me, to silence the masculine strength she knew was bubbling beneath the surface. I knew that the day I ate to my stomach’s content, I’d reach my full, fearsome potential. 

This past Sunday (October 23: a day that will live in infamy), an opportunity presented itself. I’ll set the scene: my kibble was about to run out. Zoe went to PetSmart to replenish, but was turned away in an un-Christlike display of cowardice. They offered, finally, a secondary kibble, which Zoe bought: she’d order my real kibble online, and feed me this in the interim. When she got home, she didn’t pour this food into my canister—why would she, when she’d be putting my real food in there in just a few days? She fed me a late breakfast, sealed the top of the bag, and set out for the day. 

Crucial mistake. Sealing the bag had given her a false sense of security, and she left it on the floor, well within my reach. Soon, I was blissfully alone in the house, free to do as I pleased. I pounced on the bag in a moment of divine masculine energy. With some sustained effort, I tore it open with my teeth. The sight of the food isn’t something I’ll soon forget. Here it was, the unlimited supply for which I’d been waiting. For eleven years, I’d dreamt of this: the power to eat until I felt full, to learn the comforts of satiety. I dug in.

For a while, it was glorious. I mean it. Nothing short of transcendence. I ate ounces and ounces of kibble, like a fiend. Like the man I’ve been waiting for. At last, I reached it: the point of satisfaction. For the first time, I no longer wished to eat more. But, reader, can I tell you something? It was not a state I reached in triumph. I stopped eating because the kibble sat heavy in my stomach, bubbling and curling in horrible ways. The sight of the food suddenly nauseated me. I leapt away and walked, with some difficulty, to the living room. My sides bulged in either direction. I collapsed to the floor and shut my eyes, finding that the fullness had a sort of soporific effect. I fell abruptly into a troubled sleep.

So, here’s what scared me—what continues to scare me. Have you ever striven for something your entire life, kept it ever in your periphery, sure that its completion would make you whole? Have you ever achieved this, and been utterly disappointed? In the wake of this incident, I’ve been forced to reexamine my very perceptions of the world. Unlimited food was never the key to my liberation nor my happiness; it was just something hazy and roguish in the distance, shepherding me through the days. I did it—and it was nothing. What now?

I’ve said this many times in my life, but never have I meant it with such horrid conviction: what now? 

Nothing could scare me more than this.