This partial manuscript copy is provided as a courtesy. Anyone who wishes a copy may access it from http://www.hatrack.com; therefore we ask that no copies, physical or electronic, be given or lent. Any offering of this portion of the manuscript for sale is expressly prohibited.
Maps in a Mirror
The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card
Memories of My Head
Even with the evidence before you, I'm sure you will not believe my account of my
own suicide. Or rather, you'll believe that I wrote it, but not that I wrote it after the fact.
You'll assume that I wrote this letter in advance, perhaps not yet sure that I would squeeze the
shotgun between my knees, then balance a ruler against the trigger, pressing downward with a
surprisingly steady hand until the hammer fell, the powder exploded, and the tumult of small
shot at close range blew my head off, embedding brain, bone, skin, and a few carbonized
strands of hair in the ceiling and wall behind me. But I assure you that I did not write in
anticipation, or as an oblique threat, or for any other purpose than to report to you, after I did
it, why the deed was done.
You must already have found my raggedly decapitated body seated at my rolltop desk
in the darkest corner of the basement where my only source of light is the old pole lamp that
no longer went with the decor when the living room was redecorated. But picture me, not as
you found me, still and lifeless, but rather as I am at this moment, with my left hand neatly
holding the paper. My right hand moves smoothly across the page, reaching up now and then
to dip the quill in the blood that has pooled in the ragged mass of muscle, veins, and stumpy
bone between my shoulders.
Why do I, being dead, bother to write to you now? If I didn't choose to write before I
killed myself, perhaps I should have abided by that decision after death; but it was not until I
had actually carried out my plan that I finally had something to say to you. And having
something to say, writing became my only choice, since ordinary diction is beyond one who
lacks larynx, mouth, lips, tongue, and teeth. All my tools of articulation have been shredded
and embedded in the plasterboard. I have achieved utter speechlessness.
Do you marvel that I continue to move my arms and hand after my head is gone? I'm
not surprised: My brain has been disconnected from my; body for many years. All my
actions long since became habits. Stimuli would pass from nerves to spinal cord and rise no
further. You would greet me in the morning or lob your comments at me for hours in the
night and I would utter my customary responses without these exchanges provoking a single
thought in my mind. I scarcely remember being alive for the last years -- or, rather, I
remember being alive, but can't distinguish one day from another, one Christmas from any
other Christmas, one word you said from any other word you might have said. Your voice
has become a drone, and as for my own voice, I haven't listened to a thing I said since the last
time I humiliated myself before you, causing you to curl your lip in distaste and turn over the
next three cards in your solitaire game. Nor can I remember which of the many lip-curlings
and card-turnings in my memory was the particular one that coincided with my last self-debasement before you. Now my habitual body continues as it has for all these years, writing
this memoir of my suicide as one last, complex, involuntary twitching of the muscles in my
arm and hand and fingers.
I'm sure you have detected the inconsistency. You have always been able to evade my
desperate attempts at conveying meaning. You simply wait until you can catch some seeming
contradiction in my words, then use it as a pretext to refuse to listen to anything else I say
because I am not being logical, and therefore am not rational, and you refuse to speak to
someone who is not being rational. The inconsistency you have noticed is: If I am completely
a creature of habit, how is it that I committed suicide in the first place, since that is a new and
therefore non-customary behavior?
But you see, this is no inconsistency at all. You have schooled me in the arts of self-destruction. Just as the left hand will sympathetically learn some measure of a skill practiced
only with the right, so I have made such a strong habit of subsuming my own identity in
yours that it was almost a reflex finally to perform the physical annihilation of myself.
Indeed, it is merely the culmination of long custom that when I made the most
powerful statement of my life, my most dazzling performance, my finest hundredth of a
second, in that very moment I lost my eyes and so will not be able to witness the response of
my audience. I write to you, but you will not write or speak to me, or if you do, I shall not
have eyes to read or ears to hear you. Will you scream? (Will someone else find me, and will
that person scream? But it must be you.) I imagine disgust, perhaps. Kneeling, retching on
the old rug that was all we could afford to use in my basement corner.
And later, who will peel the ceiling plaster? Rip out the wallboard? And when the
wall has been stripped down to the studs, what will be done with those large slabs of drywall
that have been plowed with shot and sown with bits of my brain and skull? Will there be
fragments of drywall buried with me in my grave? Will they even be displayed in the open
coffin, neatly broken up and piled where my head used to be? It would be appropriate, I
think, since a significant percentage of corpse is there, not attached to the rest of my body.
And if some fragment of your precious house were buried with me, perhaps you would come
occasionally to shed some tears on my grave.
I find that in death I am not free of worries. Being speechless means I cannot correct
misinterpretations. What if someone says, "It wasn't suicide. The gun fell and discharged
accidentally"? Or what if murder is supposed? Will some passing vagrant be apprehended?
Suppose he heard the shot and came running, and then was found, holding the shotgun and
gibbering at his own blood-covered hands; or, worse, going through my clothes and stealing
the hundred-dollar bill I always carry on my person. (You remember how I always joked that
I kept it as busfare in case I ever decided to leave you, until you forbade me to say it one more
time or you would not be responsible for what you did to me. I have kept my silence on that
subject ever since -- have you noticed? -- for I want you always to be responsible for what
The poor vagrant could not have administered first aid to me -- I'm quite sure that
nowhere in the Boy Scout Handbook would he have read so much as a paragraph on caring
for a person whose head has been torn away so thoroughly that there's not enough neck left
to hold a tourniquet. And since the poor fellow couldn't help me, why shouldn't he help
himself? I don't begrudge him the hundred dollars -- I hereby bequeath him all the money
and other valuables he can find on my person. You can't charge him with stealing what I
freely give to him. I also hereby affirm that he did not kill me, and did not dip my drawing
pen into the blood in the stump of my throat and then hold my hand, forming the letters that
appear on the paper you are reading. You are also witness of this, for you recognize my
handwriting. No one should be punished for my death who was not involved in causing it.
But my worst fear is not sympathetic dread for some unknown body-finding stranger,
but rather that no one will discover me at all. Having fired the gun, I have now had sufficient
time to write all these pages. Admittedly I have been writing with a large hand and much
space between the lines, since in writing blindly I must be careful not to run words and lines
together. But this does not change the fact that considerable time has elapsed since the
unmissable sound of a shotgun firing. Surely some neighbor must have heard; surely the
police have been summoned and even now are hurrying to investigate the anxious reports of a
gunshot in our picturebook home. For all I know the sirens even now are sounding down the
street, and curious neighbors have gathered on their lawns to see what sort of burden the
police carry forth. But even when I wait for a few moments, my pen hovering over the page,
I feel no vibration of heavy footfalls on the stairs. No hands reach under my armpits to pull
me away from the page. Therefore I conclude that there has been no phone call. No one has
come, no one will come, unless you come, until you come.
Wouldn't it be ironic if you chose this day to leave me? Had I only waited until your
customary homecoming hour, you would not have come, and instead of transplanting a cold
rod of iron into my lap I could have walked through the house for the first time as if it were
somewhat my own. As the night grew later and later, I would have become more certain you
were not returning; how daring I would have been then! I might have kicked the shoes in
their neat little rows on the closet floor. I might have jumbled up my drawers without
dreading your lecture when you discovered it. I might have read the newspaper in the holy of
holies, and when I needed to get up to answer a call of nature, I could have left the newspaper
spread open on the coffee table instead of folding it neatly just as it came from the paperboy
and when I came back there it would be, wide open, just as I left it, without a tapping foot and
a scowl and a rosary of complaints about people who are unfit to live with civilized persons.
But you have not left me. I know it. You will return tonight. This will simply be one
of the nights that you were detained at the office and if I were a productive human being I
would know that there are times when one cannot simply drop one's work and come home
because the clock has struck such an arbitrary hour as five. You will come in at seven or eight,
after dark, and you will find the cat is not indoors, and you will begin to seethe with anger
that I have left the cat outside long past its hours of exercise on the patio. But I couldn't very
well kill myself with the cat in here, could I? How could I write you such a clear and
eloquent missive as this, my sweet, with your beloved feline companion climbing all over my
shoulders trying to lick at the blood that even now I use as ink? No, the cat had to remain
outdoors, as you will see; I actually had a valid reason for having violated the rules of civilized
Cat or no cat, all the blood is gone and now I am using my ballpoint pen. Of course, I
can't actually see whether the pen is out of ink. I remember the pen running out of ink, but it
is the memory of many pens running out of ink many times, and I can't recall how recent was
the most recent case of running-out-of-ink, and whether the most recent case of pen-buying
was before or after it.
In fact it is the issue of memory that most troubles me. How is it that, headless, I
remember anything at all? I understand that my fingers might know how to form the
alphabet by reflex, but how is it that I remember how to spell these words, how has so much
language survived within me, how can I cling to these thoughts long enough to write them
down? Why do I have the shadowy memory of all that I am doing now, as if I had done it all
before in some distant past?
I removed my head as brutally as possible, yet memory persists. This is especially
ironic for, if I remember correctly, memory is what I most hoped to kill. Memory is a
parasite that dwells within me, a mutant creature that has climbed up my spine and now
perches atop my ragged neck, taunting me as it spins a sticky thread out of its own belly like a
spider, then weaves it into shapes that harden in the air and become bone. I am being cheated;
human bodies are not supposed to be able to regrow body parts that are any more complex
than fingernails or hair, and here I can feel with my fingers that the bone has changed. My
vertebrae are once again complete, and now the base of my skull has begun to form again.
How quickly? Too fast! And inside the bone grow softer things, the terrible small
creature that once inhabited my head and refuses even now to die. This little knob at the top
of my spine is a new limbic node; I recognize it, for when I squeeze it lightly with my fingers I
feel strange passions, half-forgotten passions. Soon, though, such animality will be out of
reach, for the tissues will swell outward to form a cerebellum, a folded gray cerebrum; and
then the skull will close around it, sheathed in wrinkled flesh and scanty hair.
My undoing is undone, and far too quickly. What if my head is fully restored to my
shoulders before you come home? Then you will find me in the basement with a bloody mess
and no rational explanation for it. I can imagine you speaking of it to your friends. You can't
leave me alone for a single hour, you poor thing, it's just a constant burden living with
someone who is constantly making messes and then lying about them. Imagine, you'll say to
them, a whole letter, so many pages, explaining how I killed myself -- it would be funny if it
weren't so sad.
You will expose me to the scorn of your friends, but that changes nothing. Truth is
truth, even when it is ridiculed. Still, why should I provide entertainment for those wretched
soulless creatures who live only to laugh at one whose shoe-latchets they are not fit to unlace?
If you cannot find me headless, I refuse to let you know what I have done at all. You will not
read this account until some later day, after I finally succeed in dying and am embalmed.
You'll find these pages taped on the bottom side of a drawer in my desk, where you will have
looked, not because you hoped for some last word from me, but because you are searching for
the hundred-dollar bill, which I will tape inside it.
And as for the blood and brains and bone embedded in the plasterboard, even that will
not trouble you. I will scrub; I will sand; I will paint. You will come home to find the
basement full of fumes and you will wear your martyr's face and take the paint away and send
me to my room as if I were a child caught writing on the walls. You will have no notion of
the agony I suffered in your absence, of the blood I shed solely in the hope of getting free of
you. You will think this was a day like any other day. But I know that on this day, this one
day like the marker between b.c. and a.d., I found the courage to carry out an abrupt and
terrible plan that I did not first submit for your approval.
Or has this, too, happened before? Will I, in the maze of memory, be unable to recall
which of many head-explodings was the particular one that led me to write this message to
you? Will I find, when I open the drawer, that on its underside there is already a thick sheaf
of papers tied there around a single hundred-dollar bill? There is nothing new under the sun,
said old Solomon in Ecclesiastes. Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. Nothing like that nonsense
from King Lemuel at the end of Proverbs: Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou
excellest them all.
Let her own works praise her in the gates, ha! I say let her own head festoon the walls.
This story began very recently when Lee Zacharias, my writing teacher at the
University of North Carolina at Greensboro, mentioned that suicide stories were
common enough among young writers that she despaired of ever seeing a good one. I
remembered that when I was teaching at Elon College the semester before I had gotten
enough of those suicide endings to make the pronouncement to my students that I
hereby forbade them to end a story with suicide. It was a cop-out, said I -- it was a
confession that the writer had no idea how the story really ought to end.
Now, though, I was feeling a bit defiant. I had said that suicide stories were
dumb, and now Lee was saying the same thing. Why not see if I could write one that
was any good? And why not make it even more impossible by making it first person
present tense, just because I detest present tense and have declared that first person is
usually a bad choice?
The result is one of the strangest stories I've ever written. But I like it. I enjoyed
using this epistolary form to tell the tale of a hideously malformed relationship between
a couple who have lived together far longer than they had any reason to.
Copyright © 1990 Orson Scott Card