Traces of Troy (Patreon)

- Holy fuck!

You stare at the screen in disbelief. It was June the 3rd when Troy Sullivan was riding on the outside of his friend’s car, losing his grip, tumbling into oncoming traffic and declared dead by responding EMT 6:41 pm. According to local news he probably died already when hitting the road, before any vehicles hit his body. You slump back in your gaming chair, ignoring the metal groans of the back rest. If he was declared 6:41, it is completely plausible that the actual death was around 6:20. Of course they could say that he died immediately to clear the truck driver that hit him from guilt, but you don’t think so. After all, 6:20 is about when you collapsed.

Intellectually everything makes sense, if you include some pretty far out assumptions. “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” But it didn’t feel like the truth, or did it? It’s like a series of negations. Scientifically it can’t be true, but intellectually it must be true, but emotionally it isn’t true, but viscerally, deep down, wasn’t he already convinced it was true? Whatever kind of empty bucket of a jock head Troy was, at least you had your own wits intact. But for how long?

You awoke in the ambulance at 6:35 for another probably costly, but covered, ER run. Thanks Obama. Your condition was quickly improving, so you got stuck in triage for three hours until a doctor finally saw you. All the tests and all the blood work were completely normal, so bewildered you were sent home.

That’s the first time in your life your blood work had come back normal. You felt fine, but clearly there must have been a mistake somewhere at the hospital lab. Genetic disorders doesn’t just clear up. It was too late do anything about it, so you made a mental note to schedule an appointment with Dr. Schwarz, and went to bed.

The next morning you woke up in agony. Every single muscle hurt. If that wasn’t enough, you were also hungry as a horse and horny as a hound. More triage, but this one your own. You decide to eat breakfast first, oat porridge. First time in years you’ve had it. As you empty your second bowl you realize that you have lazily browsed to check the latest Australian rugby scores with your phone. That’s a non-sequitur if any, but then nothing in the last 12 hours makes any sense. You normally don’t even take the phone to the table.

The meeting with Dr. Schwarz takes much longer than planned. He is completely convinced that you are healthy. He doesn’t use the word cured, though. His working theory is that you had been misdiagnosed early on, and then you’ve just been given treatments that somehow made it look like you were ill. He might write an article. You ask him not to. He explain that the sore muscles are just electrolytes rebalancing now that you are off medication. It will go away. Consider mineral supplements and eat salty food until it gives. You go for a soy chicken wok with broccoli, onion, cashew and brown rice as a late lunch.

That was weeks ago, and it hasn’t stopped. But you think it is a fair trade. Sore body every morning in exchange for not taking the meds, not doing blood transfusions, not feeling tired all the time. How can things be bad when Sidney Rays are leading this season? It wasn’t until a chance lunch with Rachel that you started to get worried.

- I like this new, confident you.
- Thank you! I feel fucking great.
- If you could just rein in the F-bombs. But hey, whatever else you are doing, keep it up. You are filling out nicely.
- What do you mean?
- Your workout, whatever it is, is really doing your body good.

You’ve always been too sick for sports, and you hadn’t started now. What she said made you question everything about you. Did you really speak differently? Were you more confident? Did your body change in unexplained ways? You had to answer yes to all of that. Why had you not noticed this on your own? How did you intuitively eat like an athlete? How can you possibly be so horny all the time? And why the fuck do you care about the Australian rugby season at all?

The answer was there on the screen. For some reason, from the other side of the globe, the essence of Troy Sullivan was leaking into you. You felt violated and grateful at the same time. As you flicked through his social media you saw a life you never had. Never could have had. Rugby. Surfing. Parties. Girls.

“You know what, Troy. I’ll keep this body in as good shape as you did yours. I’ll even follow the fucking rugby for you. Just stay away from fucking with my head.”

You’re pretty sure you’ll fuck Rachel later that evening. In a world where you get to casually fuck Rachel Bloom, you wouldn’t even be mad if it turns out your head is fucked up as well.

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