Author’s Note: this is an epilogue to classic novel The Catcher in the Rye.  

IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW about my life after Bellevue, then we should probably start by my new school, Freud Preparatory School. It’s just another school, it has nothing special, no aerospace program or even a president graduate, a regular school but full of phonies. Wait, I shouldn’t say that. During my time at Bellevue, Dr. Thalia taught me to not focus on the bad things or the phony things because I would drive myself crazy, but it is so goddam hard when there is so much phonery around. Anyways, as I was saying my new school is pretty similar to Pencey and the others, but it is somehow different. The other schools were depressing as hell and this one is not or maybe is the fact that things are not as depressing as before.

I heard about Freud because of Stephan, the other sixteen-year old at Bellevue, who was transferring to that school after his treatment was done. We met on my second day at Bellevue. I was sitting on a bench reading a book and he sat next to me but didn’t say a word. He would stare at me for a moment and then he would go back to his canvas; at first I thought he was painting me, which creeped me out. I decided to ask him if he was painting me, but when I looked at his canvas he was drawing a wolf staring at the moon in the middle of a forest. He then asked me if I liked it and I said yes; after that we talked all day, we even ate dinner together.

My third night at Bellevue was very intense, it was past 2 am when the alarm went off. People were screaming, it was super loud, and it freaked me out. The next morning I was going to talk with Stefan about it since his room was on the same floor as mine, but he wasn’t in the garden that day, or the next day. I saw him again four days after that night. He had a white bandage on his wrist, bangs under his eyes, and as soon as he saw me, a single tear dropped from his left eye. Boy, it shocked me. It really did. I was left with nothing to say, so he was the first to speak. He said that he felt lonely. That was all he said.

I took a seat next to him and we stared at the lake in front of us for two hours. Later when we arrived at the dining room, he proceeded to tell me exactly what happened. He said that he had a relapse, he knew it was coming for a few days but tried to ignore it. But that night he couldn’t ignore it anymore; he destroyed every single painting he had in his room, grabbed a brush and stabbed it on his right arm. I’ve never felt more depressed in my life, I felt almost guilty and all. I mean, I could have done something, right? But I didn’t, and he spent three days at the hospital. That killed me.

Stephan spent 5 weeks remaking every single painting that he had destroyed. I would help him by bringing brushes or mixing colors. I learned that when he painted he was happy. He couldn’t stop staring at the painting once he was done. He likes me to talk with him while he’s painting. I thought he wasn’t listening to half of what I was saying, but then he would make a comment that would reassure me that he was indeed listening to me. That’s the thing about Stephan, he is always listening to me. To everything I say, even if it is nonsense. After that incident I decided to always make sure that Stephan wouldn’t feel lonely. We spent every day together. I introduced him to D.B, Phoebe, and my parents and I met his; he doesn’t have any siblings, but he does have two cousins who grew up together with him. When I was leaving Bellevue, Stephan gave me a painting of my red hunting hat, it killed me. I made sure to hang it in my room as soon as I got home and then in my room at Freud. Stephan stayed at Bellevue for one more week and I didn’t see him again until school started. But his parents and mine made sure that we were roommates and all.

One Tuesday at Bellevue, my mom went to visit me. She seemed strange, she had bags under her eyes and was shaking a little. I was telling her about this new painting that Stephan made for one of the nurses. She’s very tall and skinny and he made her short and fat and about 60 years old. It barely looked like her, that killed me. Anyways, I was telling her that when all of a sudden she started crying. Boy, that took me by surprise. She was rambling about how sorry she was and how all of this was her fault, it knocked me out. I had to hug her and all for her to calm down. She then had a private conversation with Dr. Thalia. When they were done she apologized and told me she was going to get help. She’s seeing a therapist back at home. D.B. decided to spend some time in New York for a while, to check on Phoebe and my mom and all, he also broke up with his British babe. So he wasn’t in the best place either. I promised my mom that I wasn’t flunking any subject this new semester and that I was going to do my best at the new school. I’ve been doing good, surprisingly good, everyone is happy about it. Hell, even my dad said he was proud of me.

The summer after I left Bellevue, Jane appeared out of nowhere at my front door. Just the sight of her knocked me out. But sadly as I predicted, that sonuvabitch of Stradlater never gave her my regards, so she was super sore with me. I had to explain to her five goddam times that I did send her my regards and I didn’t just ignored her. She was still sore over the fact that I was at Bellevue and never told her, and that she was the one who had to come looking for me. I couldn’t really say anything, I was never in the mood. She told me what was going on in her life, during the whole conversation I couldn’t take my eyes off of her一 very corny, I know. Anyways, she told me that her mom and her stepfather had a lot of issues, and he was arrested. Sexual harassment, who would have thought. After that her mom got a divorce and boy, I was glad to hear that. Jane says that her mom hasn’t been good since then, she cries a lot and drinks every day. Jane’s grandparents decided to come and live with them after the divorce and after they talked with her about her relationship with her stepfather, a conversation they kept in secret from her mom. Jane seems fine, she’s a little sad for her mom but she seems happier. We spent the rest of summer together until the day that we both needed to leave for school, we would play checkers and all. We are not horsing around or anything like that, we are not there yet. But we spent a lot of time together. We talked at least thrice a day after we left for school. We are planning on skating at the Rockefeller Center for winter break with Phoebe.

I still feel a little depressed sometimes, not nearly as depressed as I felt before though. Most of the time I’m depressed because I haven’t talked with Jane, Phobe, or Stephan. They have been too busy with schoolwork and we don’t have time to hang out. Dr. Thalia told me that every time I felt depressed, I should write in a diary any thoughts that came to my mind, even stupidities. I wasn’t planning on doing it but Stephan got me one as a late Christmas present, he even put my name on it and all. Before I left for school; Phoebe, D.B, his new girlfriend Marie, and I went to Allie’s grave together. We had a picnic and spent all day at the cemetery. We would tell Marie stories of Allie or we would simply talk to him, he was listening. I asked Marie if Allie would get wet when it rains, and she told me that it was very improbable but if I was concerned about it we could build a tent on top of Allie’s grave to avoid it. I asked her if the poles of the tent wouldn’t hurt him and she said that he was too far down to even notice it. So, we are building it with Phoebe and Stephan next summer. My mom thought it was a terrific idea. Lately I go to Allie’s grave a lot. I only read my diaries to him, it feels good as hell to read them to someone. Reading my diaries to Allie makes me think that sometimes, only sometimes, there are people worth knowing, even if you lose them eventually.

Near the end of August, when the hours stretch on longer than they should, the world enters a melancholy state. Inhabitants of sleepy American towns are unsure how to spend the hours, so the time is passed in contented confusion. The world feels exhausted, tired from upholding its clear blue skies, yielding instead to vibrant oranges, pinks, and reds in preparation to put the day to its final rest.

On days like these, you figured it would have been better to stay home and enjoy the day there than wait on the still-hot sidewalk for friends that wouldn’t be coming.

You pace in your checkered shoes, looking more upset with every minute that passes. You figured this might happen. They’d never invited you to do anything before, so the invitation had been unexpected in the first place, especially considering it was the middle of summer, of all times. No excuse to bring you along, no club nor obligation… of course it was a ruse.

It stings a little more considering how excited you’d been. How far your hopes had fallen. Just last night, you had prepared yourself for talking to the people you’d always longed to befriend.

There’s Danny, who always has the coolest new songs to show his friends. You remember one time he mentioned an album in class that has now become one of your favorites. Ravi is beyond cool, a talented gymnast who’s won many trophies for the school. You’ve always admired his drive. Or Zoey, who smiles beneath her dark eyeshadow in a way that you’d never expect. She’s shy too, always sticking to Janna’s side like they are attached at the hip. Janna herself is a social butterfly, and her welcoming voice filled you with joy when she called you last night.

Distressed and on the verge of tears, you slump down on a nearby bench and bury your face in your too-warm hands. How could they forget? They’d only made the plans yesterday. Had you said something wrong? Maybe you were too enthusiastic. You were supposed to watch a movie together. You were supposed to become friends.

Now it’ll never happen. Sniffing all your feelings back inside, you try to cheer yourself up by looking around. Maybe there’s someplace around here where you can eat your feelings instead of wallowing in them. In the middle of your search however, something different catches your eye.

It’s a peculiar looking shop, so strange that you’re surprised you hadn’t noticed it before. The sign over the door is carved from wood that looks ancient and weathered. Inside, bright colors and unusual shapes catch your eye and shine even in the dim lighting of the store. You could even say that they glow despite the dim light. Compared to the tacky stores around it, the old shop looks authentic… welcoming, even.

Before you know it, you find yourself entranced. One last sniffle and you’re on your feet, moving incautiously towards your intrigue.

The store is still open, even though it’s past 8:00 at night. Your heart leaps in anticipation. This little adventure might distract you from that horrible prank those kids pulled on you. Anything to pull you from your pathetic loneliness.

The door chimes as you edge it open slowly. The noise rings out in an echo that you don’t expect from the crowded-looking store.

“New here, aren’t you?” The voice hits your ears suddenly, causing you to gasp and then slap a hand over your mouth in humiliation. The owner of the voice sits in shadow. No wonder he shocked you.

“I suppose.” You shrug, trying to regain some composure in faux casualties. “Is there anything I should know?” you ask without thinking. You know it’s a strange question, but it’s already out of your mouth by this point.

The man straightens in his seat–you can see that much. “Don’t touch the merchandise that doesn’t want to be touched,” he says cooly, a smile sounding in his voice. You fight a shiver and wonder what in the world it means and then if it’s not too late to leave. Instead, you turn to a shelf and begin to browse like everything is as it should be.

It isn’t, obviously, and half of you begs your impulsive side to give up on the stupid adventure. But you ignore logic. Something else has caught your attention.

A radio sits on the top shelf, and it is turned on. It’s speakers squeak out a tune that your ears recognize, but your mind can’t put a name to. You’re so near to revelation that it irks you. Perhaps if you could only hear the static-heavy sound closer…

You reach your hand up cautiously, fingers hovering above the small device. Does it want to be picked up? You almost ask the question out loud, and then shake your head, feeling foolish. He was probably just messing with you.

You retrieve the radio, and pull it down to inspect it. At once, the song you were hearing stops. Did you incidentally toggle the volume? But you hold the radio to your ear and still, nothing emanates.

“Hm, I could’ve sworn–” you stop, because the whisper doesn’t come from your mouth; it comes from the radio. Your hands shake, you feel violated, and you shove the radio back to where it was as fast as possible. You don’t know how and you don’t know why, and you don’t want to know. You touch your throat and breath out, intensely relieved to hear that the sound comes out right where you expect it to.

What a… funny audio illusion. That’s what the store must be, right? An illusions shop. Right? Well, you aren’t very amused, but you can’t… bring yourself to leave just yet.

Maybe it’s the social pressure of the man at the counter, where you can feel a gaze on your back. Maybe because you still need to forget your recent rejection. Or maybe it’s the way that the radio made you feel, for just a moment, like you were changed.

Either way, you shake off your goosebumps, and wander, more cautiously, down the aisles. The store is unique in its disorganization. You don’t think you’d be able to find a pattern if you walked around for hours. Still, the items are not scattered, and they are not haphazard. Each item appears perfectly in its place, with a little placard by each piece. Some, you notice, are even hidden from direct view, and something inside you whispers that it is deliberate, that those ones are the untouchable kind.

And another thing– from the first look, each item is so… normal. You hadn’t expected this. From the outside window, you had seen things that glowed, strange shapes that you couldn’t identify. Here, the shelves are lined with things that you’d find at a yard sale. A vacuum here, a hairbrush there, and each bears its own ornate placard.

You highly doubt that any of those things are as normal as they seem.

Curiosity steers you onward, and that insatiable feeling is what makes you pick up your next item, a fork colored a deep reflective red. You pick it up too fast though, and it slips from your grip right back on the shelf. You squint your eyes and try again, barely grasping the handle right before the smooth metal practically backbends out of your hand. You try a couple more times just for the intrigue, watching the contortionist utensil work its strange magic. But as you’re playing with the fork, the back of your hand brushes against something that sticks fast. You rip your hand back suddenly but a scaly black glove is already encasing your palm and your fingers and– oh! Is it fusing to your skin? You want to panic and hurl the glove across the room, but the man is still watching, and you are unable to throw something that is swiftly becoming a part of you.

You flick your hand frantically yet silently, desperate to keep the rest of yourself together. The two sides of the glove have just merged together in the center of your hand and you think, hopelessly, that this will be what your hand looks like forever.

But then the glove changes again. The oppressive tightness of the morphing glove suddenly releases, and you flex your hand involuntarily. Your left hand reaches shakily for the hem of the right glove and, seeing that it is now possible, you rip it off and set it back on the shelf. Convinced that you barely made it away with your hand intact, you scurry away from the shelf like a frightened animal, making a beeline for the exit. Curiosity killed the cat after all, and you rather like your felines alive.

Before you can reach freedom however, his voice stops you in your tracks.

“So you’re going to leave without purchasing anything? Why, that’s rather rude, don’t you think?”

You turn around slowly, a grin plastered on your face. Your mouth opens, intending to say something apologetic as an excuse, but his disapproving look stops the words before they come. Sometimes you really wish you weren’t such a people pleaser. There has to be something in the store that isn’t incredibly cursed, right? Maybe if you buy some gum, he’ll let you leave.

“I assure you, any purchase you make will be satisfactory.” Those words don’t make you feel any better, because you seriously doubt his claim. A few shuffling steps forward, and you are as close to the man as you ever want to be. You notice his sallow, almost lifeless skin and his pudgy noise that is incredibly ill-fit to the rest of his thin face. His eyes are sharp, an icy detached blue. Or maybe it isn’t his eyes, but the way he uses them to communicate that he’d be eager to swallow you whole. He gives you an awful feeling in the pit of your stomach, and proximity only magnifies that discomfort.

On top of the counter there are various knick knacks that seem mass-produced enough to be harmless. A butterfly hair clip, for example. The one in the basket there looks tacky, and you are relieved to pick it up and find that it feels just as commonplace.

“I’ll take this,” you say hastily, reaching in your pocket for a ten dollar bill and sliding it forwards by the corner so as not to touch him accidentally. He nods, and attempts to make a transaction, but you stop him with, “Oh, there’s no need, you can keep the change.” You don’t want his likely cursed money, no thank you.

He nods, and you turn on your heel before he can say anything else, gripping the hair clip in one hand and trying not to think too hard about it. Finally, you pull the heavy door open and escape into the evening. Your first steps out of the strange shop are hasty, but they slow as you make your way across the street to the familiar sidewalk towards your home.

The further you get away from the place, the more ridiculous you feel about the whole trip. Why did you even think those kids would show in the first place? When you could’ve just played games at home with your sister or something instead of ending up in a tricked out shop with weird creepy men and weird creepy things that–

You stop your stride and your tangent when you reach a park trash can on the sidewalk. Why can’t you just chuck the dumb hairclip in the garbage right now? Just to take it out on all the awful people that you had (or, technically, hadn’t) encountered today.

You unclench your fingers, staring down at the indents in your hand left by the butterfly clip.

You want to, but then again… you don’t. Maybe it’s an inkling of pride or lingering curiosity that was not quite satiated. You reach up and clip the pin into your hair, the action hasty and angry and impatient. Who cares anyway? You want to yell it to the wind. Not you. You couldn’t care in the slightest. You bought it, and you aren’t afraid of what is surely just plastic.

You stomp away from the trash can, feeling foolish again, and then being angry that you feel foolish, and the cycle goes on. Wind rushes past your ears loudly as you march. It seems as if the wind is coming primarily from your left side, because that’s where most of the whisper is coming from.

Wait– whisper? No, it’s the wind. It’s the wind.

But the wind or the whisper keeps growing, and after a while you can no longer dismiss it as nothing. You stop walking and simply listen to what you presume is the hair clip, impatience boiling in your blood.

It takes a minute to hear it clearly, but there it is.

“Wait…”

Your body shivers on its own, and a hand flies up to the clip to throw it onto the ground.

But you don’t make it far before,

“Don’t be afraid of us…”

Your hand stops. Of its own accord. You… you aren’t afraid. Not anymore. You almost want to be afraid, just so the hole in your perception can be mended. You know that you probably should be but… it’s almost as if, by command, all your fear vanished at once leaving you with… absence.

You await your next order, hand still hovering above the clip.

“Relax,” the voices hiss, and you drop your hand with a sigh. You can’t really explain it but the submission is nice. It’s simple… easy…

That voice though. One of them is so familiar. It pulls you from the mindless peace to feel a twinge of annoyance. It’s like a song, that voice. It’s the same feeling from earlier, and it’s as if there’s a cloud of fog keeping information from your memory.

“Give in to the–”
You gasp, and all of your senses return at once. Fright pierces your heart; panic floods in. You are free to be overwhelmed because you finally recognized her voice. Hers. Janna’s. Janna is stuck in the butterfly clip, and if you can only reach and free her– it just seems to be so easy but– your hand. It is still only partially in your control.

“Stop.” The voices command, but you can only hear Janna’s tortured voice now. You aren’t fighting just for yourself now, but for her, too. You forgive her, to fight harder, hand shaking at the midpoint between your hip and ear. You yelp and fall to your knees on the sidewalk. Trying so hard to regain control. The voices keep urging you to stop, the cadence a steady tick of hypnotism squirming into your brain.

But you are stronger now. Your finger grazes the clip and hope rises in your chest as you near freedom. This close to unclipping it, and then you can–

A boot flies in out of nowhere and kicks you in the side, hard, knocking you to the pavement. Pain distracts you from the mental struggle, and the “Stop. Stop. Stop.” grows in volume and power.

You feel something else. Different from pain. You are… draining. You don’t know how else to describe the feeling of your soul being taken from your body other than that. Feeling is vacating your limbs faster than you can fight to feel again.

In your last act, you crack open your squinted eyes to see the man standing above you, still smiling a sinister smile.

He is holding your soul in one hand, and a friendship bracelet in another.

You surrender.

You hope your placard will be pretty.