His name is Marvin Ditch. He's not from Laquinta. No. He's from somewhere else. A place that doesn't count. A place where no one counts. But he's been living in Laquinta for fifteen years. A colossal city. Five million souls. And Marvin doesn't have a single friend. Not a dog. Not even a goddamn shadow. Marvin walks through the crowded streets, lets himself get dragged by the human tide, blends in with the bodies. But he doesn't exist. He doesn't matter. He's a 33-year-old guy who could vanish right there, right now, and no one would notice. Before Laquinta, Marvin lived in Dornella. That's where he was born. That's where he grew up. That's where he finished high school. Dornella: a small town. A hole in the mountains. Twenty-one thousand inhabitants. And there too, Marvin had no friends. No one to ask how his day was, how life was going, how the goddamn existence was treating him. No one who remembers who the hell he is. "Marvin Ditch? Who's that? Did he go to school with us?" It's like Marvin is cursed. Doesn't matter where he goes. Laquinta, Dornella, or the dentist's waiting room, where he sits with another person in silence. That person doesn't see him. No one sees Marvin. No one hears him. No one remembers him.
He studied Computer Science. Networks and Communications. The college years, of course, weren't fun. There's no little folder of photos on his laptop. None on his phone either. No excitement. Just monotony. His roommate was as withdrawn as he was. They barely spoke. Sometimes they didn't even greet each other. Like they were living in parallel dimensions. Like they were two souls without physical bodies occupying the same space. Marvin spends hours and hours in front of the computer. Time passes. The college years end. And Marvin gets a job. And time keeps passing. And Marvin stays stuck in the same place. He works at the District Four City Hall — IT Department. A poorly lit basement. Marvin maintains the systems, the networks, the servers. He does a good job. No one can deny it. Nothing ever breaks down. Marvin thinks he's underpaid for what he does. But he won't ask for a raise. Marvin could be a genius. He has innovative ideas. Things that would make the system work better, faster, safer. But he won't let them out of his head. That's where they'll stay. And of course, no one ever comes down to the basement to see him. He's the building's ghost. Sometimes he thinks that if he died down there, it would take weeks for them to find him.
He always lived alone with his mother. Norma Ditch. A mother and no father. There, in a house by the side of the road, almost outside of Dornella. From the window of his room, he could see the big sign that said: "Dornella Wishes You a Safe Trip. Thanks for Visiting." Eighteen years with Mom. Then he left for college. But Norma stayed behind. She never left Dornella. Where was she going to go? Norma died three years ago. She was fifty-six. Bitter and religious. Ovarian cancer diagnosed too late. Norma never went to the doctor. The symptoms were obvious. She didn't care. One Sunday, she collapsed in church. She was kneeling, praying, when she suddenly hit the floor. A fellow parishioner saw her fall, the rosary beads slipping through her fingers. They took her to the hospital. Cancer. Metastasis. It was over. Nothing left to do but wait for the end.
Norma Ditch had crosses and saint cards all over the house. It looked like a religious goods store. In every corner, a Virgin Mary, a Saint Jude, a bleeding Christ. And there she was, in the middle of it all, always smelling like disinfectant. She worked cleaning offices. That was her life. Work, rosaries, and saints. And Marvin?
Marvin would ask her about his father. Norma always said the same thing: "He was a mistake. And so are you." She said it without looking at him. Like she was talking to the air. Like her son wasn't there. Like he didn't exist.
Marvin's apartment in Laquinta is a gray box. One bedroom, a living room, a tiny kitchen. White walls. Empty. No pictures. Nothing. In the kitchen, a sink with two plates, a glass, a fork, a knife, and a spoon. All washed. In the fridge, just the basics. Water, eggs, white cheese. And some fruit. Usually apples and bananas. Everything lined up. Everything in its place. The living room has a flattened gray sofa, a crappy TV, a coffee table. The bedroom is a cell. A single bed. On the nightstand, an alarm clock Marvin never uses. He doesn't need it. He always wakes up at six. On the dot. Just opens his eyes. Another day.
That night, Marvin is sitting in front of the computer. The glow from the screen washes over his face in a blue light. Suddenly, his phone vibrates. A message:
Do you feel alone?
Marvin blinks. Picks up the phone. Looks at the screen. It's a message from an unknown number:
Have they told you the world is made for you? That life has a purpose? Lies. The truth is, existence is a cruel accident. But you're not alone. There are others who know it too. Others who see what you see: the darkness devouring everything.
We are The Last Tribe. Choose the peace of the void.
Marvin thinks: "Yes, I'm alone. I have no one. No friends. No family. No girlfriend. Girls don't even see me. I don't exist. I'm alone. Completely alone."
Marvin takes a deep breath. Looks at the phone. Reads the message again. And again. He sets the phone down on the table. Rubs his hands together. Closes his eyes. Opens them. He could ignore it. He could delete the message and move on. Another day. Another night. Alone again. But he doesn't. He types. Deletes. Types again. The words come out slow, like he's writing his name for the first time.
Hi. I'm Marvin.