in the back of the head

by Cristiano Cardone

Panicked, I envisioned the edge of my conscience. It started as a circumference—a ring of bloody pressure. It soon became a twisting coil of impotence, frustration, and regret rising from my weary shoulders, crawling up and around my throat. It gathered force, as it traveled along my spine, expanding in my head like an embolism of hesitation. I stared hard at the ground, my eyes trembling.

“Do you know how to do your job?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t think so. Go do it again.”

My eyes wanted to tear up, but the harshness of the outside air wouldn’t allow it. My heartbeat felt beyond my control—how could I achieve anything if I couldn’t even control this disgusting body?

The feeling of constriction relented. I could breathe again, but only after leaving the metro station. My shift was over, but I couldn’t remember what came next: just a blur of colors and faded lights over my left eye, leaving me stumbling across raised tiles and murky puddles left in the wake of yet another day in this sad, sad metropolis. As I trudged forward, the fog behind my eyes cleared some, and flashes of familiar spaces stretched across my mind. “Home,” I muttered to myself. I was heading toward one place (and one place only): bed. It wasn’t fully dark yet, and if I timed dinner right, I could let myself rest briefly—without guilt. I’d wake up, and the second half of my day would begin: my real duty was to study.

Head down, trying to summon the energy to be even slightly diligent, my red eyes darted from notes to screen, the space between them blurring. The formulas I’d written started to look off. Was I even sure what those variables represented?

The neon sign outside my window grabbed my attention. I didn’t recognize all the words, but it was for a stand-up club, I think. Watching broad-shouldered men leave with girls half their age hanging off their arms made me second-guess the translation.

“Are you sure you want to proceed with this operation? Here, you should reference Tarski’s work, but I don’t think you’ve properly considered the variables—”

“You—you’re right. I’ll fix it by the end of the weekend. I’ll resubmit the paper for review by Tuesday.”

“All right… but remember, Herman, the conference is in two weeks. You need to submit your panel title. You can send it to me, but it has to be submitted. This is a good opportunity to show where your thesis is headed.”

“Oh… sure, Professor Eriksen. I’ll send it as soon as possible.”

A click, and the call was over. Once again, it wasn’t good enough. Still, I didn’t think I’d stammered or made a grammar mistake—I’d gone straight to the point. I knew criticism of my work wasn’t a critique of me, but...the conference. I hadn’t prepared anything. Should I contact Professor Katrine about the bibliography? And the time off work? I’d already missed a couple of mornings this month for faculty visits. Then there was rent. And the wardrobe—it needed replacing. Mold.

I got up from the desk and sat on the couch, phone in hand, with no intention of using it. I compulsively checked the time on the lock screen, lighting up the device again and again to confirm what I already knew. Over and over. I had to be stronger. I tossed the phone onto the couch and pressed my palms into my eyes. I could do this. I didn’t need anyone. No one.

I had to prove it.

A shiver brushed the back of my neck. The circumference I’d seen earlier returned, now elongated. An oval shape closed around my mind, trapping my thoughts. Inside that space, I could visualize the mathematical expressions from days ago. They swirled, converging from the edges toward a central point, vibrating concentrically. As much as I loved losing myself in those powerful formulas—condensing hours of study, knowledge, and possibility into just a few letters—within that oval, they looked twisted. Demonic. Like ancient seals from forbidden pacts—symbols that no longer belonged to me. I couldn’t hold back the questions scratching at the back of my brain.

If scalars are 1x1 matrices, and matrices aren't 1x1, are they vectors?
If the universe is additive, is consciousness exponential?
Would I ever find a job where I could stay in contact with these secrets?
Will I ever prove that I’m worth anything?

*****

“Oh, Herman, relax! You freeze up every time a client pushes back.”

I forced a smile. I had to stay professional, but my skin was beginning to reject the feel of my uniform. I wanted to be anywhere else.

“Sharid… it’s not really about the clients. It’s Hilde. You’ve seen how she watches us, right? I don’t want her to think of me beyond a ‘hello’ and ‘goodnight.’ That’s it.”

“Wait—Hilde? You like her?”

I half-raised a finger at the new guy’s bearded smirk but redirected it at a passing client instead.
Pointing is harassment. Bad choice, Herman.
Raising your voice is harassment. Really bad choice.
Hate it, but bottle it up.

“I—I just care about keeping my job. Even if it doesn’t thrill me.”
“Herman, dude, find something better! You’ve learned the language, you’ve got a degree, so leave this place! Stop studying so much. It’s driving you mad!”

“You two—S14 needs service. Move!”

I probably grunted. My face must’ve looked tense, locked in unnatural wrinkles. The crushing realization hit me again: despite all the effort, all the sacrifices, I was still stuck. Slowly suffocating under the weight of my own expectations. Expectations—just more guano feed dropped into my brain from endless childhood scrolling... or maybe just the brainwashing from those two chronically dissatisfied wrecks who thought bringing me into this world was a good idea. Why couldn’t I be content with just surviving?
Just a spoiled little shit, that’s what I am.

“I’ll take care of it. You haven’t had a break yet, Sharid—go.”

“What about you?”

A deep breath. I begged whatever was behind that repulsion inside me to give me one moment—just one—alone. Please.

“Go.”

Fermat was right: the singularity of numbers defines their power—the tremendous prime numbers. I had to do this alone. In theory, I knew a lot. Years of study, certificates, degrees. I was supposed to be smart. But, in practice, I was lost.

No one ever showed me how to do these things. And I never taught myself when I was a teen. Now, I had to be a man. I had to know how. I could only try, head down, while older colleagues smirked. Was I doing this with my doctorate too? Head down, not thinking things through? Or was I paralyzed—thoughts looping, algorithms rerouting my focus? The numbers flickered across my retinas.

Lunch break. I hid from clients and colleagues in a dark corner. Breathe. Palms over my eyes. Calm the thoughts. Once again, the mathematical strings echoed in that oval I’d seen the day before, tickling the base of my skull. Its oblong surface nearly visible, outlined by some external glow. I tried to shift the thoughts—but a crack formed in the oval. A flow of something liberating poured out. I snapped back, gasping. My eyes filled with tears.

Something was pulsing at the back of my head.

I had the title. I knew what to present. It still didn’t feel real—that I’d managed to reduce my work hours, that I’d had the guts to talk to Hilde and explain. I’d earn less this month, but I was ready to need less if it meant I could study.

Imagining a fracture in space that appeared when I closed my eyes gave me relief—as if a metaphysical trepanation had released the pressure. Deep down, I knew the calm wouldn’t last. My thighs were already tense. I swallowed a breath and sent everything to the reviewer. That shape in my mind deserved more study—anything to find calm again, to ease the pressure.

*****

“As Gödel postulated, there exist truths that cannot be proven within the system itself. The issues within a system reflect the concept and situation of that system. Problems will be halted unless external factors affect the system or situation.”

I pressed the pointer and switched slides, breathing deeply. The lights onstage were blinding—an obnoxious white. Heat built up at my neck. I started again. I was doing well. I could tell from the reviewer’s brief smiles in the front row. Maybe they were involuntary, but they helped me pace myself. When the smiles faded for too long, I trimmed the section. I just needed to survive twenty minutes. Luckily, I had that jacket—it hid the sweat, good. The distance from the audience helped too. No possibility of touch, of interferences, good. But the floodlights—who thought that was a good idea for a university hall?
I paused to switch slides, drank some water, rubbed my eyes with my palms.

“Funny... I realized I don’t like people. And I’m afraid I’m not the only one who feels sick at the thought of human contact. I don’t know how, and I wouldn’t dare guess why—but I can see it. In those quick glances—fleeting connections between pupils—you can tell they’d rather avoid that shared disgust. Every conversation feels like the most viscerally, personally unpleasant accident. And standing here, in this room, I’ve come to understand I’m not crazy for thinking that. This goes beyond uncanny. And… AND—”

In that last second, I tried to analyze what happened to me, feeling ablaze in a coolness I did not think could have been achieved. I could blame excitement, probably too much caffeine. Was it a drop in blood pressure that had me feeling freed, unchained from the illusion of being sane? I finally felt lost, defeated, useless—and I had never felt better. When I opened my eyes, I no longer saw the audience in the conference hall but a dense white wall wrapping around me. My gaze was trapped by the equations at the center of every movement; shifting my eyes always left an arithmetic expression in focus, describing my field of vision. Trying to look up, I saw light seep through a few cracks, and the more I noticed them, the more they sharpened in the white plaster. My mind searched for an escape: there had to be a discontinuity in that universe’s coherence, just as in every other. Something infinitely improbable that could serve as an anchor. I focused on the fractures, watching them thicken and erode the smooth, white casing. The light behind them dimmed for a moment, then exploded. 

Not an oval anymore, but a living, pulsating egg. The white casing was the world of my previously defined understanding and self. An aneurysm reaching its critical point, it could no longer contain the internal forces. To be truly born, to find a new truth and a new existence, I had to break it – to destroy this world of pre-defined mathematical systems and the suffocating boundaries of my own making, even if it meant a violent, disorienting rupture. Is the light coming clos-

Crack

 *****

“Pernille, any update on Eriksen? Did he extend his medical leave?”

“His assistant emailed us late yesterday. He’s not coming back until the end of next semester, unfortunately. He’ll keep teaching his two courses over Zoom, but I doubt he’ll handle the exams.”

Katrine stepped quietly into the office, careful not to draw attention from the others in the department.

“Did he… say anything else?”

Pernille glanced at her screen. The lines around her mouth tightened as she chose her words.

“You’ve probably figured it out by now. He’s just past fifty, but this… he won’t come back from it the same. And he’s not taking on any new doctoral students. Ever again.”

“But—”

“There’s no footage of what happened in that room. But they had to carry out several professors who were sitting in the front row. Eriksen was the least harmed, if you can even call it that—his blindness isn’t total.”

Katrine shook her head and pressed her hand against her face.

“That boy… he was so promising.”

“Katrine, Herman’s still alive. He had burns all over, yes, but they brought him out of the coma. He’s not fully lucid yet—maybe it’s the meds, maybe more than that…”

“Is he still communicating through math?”

Pernille nodded slowly.

“Sort of. Sometimes he moves his hand like he’s holding a pointer, like he’s still teaching. Other times he taps on the bedframe. His tear ducts were burned—they’ve done a series of micro-operations already. I just hope they don’t push him too hard. The medical department upstairs is even talking about funding research into his case.”

“Slugs,” Katrine muttered. “But you said he was improving?”

“From what I’ve heard. Some speech therapists have started working with him—trying Morse code, mostly. I think they’ll try other ways soon. He keeps repeating the same phrase in every session.”

“‘Language lacks the complexities of probability.’ I remember. That was the central argument of his thesis—the last time we spoke.”

Katrine exhaled softly, blinking back tears.

“Katrine…”

“No, no—it’s okay. I needed to ask. It just hurts. He was one of mine. Always had him in the back of my mind. He is intense—obsessive even—but brilliant.”

Photo of Cristiano Cardone

BIO: text