by G Sauvé
“We may never have met,” continued the man, “yet there’s a way for you to get to know me.”
“How?” asked Will Jr., momentarily forgetting that he was addressing a hologram.
“The memory organizer is more than a mere recording device,” explained Will Sr. “It’s a highly advanced piece of technology. The memory chips that accompany it contain a copy of my memories. Well, most of them. The memory organizer was designed to remove the unimportant memories and condense the essential, yet lengthy ones. It has also reconstructed the parts of the story for which I wasn’t present by creating new memories using the knowledge I gathered afterward. What you are about to witness is a thorough recollection of my life. I know it can never make up for the fact that I wasn’t there for you, but hopefully, it will help you understand why I did what I did.”
There was a moment of silence during which Will Jr. realized he had learned more about his father in a few minutes than he had from his mother in the past fourteen years. Part of him resented being kept in the dark, but deep down he knew he could not blame his mother. Every time he had questioned her, the conversation had ended in tears. In time, he had learned not to ask.
“I love you, my son,” said Will Sr.’s hologram, interrupting his son’s musings.
“I love you too, Dad,” whispered Will Jr.
Moments later, a million different images exploded within his head.
Memory 1
H eat. It scorches my nostrils and burns my lungs. The wind howls, deafening. Sand speeds by on air currents, biting at my skin and making it raw. I don’t care. All I feel is despair. I have never felt this overwhelmed, this hopeless.
“It’s all my fault,” I mutter, my parched throat making my voice crack.
I glance at my surroundings.
A vast wasteland. Sand as far as the eye can see. There are no dunes, only sand. I look up and see it.
Nibiru.
The planet is so massive it seems to fill the entire sky. It bathes Earth in a cloak of red. The world looks bloody, deceased. Everyone I ever cared about is dead, and it’s all my fault.
My head droops in shame, and I see it for the first time. It glimmers, half buried in the sand.
A knife.
I reach down and grab it. It’s sharp. I cut myself and a drop of blood falls. I expect it to plummet to the ground, but the fierce wind steals it away before gravity can grab hold of it. I watch another drop fall. It vanishes as well. By the third, I know what I must do.
I must pay for what I have done.
I press the tip of the dagger to my chest and, clutching the hilt tightly, jerk it forward. It slides between my ribs, reaching my heart in less than a second. The life-giving organ explodes. I watch as blood soaks my shirt. There’s no pain. No relief. Only despair.
I raise my left arm and study the symbol I find there. It looks like an hourglass. The top half was once full, but now all that remains are a few grains. It’s all that remains of my life.
I count the grains. There are five. Five grains. Five seconds until the blissful release of death. I count them down as they fall away.
Five. I’m alive. Why am I still alive when so many have died by my hand?
Four. I no longer feel the heat. Only pain and regret.
Three. My emotions fade away. I feel nothing.
Two. My vision blurs. The last thing I see is Nibiru.
One. I’m dead. Finally.
Memory 2
I awake with a scream. The cry echoes throughout the orphanage, but no one wakes. I sit upright in my bed, breathing heavily. My hands shake, but I welcome the feeling. It means I’m still alive. I press my palm to my chest but feel no blood. That can only mean one thing.
It was a dream.
I glance at my surroundings. Beds lie in both directions. It’s too dim to make out much more, yet I know in each of these ninety-nine beds—mine is the hundredth—an orphan is asleep. The girl to my right—her name is Angela—stirs, but doesn’t wake.
I pry the sweat-drenched sheets away from my frame and slide my legs off the edge of the bed. I lean forward and place my head in my hands. Eyes closed, I take a deep breath. And another. My heart rate slows, and the trembling in my hands ceases, but the feeling of shame persists.
It was just a dream, I tell myself, but I know that’s a lie. It felt way too real to be a dream. But what else could it have been? A nightmare? No. A vision? Possibly. An omen of something yet to pass? I hope not.
A distant sound catches my ear. I freeze, listening for a repeat performance, but whatever made the noise has grown still. I decide to go back to sleep, though I know the odds of that happening are slim.
I’m about to slip back under the covers when I remember something from the dream/nightmare/vision/omen. The symbol on my wrist. Just thinking of it lures an itch to my forearm. I scratch it, but the feeling persists. In fact, it intensifies. I keep scratching, but relief refuses to come.
“What the—” I begin, but the final word dies in my throat when the itch blossoms into a flower of pain. I wince, still scratching, but I stop when the pain grows so intense I can’t help but whimper. I stare at my wrist, half expecting the ache to take physical form. To my utter surprise, it does.
My wrist starts glowing. Thinking my arm is on fire, I shake it wildly. When that fails, I try to pat out the flames with my hand. When that also miscarries, I do the only thing I can think of. I close my eyes and wish the impossibility away.
Wishful thinking works in children’s books. In real life, it makes no difference whatsoever. I fight the pain for as long as I can before finally opening my eyes. My face contorts into a grimace of distress at the sight of the beam of the white light that snakes across my wrist. It doesn’t come from without, but rather from within. It’s as if an invisible pen is drawing something on my wrist. Only instead of ink, it uses light. And pain.
The searing sensation intensifies with each new detail that’s added to the mystery drawing. Tears fill my eyes. My teeth slam together with the force of a professional boxer’s fist hitting an opponent’s jaw. I want to yell, but my vocal cords have stopped working. All I can do is writhe around in pain. So I writhe. And writhe. And writhe.
It takes forever for the pain to fade and the light to evaporate. By then, I’m shaking violently. This time, deep breathing doesn’t work. I lie there for what feels like ages before the shudders finally stop. By then my voice has returned, but there’s no reason for me to call for help.
I slowly sit up, staring at my wrist. The light is gone, but where it once stood is a dark shape. I can’t quite make it out, so I reach for my nightstand. I pull open the top drawer and rummage through until I find what I’m looking for.
I click on the flashlight. Angela groans when the beam hits her in the face, but I cover it before she wakes. I slip under the covers and shine the beam of light on my wrist.
A strangled cry escapes me as I take in the all-too-familiar symbol.
I stare at the mark for the longest time before finally grasping the implications of its presence on my wrist.
It wasn’t a dream.
Nor was it a nightmare.
Or a vision.
Or even an omen.
It was real.
Memory 3
I stare, wide-eyed, at the symbol on my arm. Unlike in the dream, the hourglass is idle. The top half is full. The bottom one is empty. It appears as though it was always part of me, yet its mere presence is enough to set my nerves on edge.
I sit there for the longest time, staring and refusing to believe it’s real. Then I hear footsteps, and I’m reminded that I’m up past my bedtime. Somehow, the prospect of being caught terrifies me more than the symbol on my arm. I click off the flashlight and pull down the covers so my head is once more visible. Moments later, I’m pretending to sleep.
The footsteps echo throughout the orphanage. A few of my fellow orphans shift in their sleep, but none wake. I lay there, unmoving. My heart beats so hard I ca
n barely think straight. It takes all I have just to figure out that whoever is making their way across the dormitory must have seen my flashlight.
Please don’t let them know it was me, I silently implore. I don’t believe in God—no orphan who’s old enough to grasp the concept of a higher power does—yet I pray to him.
The footsteps keep coming.
“I hope it’s not Miss McAlister,” I mutter. “Please don’t let it be Miss McAlister.”
Miss McAlister is a good woman at heart but a horrible person to deal with. She devotes all of her time to keeping the orphanage running smoothly, yet she hates children. She gives empowering speeches to keep the staff motivated but turns into a crone as soon as she must interact with the orphans. Now and then she’s forced to cover for a sick staff member, and whenever that happens, we’re on our best behaviour. No one knows what would happen if Miss McAlister caught us breaking the rules, but I don’t plan on being the one to find out.
I almost jump out of my skin when a voice emerges from the darkness.
“Shut up!” growls Angela. “You’ll get us in trouble.”
I guess the beam of light to the face woke her after all. I want to apologize, but I know that will only make things worse, so I keep my mouth shut and listen to the sound of approaching footsteps.
The repeated slamming of shoes against concrete is both terrifying and oddly soothing. I focus on it and soon find myself drifting off, my mind wandering back to my past.
The orphanage is all I have ever known. I never knew my parents, yet I can’t help missing them every day. When I was young, I spent my days sitting by the orphanage window, praying for them to return. Every couple that passed made my heart flutter. The sound of the front door opening brought me running to the entrance hall. At school, I felt like an outcast. The only ray of sunshine in my otherwise bleak existence was Grace. She was my best friend, my only friend.
Years passed, and I grew up. Grace and I were still close, but everything else had changed. I no longer expected my parents to rescue me from the orphanage. Nor did I expect to be adopted—if that was meant to happen, it would have occurred when I was still young and cute. I accepted my fate. I tried making friends, but no one understood me. Boys my age spent their days talking about girls and cars. I preferred quiet contemplation. I pictured my life as it would have been had my parents kept me. I imagined myself growing up to be something. A husband. A father—I promised myself that when the day finally came, I would be the best father there ever was. I could hardly wait for the day when I would get to meet my child and tell them how much I loved them.
I’m interrupted in my musings by the sudden cessation of footsteps. I crack open an eyelid and scan my surroundings.
A shadow stands at the foot of my bed. The light is too dim to make out features, but the outline leaves no doubt in my mind that the newcomer is a woman.
Miss McAlister. Given my recent string of bad luck—the mysterious dream, the magical light, the enigmatic symbol—it can be no one else. I reseal my eyelid and wait for her to go away.
She doesn’t move.
After what feels like an eternity, Miss McAlister whispers my name. Only it is not Miss McAlister.
“Grace?” I ask, bolting upright in my bed. Angela breathes a sigh of relief, but I ignore her. I’m too relieved to care about my fellow orphans.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Grace shushes me, then gestures for me to follow her.
I slip out of bed. The concrete floor feels cold against my bare feet, but I welcome the chill that spiders up my spine. It’s a nice change of pace from all that heat and pain.
“Get dressed,” urges Grace. “We may be gone a while.”
I do as I’m told. Moments later, I’m fully dressed. Almost immediately I regret not removing my sweat-drenched pyjamas, but it’s too late for that now. I follow Grace out of the dormitory, doing my best to keep my sneakers from squeaking on the concrete floor.
I’m momentarily blinded by the light that fills the main hallway, but I forget all about it when I notice Grace heading toward the kitchen. I hurry after her and catch up just as we reach our destination.
It’s the middle of the night, so the kitchen is deserted. Stainless steel counters and shiny pots hanging from hooks make up most of the décor. Four stoves, five microwave ovens, and six sinks are scattered throughout the room. To my left lies a walk-in fridge. In the far right corner stands a small table with a couple of chairs.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, making sure that my sleeve covers the symbol on my arm. The last thing I need right now is Grace asking questions I can’t answer.
“You’ll see soon enough,” she says as she grabs my hand and leads me to the table. “Close your eyes,” she adds once I’m seated. “It’s a surprise.”
I hesitate. I normally enjoy a good surprise, but so much has happened in the last few minutes I fear I may not be able to handle another revelation. Unfortunately, refusing to comply with Grace’s request would only complicate things.
I cover my eyes, but not before taking a moment to study her. She’s beautiful. Her hair is long and hazel-coloured. Her lips are drawn back in an ever-present smile. Her eyes twinkle with joy. She wears a plain t-shirt and torn jeans. To most, she’s just another beautiful woman, but to me, she’s the personification of all that’s good. She’s the closest thing I have ever had to a mother, and I love her with all my heart.
Grace gets to work as soon as my eyes are closed. I hear her shuffle around. I can make out the distinct sound of plates grinding together and the ding of utensils hitting the wooden surface before me. I also hear a grating, explosive sound, yet I don’t recognize it until I’m finally allowed to open my eyes.
A small, frosted cake stands before me, fifteen candles burning brightly atop it. It takes a moment before I remember something important.
It’s my birthday!
Memory 4
I t’s my birthday. Most people would be excited. Not me. What’s the point of celebrating the day of my birth when my parents didn’t care enough about me to raise me? It only serves as a reminder that another year has gone by. At least, it would if Grace wasn’t there to pull me out of my slump.
“Happy birthday, Will,” she says and places a loving kiss on my forehead.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I’m not thanking her for the cake. I’m thanking her for being my friend, for being the only person in this whole wide world who understands me.
“What are you waiting for?” asks Grace. “Make a wish.”
I hesitate. I always make the same wish, and it never comes true. Perhaps this year will be different.
I wish to be reunited with my parents. The words echo throughout my mind as I blow out the candles.
It’s official. I’m fifteen years old.
Grace cuts a piece of cake and places it before me. I barely take the time to thank her before severing a large portion with my fork and shoving it into my mouth.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask when I notice her staring at me.
She shakes her head. “I’m too excited to eat.”
“Why?”
Her smile is so broad the edges of her mouth nearly reach her ears.
“This is a special birthday.”
“It is?”
She nods.
“Why?” I ask. “I’m just one year older.”
She ignores my pessimism, which isn’t like her.
“I have a present for you.”
I’m so stunned I nearly choke. Never before has Grace—or anyone else, for that matter—given me a present.
“A present?”
She nods.
“I’ve been waiting for this day ever since you first arrived,” she explains.
“Why?”
“Because today is the day I finally get to give you this.” She reveals a small gift-wrapped box and hands it to me.
I take it, my hands shaking with excitement. It weighs almost nothing.<
br />
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” admits Grace.
“What? How can you—”
“It’s not from me.”
I hesitate, sensing my life is about to change forever. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore.
“Who’s it from?”
Grace smiles then speaks the two most unexpected words in the English language.
“Your mother.”
Memory 5
M y mother?” I ask, incredulous.
Grace nods.
I stare at the wrapped present, desperate to believe it’s true, that my mother left this for me the day she gave me up. But why? Why give me up? Why leave this for me? And why did Grace wait this long to give it to me?
“Have I ever told you the story of how I found you?” asks Grace.
I shake my head, too numb to speak.
She speaks in French. I don’t mind. I have always had a knack for languages. When I was seven, I learned Spanish in less than a week. By age ten, I could speak five languages. Now, I’m fluent in over a dozen dialects, though if I tried, I could probably double that number in less than a year. Grace says it’s unusual, but all I have to do is listen and, before long, the words take on meanings and come together to form phrases. After that, it’s only a matter of practice.
“C’était il y a un peu moins de quinze ans,” begins Grace, but I stop noticing which language she speaks after just a few words. To me, it’s all the same. “It was a dark, starless night. I was locking up for the night when I heard a baby crying.”
Sensing this will be a long story, I carefully place my mother’s present on the table.
“I opened the door,” continues Grace, “The wind blew strong that night, and I had to struggle just to keep the door from flying out of my hands. I was fighting its pull when I spotted it.”
“What? What did you see?”
“A box. Nestled within it was a baby.”
“Me?” I ask.
Grace nods.
“You were so small. You couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old.” Her eyes twinkle as she speaks. “Tucked between your swaddled body and the wall of the box were two items. The first was a small wooden box. The second was a letter. It was addressed to ‘whoever finds my son.’”