by T. J. Klune
There is a place where all the people know and care and love each other. Where they meddle in the affairs of a waiter and a bookstore owner. Where they watch with bated breath for the first hesitant touch, the looks that linger just a bit too long, the blushing, the secret smiles.
He walks these roads and thinks, This could all be mine. I could have all of this. Every single piece and part. Mike built this life, but he’s gone now. He left the blueprints behind and I can build on top of it. Make it my own. Take what was given to him. It should have been mine to begin with.
He thinks, Yes. Yes, I think I will.
IN THE end, it’s easier to go back than he ever thought possible.
Funny how things work out that way.
constants and variables
XXIV
HIS HEAD is shaved.
His beard is shaved.
It’ll mimic an overdose. A controlled overdose, I guess you could say. We will trick your brain into believing it’s dying. For all intents and purposes, it will be dying, but it’s not a natural death, nor is it brought upon by trauma. The main drug will be propofol. Used in moderation, it’s typically the most-used drug in all of anesthesia. And when you go under anesthesia, it’s essentially a reversible coma. The difference here is in the dosage. This will not be reversible.
He grimaces when the catheter is inserted. Somehow, it hurt worse getting pulled out the first time than it does getting shoved back in.
“There,” the nurse says, voice trembling. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it.”
The body doesn’t often decide on its own to enter a coma. A coma is a deep loss of brain function. It comes from trauma. Brain injury. Stroke. Drug overdose.
He watches the sunrise, breathing in desert air.
It’s hot, even though it’s only March.
He likes the burn on his skin.
There is substantial risk here, Mr. Hughes. I won’t lie to you about that. What we’re attempting is extraordinarily dangerous. There is a fine line we have to walk between putting you under and killing you. We’re shutting down your brain while trying to keep it alive. You could die. You could go so far that you flatline and stay that way. You could be nothing but a breathing husk kept alive by the tube shoved down your throat. You would be nothing.
He reads about boys on an island.
They lost control so quickly, he thinks.
It won’t be like that in Amorea. He won’t let it.
It won’t be like you left it. We’ve talked about that before, but I don’t know if you fully understand. The people in Amorea will not remember you. None of them will. Any memories you absorbed from Mike, any part of him that you remember, will not have happened to these people. They will not have memories of you. They won’t have photographs of you. They’ll know your name, but only because we’ll plant the seed for it. To them, you are the new guy just moved to town. You have a house. You have a cat. You have a business to run. Given how dangerous this is, I cannot make you into someone new. You will remember this life, your life before Amorea.
He lies awake at night, planning.
He’s always wanted to work at a bookstore.
He’ll push himself to forget all that he knows now.
He’s come this far. He’s sure he can do almost anything.
You can’t let them know who you are. You can’t let them know about Project Amorea. You can’t let them know it’s a construct, that Amorea is governed by rules and laws that they will never understand. If there is any imbalance, if there is any hint that you have corrupted Amorea, I will pull the plug on you without hesitation. You are important, Mr. Hughes. But you are also expendable, if the greater good should call for it. I will kill you if needed.
He’ll take his time with Sean.
He’s got to be fragile still.
Those migraines sound like a bitch of a thing.
He thinks they can be happy. And if not, that’s okay too.
That’s the beauty of the island. It’s all about possibility. There are one hundred and twenty-five possibilities.
There will be a horse. You’ll see it when you begin to walk down the road. It will cross the street in front of you. You need to touch the horse. It acts to ground you in the world of Amorea. Should you not touch it and continue on, you will not survive. Amorea will become increasingly erratic, and eventually, the construct will begin to fail and you will start to go mad. You mustn’t forget to touch the horse, Mr. Hughes. It’s the only way I can protect your sanity.
The gastrostomy tube is placed back in his stomach. It’s how he’s fed nutrients while in stasis.
His body is stronger now. Oh, it’s nowhere near close to where it was before… everything. But he thinks he has an advantage this time around.
His brain is not swelling.
His limbs are not broken.
He is not bruised or perforated.
He’s whole.
He thinks, What do you know about schizophrenia?
It turns out he knows quite a lot.
It’ll take… time. To build the relationships you had before, if you even can. You are not Mike Frazier. You are Greg Hughes. You can’t use his experiences as a template. You need to try and build your own. There is a life for you there. I can give you the tools to make one, but I can’t force the people of Amorea to accept you.
He gets angry still. Sometimes.
He’s angry at his mother. Angry at his father.
Angry at Jenny. He’s so angry with her, but he’s mostly angry with himself, because if he hadn’t gotten drunk that one night, if he hadn’t taken her to bed, would he even be here?
He doesn’t think he would.
They would have stayed friends.
Or they would have drifted apart.
He could have found a nice man or woman to settle down with.
He could have had a family.
Except he had the capacity to become his father.
Yes, he was defending himself.
But even he can remember the sick satisfaction he felt at the sound of her nose breaking when he punched her.
I know you say that you didn’t kill your wife with any ill intent. That you did what you did in defense of your own life. That she’d managed to twist together an unlikely narrative in order to frame you in a plan that ultimately cost her her own life. And I know that we cannot regulate you like we could the others, not without splitting your mind in half. We took away the darker parts of them to make them something new. I cannot do that with you. If you hurt anyone, Mr. Hughes, if there is a monster lurking under your skin, I will do what I must to ensure the survival of Amorea.
He looks in the mirror for the last time.
When he sees himself again, he’ll be whole.
There will be no more scars.
There will be no more pain.
There will be no more suffering.
He will be the truest version of himself that he could possibly be.
It’s a second chance.
He’s going to make the most of it.
“Are you sure?” Dr. King asks for the last time. She’s standing near the doorway, and he can hear the resignation in her tone.
He doesn’t look at her. He looks at himself, gaze tracing along the scars in his reflection. He knows that Amorea is just an illusion, a costumed skin hiding all that lurks underneath, but it’ll be enough. It has to be enough.
“I’m sure,” he says.
He thinks, I almost feel bad for you, Mike. Knowing what you had. Knowing what I’ll have. But you weren’t real. You were never real. And I deserve this.
Mike doesn’t say anything, but that’s because Mike’s long gone.
A memory. A dream.
Nothing more.
HE’S IN an operating theater, flat on his back. He’s nude underneath the green sheet that is pulled up just past his stomach. He’s uncomfortable. The room is cold. The gurney he’s lying upon is hard. He’s got a headache. It’s pulsing behind his left eye.
It feels familiar, but he can’t remember why.
Everything’s a little hazy around him, like he’s caught somewhere between asleep and awake. There are people moving around him, adorned in scrubs, surgical masks pulled tight across their faces. He hears the familiar whir of a wheelchair up near his head before he feels fingers pressing sticky little circles to his scalp. Wires are attached and trail off his head behind him. There are murmured voices all around him, and he feels soft. Almost weightless.
“There it is,” a voice says near his ear. “Your brainwaves, Mr. Hughes. Your murmuration. It’s really rather beautiful. Most people don’t understand just how beautiful it is. We will learn so much from you. And maybe I’ll see you soon. Maybe I’ll finally get to—”
“What was that?” another voice says. He thinks it’s Dr. King. “That blip. That alpha rhythm. It was almost like he had—”
“It’s nothing,” Dr. Hester says. “It happens. The readings take a moment to stabilize.”
“I must again object to this on the record, Malcolm. You are walking a path that will lead to a place I don’t know if I can follow.”
“And your objection is noted again. Honestly, Julienne. There’s the door, should the desire to not follow overwhelm you.”
There is no response that he can hear.
A gnarled hand comes to his forehead. The fingers are cold and he wants to flinch away from them, but he can’t find the strength to move.
The voice speaks again in his ear. “It’s almost time. We will do our best. If all should go as planned, you’ll close your eyes and sleep. You won’t notice the seven days that pass before we place you in stasis. And when you open your eyes again, you will be on a road that leads toward home. Godspeed. And maybe I shall see you soon.”
He wants to open his mouth to say something, anything, but it’s getting harder to keep his eyes open, harder to formulate a coherent thought. There are little bright bursts of light above him, and the voices around him begin to fade. Before he closes his eyes, before he has his last thought in the real world, he thinks he sees a starling flitting about overhead.
He thinks, There it is. The chaos. The birds. It’s the murmur—
HE SITS with his father. He’s trying to do his homework, and his dad is on his fifth or sixth beer. The TV’s on. His dad is a warm presence next to him. These moments are few and far between, and he hoards them as if they’re treasure. His dad is loose and calm and even smiles every now and then. He doesn’t know where his mother is. He’s glad she’s gone, because his dad doesn’t usually get angry when she’s gone.
“Would you look at that,” his dad says, and it’s in a tone he’s never heard before. Like his father is in awe of something.
He is ten years old, he’s with his dad, and he looks up from his multiplication tables.
The TV’s on some nature show his dad likes for reasons he’s never understood. He likes animals as much as the next person, but his dad loves them, watches them every chance he gets. He’s got this whole National Geographic series on tape that he watches over and over.
The show—Birds of Europe, he thinks it’s called—doesn’t really interest him. He doesn’t really care about birds. But when he looks up and sees what his father sees, something changes.
“—to medium-sized passerine birds in the family Sturnidae,” the narrator intones. “Native to the Old World, starlings can be found in Europe, North America, Asia, Africa, and Australia. Extraordinarily social animals, starlings have complex vocalizations, often found to mimic sounds found in their surroundings, such as human speech and the honking of car horns.
“But perhaps the most astonishing trait of the starling is called a murmuration, a flock which consists of thousands of birds, including other species of starlings. This magnificent display is truly one of the greatest wonders in the animal kingdom.”
The birds move in a great cloud, seemingly changing direction at random, but still moving as one. It looks like smoke, but as if smoke were alive and had rational thought. It rolls over his skin in a gentle roar and he thinks, This. This is something. This is something precious.
But he’s not looking at the TV when he says it.
No, he’s looking at his father. And the expression of wonder on his face.
“Would you look at that,” his father repeats in soft voice. “Ain’t never seen anything like that before, bucko. That’s… nice. It’s just nice. Hey. Scotland, right? Those birds are in Scotland. Maybe we could go there one day, you know? Me and you and your mom. Maybe go see those birds. Those starlings. The murmurations.”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Dad.”
And he sits next to his father and thinks, Maybe things will be different now.
BEFORE HE opens his eyes, he thinks, My head hurts and What happened? and Who am I?
That last thought stutters and trips all over itself.
Because he shouldn’t be thinking Who am I? He should be thinking I am—
He pauses.
Tries again. I am—
And again. I am—
And suddenly, he can finish the thought. It’s effortless, really.
I am Greg Hughes.
He opens his eyes.
He winces at the bright sun overhead against a perfectly blue sky.
He’s outside… somewhere. On his back.
His head hurts. It’s a dull ache, like it’s already fading. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He coughs once.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sky this blue before.
He thinks, Oh my god.
He’s on a two-lane road. Trees line either side, their leaves swaying in a faint breeze.
The road itself looks freshly paved, the asphalt shiny and black, the painted white and yellow lines vibrant. There are no cars coming from either direction, and then he remembers there are no cars here, there won’t ever be any cars here, and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to black out again. But the air around him is cool and the trees are starting to sprout, like there’s a hint of spring just out of reach.
He stands.
He’s not in any pain, aside from the throbbing in his head. His limbs are intact. His feet work just fine. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans. A white shirt. Gray sneakers with white shell tops. He’s clean, his clothes are clean. His forearms are thick, covered in a thin layer of reddish gold hair on top of pale skin.
He laughs, and it’s slightly hysterical, an overwhelming relief flowing through him, and he knows he should stop. He knows he should stop before he can’t, and now’s not the time for this. But he can’t, he just can’t, because he’s standing on his own. His thighs are thick and strong, his arms heavily corded with muscle. He feels alive. He feels vital. He feels like he did before… before everything. He’s not weak. His limbs are not brittle sticks. He can take a deep breath without his lungs hurting. And when he reaches up and touches his face, he feels that full beard, feels that full head of hair.
And there are no scars.
There are no scars.
“Okay,” he says, and he’s so surprised at his own voice that he takes a step back. The word comes out deep and strong. Not like the fragile way it was before. Where it’d crack on every third word because his vocal cords were still a bit rusty.
He says, “Okay,” and maybe has a little smile on his face.
He doesn’t see a single cloud in the sky. It’s odd, he thinks, because he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a cloudless sky. It feels almost artificial, but then he supposes it is. Simple, really.
“Simple,” he says aloud, and he marvels at the sound. He rumbles when he speaks.
His heartbeat slows. His breath evens out.
It’s good. He’s good.
He looks down the road one way. He thinks it’s east because the sun is coming from that direction, and it feels like morning, like it has to be morning. The road stretches for as long as he can see, and there’s nothing but trees and asphalt and those birds calling out.
He looks west and it’s more of the same, except it’s not, because there is something in him, something that’s telling him yes yes yes, that west is the way to go, that he should beat feet, should put the pedal to the metal, make like a banana and split.
“Go west, young man,” he says, “and grow up with the country.”
He doesn’t know what that means.
He doesn’t know why he says it.
He looks east again and wonders just how far he can make it before this all just ends.
The sun is bright. He brings his right hand up to shield his eyes and—
He stops.
There’s something on his wrist.
He laughs.
It reads 4221552082 in black ink.
5/20/82. The day he lived.
4/22/15. The day he died.
Even as he watches, the numbers begin to fade.
“Daylight’s wasting,” he says, dropping his arm back to his side.
East makes his head hurt, but that’s because the end of the world lies east.
He goes west.
He’s whistling a song about a love shack as he takes his first step.
IT’S TWENTY minutes later and everything is the same.
But he’s marveling over it, that somehow, a frail old man confined to a wheelchair could create something like this. That this could almost be real. He can smell the sweet spring grass, can feel the breeze across his face. It ruffles his hair and he can feel it. It’s strange, really, wonderfully strange, and if he’s being honest, it also fills him with an odd sense of disquiet. Because he knows that it’s all just a simulation. That it’s lines of code in a supercomputer and that he’s frozen inside a machine pumping him full of drugs to keep his brain dull and flat.
“What do you know about schizophrenia?” he wonders aloud.
Delusions.
Hallucinations.
Isn’t that what this is?
The road doesn’t curve. There is no grade to it. It’s flat and straight and he’s just taking a stroll. It feels good to walk without a hitch in his step.