by Jack Beal
The screen splits again and the doctor reappears. “Thank you, Simone. Yes, of course. This news is rather perturbing as we’ve spent years installing the reactors to help make living conditions for crew members on Mars possible. Before we can validate the impact these explosions will have on the impending mission, we’ll need to assess the damage and validate whether or not the reactors can be repaired.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Can you share with us your own personal opinions as to the nature of the explosions?”
Frowning, Dr. Brown begins to fidget with his glasses uneasily. “In that Mars still remains, in large, a mystery, it would be difficult for me to speculate as to the causes behind this tragedy.”
Conversely, the newswoman’s mouth turns up at the corners. “There has been some pretty extensive speculation throughout social media networks as to the possibility of some rather unorthodox reasons behind the explosions. Can we rule out theories dealing with extra-terrestrial involvement?”
Something tugs at me from inside. It’s crippling. The beeping doubles. Triples. A cold sweat envelops me as the burden on my rib cage intensifies. My breathing grows shallow, labored.
The screen zooms back to Dr. Brown, but I’m no longer listening.
Instead, I’m remembering.
It starts with a single image. My mother, holding me in her arms. A second picture follows. Grandmom in the kitchen baking her famous apple pie. Capture by capture, my memories hook together. It isn’t long before I’ve been shoved aboard a ship motoring down a long stream of recollection.
With a static rustling, like the space in between radio stations, the procession slows. In a torrent of sounds and smells, the rest of the memories flash before my eyes.
The stench of canned meat. The screech of tires. The shouting and excitement as the funny little man hops out of his car. Dad disappearing into the distance. I remember being mad about missing out on the pie and deciding to go and find that stinking flying saucer on my own. And then I remember finding it.
The silvery object appears before me. So does the little girl with the big, black sunglasses. There’s that mysterious tablet whose symbols change before my eyes. I can feel my confusion, my fear.
My throat swells. Somebody’s telling me Dad is gone, and he won’t be coming back. The austere façade of the orphanage looms into view, followed by the grotesque faces of Father Tinney and the nuns. When panic surges through my veins, I conjure up my mother’s voice to goad it away. I can almost feel the sting of the asphalt beneath my saddle shoes and the thrill of adrenaline pumping through my veins as I flee.
A sinking feeling circles around in my gut. It’s all just a bad dream, I try, but the memories won’t let up. I remember arriving back in Corona. Finding Willy. Seeing his mom. Everybody’s changed. Everybody’s aged. Except for me. Why haven’t I gotten older with the rest of them? How is it everyone else grew up while I stayed the same?
That’s when I see it for the second time. A silver-colored disc is leaning into the hillock in the middle of the corn fields. The stream of memories slows to a halt.
Everything is dark and still. As I inhale deeply, my nostrils are filled with a strong metallic odor. My muscles stiffen. I swallow dryly. I’m still inside.
My courage is fleeting. Clenching my eyes together tightly, I pray for the odor to dissipate and the darkness to lift. Only it doesn’t.
A slow, methodic beeping settles in. It’s making me nervous. The beeping grows faster.
Wait. I slog through the loose strands of reminiscence sitting in heaps around me. The beeping, the smell…I’ve been here once before. As I open my eyes, the lashes unfasten painfully, and I wince.
“Eh-verything oh-kay, there?” the same wide, flattened voice asks. I process the details, filing them neatly along with the others. I’m in the hospital.
I evoke another memory, voice shaking. “Andrea?”
“Sure is, don’t cha know! I’m here all day.”
I allow the rest of the memories to filter in, like flickers of light illuminating the scene. Everything is bright and blurry. Andrea’s form is hovering over me, a borderless silhouette. I’m supposed to remember something here. But my racing mind won’t allow for it. Instead, it’s already moving swiftly ahead, collecting and sorting the data as a whole. The shadowy figure. Talk of an attack. The explosions on Mars. The flying saucer. I’m in information overload.
In the background, a man’s voice cuts through the commotion. “Breakfast time!” The tray clinks onto the overbed table, which has been slung out to the side. “Don’t forget to make your choice for lunch. Today’s menu is on the blue sheet. Is there anything else I can get for you before I leave?”
“My glasses,” I croak. My vision clears in time to see the man rolling the metal cart out into the hallway.
I’m not in the same room. The incubator with its bright flashing lights is gone. Instead, I’m propped up in a bed in the shape of a capital L. On my left, sits a tray of food, if that’s what you want to call it. A bowl of gruel they’re trying to pass off for oatmeal, an over-ripe banana that smells like feet, and a juice cup that looks more like a urine sample than anything else. On my right, a bedside table. It’s empty save for a vase with a few drooping white flowers and a big, white Styrofoam cup with a scummy-looking straw.
My thick, dry tongue is suddenly begging for water. After weighing my choices, I opt for the yellowish vial on the tray. My arms have been neatly tucked beneath the tautly-drawn covers, but I manage to liberate one easily enough. My muscles are weary, but functional. It takes what little strength I have left, but I steer the moveable table back over the bed. Poking a plastic straw through the juice box’s tinfoil lid, I suck the cup dry.
My eyes bulge as the empty cup falls onto my lap. And it has nothing to do with the sickly-sweet juice. It’s my hands. Something’s wrong with my hands! They’re long with knotty knuckles and lumpy veins bulging out. Not to mention it looks like I’ve been into a box of melty chocolate without washing up.
I hit the call button. When Andrea rushes in, I’m so frantic I can hardly get out a full sentence. “Help…wrong…hands!” I fluster, holding a hand up so she can see.
“I don’t understand, Robbie! Please calm down!” she places her palms on my shoulder soothingly. “Go ahead. Breathe in. Breathe out. Now count to ten.”
My pulse stabilized, I try to explain. “Something’s wrong with my hands!”
Taking my palm in hers, Andrea pushes my sleeve up and examines the area. A frown surfaces on her face. “Everything seems okay to me.”
But not to me. My wrist and forearm look as weird as my hand. My skin is gray and rumpled, hanging loosely over my protruding bones.
“Do you have a mirror? I need to see a mirror!”
“There’s one in the bathroom. Let me help you.” Offering her arm for support, she lifts me from the bed. I clutch on, but my body wavers violently. Andrea swiftly secures a walker before me, positioning my hands on its metal bar. As she begins leading me toward the bathroom, I clench my eyes tightly. “Here we are,” she says after what feels like an eternity to my aching legs.
I swallow hard. The face on the other side of the glass isn’t my own. It belongs to an old man. As I gasp for air, his sagging mouth opens strangely. Deep wrinkles are etched into his face, like verses from a storybook. And on his head, a crown of stiff white locks.
I shake my head no. The old man does the same, the loose skin under his chin wagging.
“No!” I scream. I want to take the walker and smash it through that sorcery-ridden mirror. To watch the lies they’d have me believe fall away in shards. But the moment I raise my hand, my body crumples to the floor.
“Help!” Andrea shou
ts. The room is stirring with disorder. Something has gone terribly wrong! This wasn’t part of the deal! The beeping goes faster and faster.
Two men wearing matching green outfits hurtle into the room. Amidst the confusion, they swoop me off the ground. One of the men is holding a syringe. I struggle to break free.
“No! Stop!” I can’t tell if I’m the one talking or not. The words are stretched and diluted. They mix with the other cries.
“Anistreplase!”
“Quick!”
“Now!”
I watch the plunger recede, sending a jet of clear liquid squirting out from the tip of the needle. A sharp pinch in my arm turns into a warm burn. My vision becomes blurry.
Suddenly, I’m far away from the chaos of the hospital room. The peaceful road I tread is lined with palm trees. The sun is blinding. As I stop to shade my eyes, I notice the way the sun’s rays sieve gently through the branches. I smile, admiring how they project images onto the nearby pavilions. The shadows look like silhouettes on the walls.
“He who fights with monsters might take care
lest he thereby become a monster.
And if you gaze for long into an abyss,
the abyss gazes also into you.”
~Friedrich Nietzsche
SEVEN
MONSTERS AND ABYSSES
An ambrosial scent pours over me in fragrant spurts, as if to bathe me in its powers. It conjures up the ancient myths that dance around my consciousness, tempting me to believe in things like gods and immortality. I want to drink from their cup until honeyed ichor, that divine blood, flows through my veins. But before I have the chance, a vague sensation reminds me to be careful of where I place my trust. It urges me not to stare too long into the abyss, lest I should come to meet the monster I’ve been searching.
As I turn away from the void, its sweet nectar dries and crumples. I follow its sugared scraps, like breadcrumbs, out of the darkness that’s been holding me and into the light.
On the other side, the syrupy odor remains. It sails up into my nostrils, leaving my stomach gurgling.
The sky is a brilliant, unscathed blue, blending seamlessly into the glistening water below. Not being able to tell where one stops and the other starts leaves me lightheaded. After closing my eyes, I tilt my head forward and begin counting.
But before I get to ten, a cheery melody fills the air. Toot! Toot! Its calliope notes ring out like steam whistles. Eager to see the fleet of boats tottering along the horizon, I abandon my counting and open my eyes.
“What?” I gasp. The cobalt world of sea and sky I left behind only moments ago is nowhere to be found. Instead, a new scene sprawls before my unblinking eyes. It’s a world of towering steel and glass giants reaching up as if to poke through the atmosphere. The buildings stand huddled together like a mighty congregation, deliberating secretly over some grand design.
As the music grows faster, the spinning does, too. Only, it’s not just my head turning in circles. It’s my whole body! Painted wooden animals rise and fall with each jovial note as the carousel I’m sitting on sets out on another rotation.
As the building-strewn landscape gives way to the great blue, I push to my feet. The once-calm water surges wildly before me. On its back, a pirate’s ship with seven sails rocks between the pulsing waves. It carries with it memories of a story from long ago. I can almost hear the way Grandmom’s voice filled with wonder as she told the tale. “Legend has it, Captain Eibor was given a treasure more wonderous than anyone had ever seen. He took it onto his ship, the Seven Sails, planning to bury it the next day. But late in the night, someone crept onto the ship and stole the treasure. When the captain woke to find his booty plundered, he vowed to never quit the sea before he’d located what was rightfully his. Day after day, year after year, Captain Eibor searched. Each time he’d drift into a new sea, the guardians of the waters made him hand over one of his beautiful white sails in exchange for protection. Decade after decade, the captain sailed, until he finally drifted into the seventh sea. When the sea guardian told him to give up the ship’s final sail, the old captain crumpled in tears. For he knew without a single sail, he could no longer search. To which the guardian replied, “Why cry the loss of riches unknown? The treasure has been squandered by you, alone.”
A string of giggles draws my attention to a child with wispy blond strands. I watch her bop up and down on a pink-saddled zebra before the ride comes to a halt. I grin, fluttering my fingers at her before turning to exit the merry-go-round.
“Mommy! He showed me his booty!”
Still caught up in my pirate’s tale, it takes me a moment to realize what she’s talking about. It’s only when the little girl’s mother starts swinging her pocketbook at me like a wrecking ball that I realize this isn’t about buried treasure.
“Pervert!” A blow to the side of the head knocks off my glasses. “That’ll teach you to look at my daughter!”
The jolt brings with it more realizations than one. If I’m wearing glasses, then everything I remember…including what I learned at the hospital, is real. And to make matters worse…I glance down fretfully at the hospital gown…I’m probably giving them all one hell of a show!
My specs are lying crooked and curved on the ground. I stoop, hoping to salvage them, but as I do, the crazed lady strikes again. This time, she gets me square in the ribs. Realizing I’m no match for her, I turn and flee, abandoning my twisted frames.
I get a head start, but it’s not long before I realize this isn’t the time for wishful thinking. I’m old as the hills, and not much faster, to be honest. Plus, without my glasses, I’ve no clue where I’m going. What I do know is everywhere I go, successions of shrieks ensue. Whether its owing to my clumsy bulldozing through the crowd or the sagginess of my bare ass, I cannot say. Either way, all the commotion has attracted a lot of attention.
I wouldn’t call hospital socks the ideal running attire, but I plug forward. I can’t give up now! I’m almost at the door.
Only, when it rains, it pours. I’m being hunted down as if I’m a pedophile, and in a morbid case of irony, the only way out of this nightmare is an exit bustling with kids. The sign’s letters are big and bold enough for me to read even without my lenses. Chicago Children’s Museum.
How in the…? But I lack the time to cogitate about how I ended up here. Instead, my adrenaline shoves me through the double doors. With one hand pinning my gown closed, I charge through the exhibit rooms.
As I’m nearing the front doors, I realize the crazed lady is no longer behind me. It’s not that I’ve become something of a strapping geriatric, or anything. It’s just she’s finally realized she’s left her kid all alone on the carousel. “Reckless parent,” I mutter, glancing behind me.
I’d like to say this is where I let out a sigh of relief. But that’s not how the story goes. You see, although the lady with her wrecking ball purse has let up, it doesn’t mean I’m home free. Like I already mentioned, all the shouting has attracted a ton of attention. A new mob of angry faces has emerged from the crowd. And it’s gaining on me.
I might not be in the best shape, but at least I’m clever. As a trolley slides its metal door shut and lurches onto the road, I recognize my chance. Using what little energy I have left, I leap up alongside it. When I catch onto the bumper, I consider it victory.
Until the trolley brakes a few seconds later and three black-and-whites swoop in, lights flashing. Maybe clever wasn’t the right word, after all.
“Freeze! Don’t move!”
I stop in my tracks. I must be quite a sight to see: a disheveled, half-nude old man trying to pin his hospital gown shut behind him.
“Nice and easy, now! Hands up!”
“Now the other one! Put your hands where I can see them! Both of them!”
As I let go, I grasp why they call this place the Windy City. When my gown flies up, I instinctively reach for it. A microsecond later, I’m crashing into the curb, handcuffs slicing into my wrists.
At the station, they offer me a pair of yellow trousers, which I gladly accept. I’m put in a loner cell and told to wait.
I rack my brain for answers, but things make less sense than they did yesterday. I almost regret not having woken back up in the hospital. At least there, the room had walls.
“Hey! Old guy!”
The twenty-something at the desk rips me from my contemplations. I look up.
“Yeah, you. You don’t got any paperwork?”
Paperwork? “Where in the world would you want me to have pulled it out of?” I holler before I can think better of it.
When the cop opens my cage, he instructs me to follow the floor stickers into the interrogation room. “And I don’t want any more cheek from you,” he adds with a snicker. I don’t find his humor funny.
Inside the dark room, a single spotlight shoots a white beam onto the wooden table. Two shabby chairs are tucked under one side of the table and one on the other. He motions to the lone chair and I sit.
“Name?”
“Robbie Flynn.”
He scribbles into his notebook before looking up. “Age?”
My shoulders tense. Good question. I hesitate.
“The old thinker filled with mothballs, Grandpa?”
His smirk leaves my blood boiling.