2049 First Five Chapters NEW PDF

by 2049 (pdf)

  more prone to anger. I fished out a small white bottle from the drawer, unscrewed the purple cap, and popped two bright blue pills into my mouth.

  I flicked off the lights and trudged into my dark bedroom. I

  brought my hand to my face to stifle a yawn. At merely the thought of sleep, I suddenly almost fell over. My mind felt grey and hazy. I limped over to my bed and just flopped face-first into my pillow.

  Just a few more days, I reminded myself. The time machine will be done soon, and you’ll be able to go back, save Dad, and fix your hell of a life.

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  9:00 AM January 16th, 2019

  The alarm blared and ripped me out of an unpleasant dream. I sat up lethargically and rubbed my face, forgetting momentarily about the face pounding I received the afternoon prior. I groaned in pain and brought my fist down hard on the alarm clock. The red numbers flashed at me 5:2, and the angry beeping stopped. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the digital clock. I smacked it again, and the 0 came back from wherever it hid. 5:20 is early, yeah, I know, especially for the weekend, but it’s a habit. I always used to wake up early and work on projects with my dad.

  I squinted and looked around my dimly lit, cramped room. Piles

  of dirty clothes littered the floor; a pair of dirty underwear flung over my chair a week ago here, some old pairs of pants at the foot of my bed there. My eyes fell upon a stack of books lying on top of one of my shelves. Even though I hadn’t touched them in three years, I could still almost picture every illustration on every page. It was my twelfth birthday present, a helicopter manual that my dad gave me. I used to spend hours hunched under my sheets, holding a flashlight in my mouth and clutching the thick edges of the book with two eager hands. My dad used to tell me that if I studied hard enough, and God knows I did, he’d scrape together some money to pay for my certification. It used to be my dream to fly a helicopter. I dreamed of my dad smiling at me from the co-pilot’s seat while we soared through an endless stretch of blue sky thousands of times. But now those dreams were dead, like so many others.

  I stumbled out of bed and felt the cold tile of the bathroom under my bare feet. My hand gripped the handlebar, and I moved it to the place I marked with white-out. The white-out marking signifies the optimal 14

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  shower water temperature, and every time I shower, I make sure the handle aligns with the marking perfectly. I don’t understand why more people don’t mark their shower handles. They all end up fumbling around with the handle for hours until they get the water temperature just right, either burning themselves or freezing themselves in the process.

  Anyway, marking the shower handle is a brilliant idea, you should try it.

  I waited a few moments until the shower got all steamy from the hot water and then stepped in.

  Almost immediately, my head and face throbbed less. I love

  showers, they give me time to just be alone with my thoughts. It gives me time to unwind and relax. My mind started to wander to ideas of what I might do today. My dad’s project was almost done, I only needed to find the correct source for power.

  You see, to make a time machine, you need a lot of power. On a

  few occasions, I tried to hook the time machine up to the local power wires above my house… let’s just say that, that experiment didn’t end well, something to do with a flaming pigeon. Don’t ask. I also tried waiting for a thunderstorm and tried to harness the electricity from the lightning, I saw some guy on Youtube do that once, but there wasn’t any way of containing that amount of energy, so I ended up frying my time machine prototype… and taking out the power grid of my neighborhood temporarily. I’d come so far building the time machine. It’s been three years in the making, and I was closer than ever. I just needed to figure out that whole power supply issue. I remembered that today my mom and her friend Katarina, God I hate her, were planning on going to the mall where the old part store my dad and I used to go to is. I figured I should tag along and swing by the store to see what I could find.

  I stepped out of the shower, dried myself off, and put on my

  special slippers. ‘Work slippers,’ I call them. It sounds weird, but every time I’m about to work, for God knows how long, I put on these comfy brown slippers. I guess I think better with warm feet, I don’t know why. I headed down the creaky, familiar stairs to the basement, flicked on the lights, and looked down at my workbench. On top rested the blueprints that my dad left behind, and on top of that were various scattered parts. I 15

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  took a deep breath, carefully picked up my dad’s old pair of glasses resting to the side, and perched them on top of my forehead. I don’t actually need glasses to see, but I wear them like that anyway.

  I have this rhythm when I work. Once I get in the swing of

  things, it’s almost impossible to pull me out of my "zone." I swear to God, you could light the entire house on fire, and I wouldn’t notice unit the fire was right under my nose. That actually happened once…don’t ask.

  After a while of sitting and mulling over various solutions to the issue I’d been having with the time machine’s power supply, I concluded that the best way to harness a large amount of energy would be to use the static discharge of a Tesla coil. If you’ve never seen a Tesla coil, it’s a huge metal bulb on a stem that creates lots of static electricity arcs.

  Basically, it’s a mini ‘lightning’ generator. They are pretty damn awesome. If you haven’t seen a video of one, look it up.

  I was so enthralled by my work, I totally lost track of time. I looked down at my watch, and the digital numbers flashed 2:00 back at me.

  My mom still wasn’t up yet, which meant she was drinking last

  night again. Our reactions to my dad’s death have been on total opposite sides of the spectrum. I’ve been on the rather violent side, lashing out against anyone who mentions my dad in a negative context or who teases me at school about him. I’ve also been actively trying to finish the time machine to go back and fix things, to the exclusion of my grades, mental, and physical health. But my mom is just passive. She doesn’t do anything anymore. She’s stuck. She bottles up all her emotions and keeps them hidden by consulting the bottle. People, idiots, say that wounds heal over time, but not for her. Not for us. It seems like things are only getting worse.

  I walked upstairs to her room and lightly knocked on the door.

  "Mom, It’s 2:00 already." Silence. "You told me to wake you up if you slept in past 2:00 last time remember?" I rapped on the door slightly harder. The sound of my mother groaning answered. After a while of waiting, she replied,

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  "I’m getting up," in a dull and monotoned voice. There was the sound of muffled footsteps and then the door creaked open. Her red hair looked disheveled and heavy black bags hung under her squinted eyes.

  Her eyes are blue like mine, but not nearly as bright. I think they’ve faded over the years. She held her hand up over her eyes as if the dull ceiling lights were too bright for her. She paused for a moment and looked sleepily at me.

  "What happened to you?" she mumbled, in a dry and

  unconcerned tone, remarking the apparent black eye and facial abuse I received the day prior.

  "Got in a fight again." I took a quick glance into her room to see multiple empty and partially full bottles littering her dresser.

  "Ah," she replied, in the same dry and unconcerned tone. She turned around after a few moments of silence and headed back into her drink den. "Make sure you remember to take your meds. I’ll get ready.

  Make some breakfast."

  "Already did. Last I checked we don’t have any eggs or toast."

  "Make cereal then." She shrugged and closed the door. I stood there for a few moments, blinking slowly at the white door to her room before going back downstairs.

  On the way to the kitchen, I passed through the living room and noticed that the TV was still on.
Dull blue and milky white light flashed against the shadow of the sofa. The volume was a low and unintelligible grumble. I stooped down to pick up the remote from the scratched wooden coffee table. The news was on. I couldn’t hear anything, but I paused for a moment to read the stories that flashed across the bottom of the screen: TIGHTROPE WALKER FALLS INTO RIVER, HOUSE

  DISAPPEARS, MAN CRUSHED BY BOULDER. I shrugged and

  clicked the TV off and headed into the kitchen.

  I fished around in the sparsely supplied cupboard for a while

  before finding the half-empty box of plain Cheerios, accidentally knocking over a few packages of Ramen in the process. The fridge was equally well-stocked, with only a few old, white Chinese takeout boxes with grease stains on the bottom, and some leftover lasagna in a silver 17

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  tray sealed sloppily with saran wrap. There was some other stuff too, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was, nor did I care enough to take a better look. I took out the gallon of milk from the side of the fridge, unscrewed the yellow cap, and took a whiff. It smelled alright. I looked for some bowls in the cupboard to the right of the refrigerator, but there weren’t any, so I fished out two from the still running dishwasher and dried them out with a towel that was strewn across the countertop.

  I made my cereal, got a spoon that looked decently clean from

  the drawer, and sat down at the small kitchen table to enjoy my Cheerios with very little cheer. Just a nice bowl of Ios. I thought back to the times when it was my mom who would wake me up on Saturday mornings. I have such warm memories of waking up to the smell of stacks and stacks of pancakes with bacon on the side. I remembered how I used to use so much syrup that the bites of pancake would just sort of slide down my throat. I’d down it all with a big glass of milk while my dad finished his coffee and explained to me the details behind one of his new inventions or a project he thought we should work on together. He would be holding hands with my mom, and they would both be smiling.

  I finished my Cheerios. My mom shuffled into the room.

  "Where’s the cereal?" I pointed to the opened box resting upright on the counter next to the milk and bowl I’d gotten out. She poured the milk into the empty bowl and then added a generous helping of Cheerios.

  She ate hers standing up and leaning over the counter.

  She looked surprisingly decent. She wore a simple, long

  summer-looking dress with a thick shawl covering her shoulders and arms. She had her hair tied back into a loose ponytail with her black glasses barely perched on her short nose.

  "How’s the project Tommy?" she asked behind her thick glasses while munching on a spoonful of cereal.

  "Mom. Call me Thomas. I’ve told you how many times, and you still don’t listen," I replied exasperatedly. A few moments of awkward silence passed before I added, "And the project is going good." I didn’t bother elaborating on the details because as soon as I get all sciencey with her, she always starts asking these dumb questions like ‘how many 18

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  parts does it have?’ or ‘have you tried using hot glue?’ She is a librarian, so she doesn’t really understand anything about what I do.

  "So are you about ready to go?" she asked, putting her now empty bowl and silverware in the sink. I stood up and did the same.

  "Go where?"

  "Don’t you remember me telling you? Katarina and I are going shopping at the mall." Katarina is the only friend my mom spends time with anymore. I don’t know why. I think Katarina is exceptionally annoying.

  "Yeah, I remember, but when?"

  "Now. I told you we are leaving at three didn’t I? Go put some real shoes on and get your jacket. It’s cold outside." That explained why she got ready so fast and looked presentable for a Saturday afternoon outing. I scoffed. I was almost 100 percent certain that she never told me, but I had the sudden urge to be out of the house and look for parts so I bounded up the stairs to my room, grabbed my stuff, and bounded down the stairs again. I headed for the garage and hopped into my mom’s ancient truck. "Are you sure you don’t want to drive?" My mom asked me, rubbing her eyes as she took the car out of park.

  "I’m sure. Katarina would probably freak if she saw me

  driving," I said, trying to think of a phony excuse. I’m terrified of driving. I’d prefer my hungover mom drive. That whole car accident thing really left a mark. I’m more of a bike kind of guy anyway.

  "You sure? Come on Thomas, if you want to get your license, you need to practice driving."

  "Who said I wanted my license?"

  "I do, so I don’t have to drive you."

  "Good point," I replied, rolling my eyes. And with that, she backed the car out of the garage, and we made our way to the mall.

  Halfway there, I reached into my pocket absentmindedly, expecting my wallet to be there. I checked my other pocket, but my wallet wasn’t there either. Crap, looks like I forgot to bring it in my hurry to get ready to leave. Oh well, the odds of me finding a Tesla coil are slim anyway.

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  *

  *

  *

  The parking structure for the mall had cars crammed in every

  imaginable nook and cranny, and it took us forever to find a parking spot, but somehow, we managed to pull up right beside Katarina’s blue minivan. Before we could even get out of the car, let alone take off our seat belts, she stood on her tiptoes and poked her abnormally large nose into our open window.

  "Oh hello darling! So good to see you again," Katarina said in her outrageous polish accent while attempting to hug my mom

  awkwardly through the car window.

  "Good to see you too Katarina," my mom said awkwardly, hugging her back. "Uhhh…can we get out of the car first?"

  "Oh yes, oh yes." Katarina pulled her car up so close to my mom’s truck that I could only open the door a few inches and barely squeeze out without denting her car. As soon as I got out, Katarina practically ran up to me to give me a hug like I was her husband gone for years in a war and I just returned home even though I literally saw her less than a year ago.

  "Oh my! You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you!

  And you’re just as handsome as ever!" she said, pulling on my cheeks and acting like I was a toddler or something. It annoyed the hell out of me, but I tried my hardest to put on a fake smile so that I wouldn’t offend her or anything. She can be so sensitive and clingy at times.

  Katarina is a librarian at the same library that my mom works at.

  I think she’s the one that goes through all of the returned piles of books and puts them back on the shelf. She takes her job very seriously, too seriously. Honestly, if it were up to me, it’d be better to have no shelves and just have all the books in a big pile in the center of the library. It’s just easier to find things that way. Plus, there’s no point in constantly trying to make order out of inevitable chaos. Eventually, the perfectly stacked bookshelves will just become a pile of books anyway, so why bother organizing the damn books in the first place?

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  I would hate to do what she does, all that mundane routine

  makes me shiver. Her lifestyle revolves around one word: order. If she only has a hair or two out of place in her black, synthetic looking hair, she complains about how horrible she looks and pretends like it’s a disgrace to be seen in public.

  Then there is my mom who wakes up in the morning and spends

  absolutely no time in the mirror getting ready and just goes to work.

  Even I spend more time brushing my hair and washing my face and stuff.

  Before my dad died, she used to spend a regular duration of time getting ready in the morning. You know, doing her makeup, running a comb through her hair a few times, normal stuff. I haven’t seen her wear makeup in years.

  "You look so much older now!" Katarina exclaimed as she continued her usual over-the-top greeting, "The last time I saw you, you
were like seventeen or something."

  "No Katarina. Thomas is fifteen now. The last time you saw him, he was still fifteen," my mom said, correcting her.

  "Really?" Katarina said, acting astonished. "He looks so mature though." It’s true, I do look a lot older than my age. Maybe because I’m tall or because I have so much acne. During my freshman year of high school, I got all of these kids my age asking me where the bathrooms or locker rooms were and stuff thinking I was a senior or junior. When I told them that I was in their grade they looked really surprised. Random questions like that from kids in my grade lasted for about the entire first semester. Now people just ignore me half the time and I blend into the background. Which is a good thing I guess.

  "Alright, let’s get going. Shall we?"

  As we walked into the mall, Katarina kept rambling on about a

  story she heard in the newspaper.

  "Did you know that we only have about thirty years left of oil and coal? The supply is running low and we aren’t doing anything about it! These problems aren’t just going to fix themselves you know." Her concern seemed fake like plastic. She kept talking and talking about how 21

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  we should save the environment and stuff like that. The news always distorts the truth. All of it’s fake. They always take a story and blow it way out of proportion. That’s why I hate the news. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I blurted,