by James Damm
A thousand mysteries lay behind the husband’s eyes. The answer seemed obvious as soon as he mentioned it. Mike recalled staring down at his son’s body in the morgue, scars and a tattoo all over his chest. John could switch his abilities off, he could die. That prompted the last question. “What did the tattoo signify?”
“Our wedding day,” Nick smiled as a light returned to his eyes for a moment. “John could never wear a ring, part of the secret. We had a ceremony between us. The government would have never allowed a certificate or anything official, even when it became legal for gay men. We made our own vows that meant the same. The tattoo on his chest kept the moment close to his heart.”
Once he’d waved the car goodbye, Mike entered his home and left the envelope on the table. He didn’t want to open it. The unexpected letter. On instinct, his hand rarely rested on his chest as he took a seat on the sofa, letter in another room. The fear was that the letter would confirm everything he already knew. That he had failed as a father and his son had died hating him.
Yet with every moment that passed, with every task Mike began and abandoned in an effort at distraction, the weight of the envelope in the other room weighed heavier. He would need somebody to read it for him.
Half an hour later and a cup of coffee before him once again, Mike sat in Linda’s kitchen. One last letter, he had warned as she opened the front door. That was enough of an explanation for Linda to welcome Mike into her home a second time.
A nervous air before the pair, Linda asked if Mike was sure he wanted her to be the one to read it. Mike confirmed he did. She had done more to earn an ending to the story, whatever the contents may contain. He reiterated his gut feeling. Why would an immortal man write a goodbye letter if he never planned to leave? With delicate words and care, Linda read aloud.
To Dad,
I think in every young boy’s life there comes a moment when he compares his father to another, and questions what it is to be a man. I know I have repeatedly done so across my life, from the playground, to teenage years and into adulthood. For those crucial first couple of decades in our lives, our fathers are one of the few men we have to model ourselves against. Little boys lost in the confusion and the noise have a person so much wiser and older to look up to. Fatherhood is priceless in its impact. Good fathers, bad fathers, those absent and the majority somewhere in-between, the influence of such a figure can never be reversed. Today I’m writing you this letter because for so many years I hated you, but the time has come to forgive.
On the school yard I was alone a lot. Other kids never really made sense, and I never had the natural urge to join in their games. Many boys played football on the concrete, inspired by the matches they’d watch with fathers and role models they’d see on the television screens. I never cared for football much and you never took me to games. I guess this was one of the first times I compared you, our relationship, and how we did things differently to other kids. I’d see fathers greeting their boys on the playground while you waited at home, and I made my way back with David. But I loved you in other ways, so it never really mattered to a little boy.
Maturity widened my ability to process what was going on around me. As I entered my teenage years, I became able to see you in a much more critical sense. Age revealed the father I never questioned to have a nasty streak, the fact he had a favourite son and an alcohol problem became clear and all this happened in a period of life where I was trying to make sense of it all. Who was I? What would I become? Who did I want to be? I lost my mother and without her I had you alone to help shape and mould me. For most of my life I believed you failed me on this front – but now I recognise your role as much more complicated.
David’s death was the signal of the end of our relationship. The golden child, he would have been a star, wouldn’t he? Good grades, handsome with a real aptitude for sport, even being in his shadow was still inspiring. The brighter his flame, the taller mine felt too. And then one day I found him like that. I never could quite believe that his mind had been so dark and brutal. It stole the last bit of light from you. A wife and a son with only me left. I know that you wished it was me; you told me enough times during the drunk rampages and abuse. Those years taught me how to endure, the kids at school who bullied or the negative voice in my head could never compete, and I learnt how to survive.
After all these years, I told nobody how I first discovered my ability. I guess people just accepted it and presumed I did too. On a Thursday afternoon I walked out of school early, to nobody really noticing. You weren’t home, the pub, I suspect. No note, I ran myself a hot bath and let myself slip in. I researched the idea well enough, a bottle full of pills swallowed to thin the blood, the boiling water to open the capillaries. I snapped a razor and dragged the blades up the arm, not across, to maximise the impact. By the time I was passing out, I wasn’t really focusing on anything at all. The hate, pain and anger I had towards yourself and the world. I didn’t feel I fit in and wanted to go out like David, the only real friend I had. There was something romantic in that sense.
The horror was when I woke up. Alone in a freezing cold bath with scarlet-coloured water, it horrified me and I thought myself in some kind of hell. That hell was a return to my reality. Not a scratch or a bruise on me, I had completely healed. I frantically cleaned and wiped the scene. In the darkness of the next few days, my head pounded with confusion. I couldn’t feel pain, I would heal in a matter of moments and I had no support network in which to discover myself. Suicide was my ultimate way out, and the door had turned out to be closed with an unbreakable lock.
After the shock came a period of acceptance, and you noticed the change. No matter what abuse you threw I could take it – even when verbal turned to physical I proved uncrushable. The kids at school felt the reaction too. Born again, I fought back. Six of them? It didn’t matter. I may not have been strong enough to win, but I had enough spirit and ability to never lose and never stay down.
Our last argument, I suspect you don’t even remember. One in the morning, you came staggering in drunk, threw up in the downstairs toilet and your piss hit everywhere but the bowl. As I hauled you to the sofa, you were twisting the knife as you loved to do, evil in your verbal assault. The ending line was one I shrugged off but would later find crushing. “I wish it was you who died”. The next morning I left and never came home.
In the years to follow, I had a lot of reflecting to do between the waves of anger. Twisted up, a rage-filled young man, I tried to pretend the life before never existed and started afresh. Denial proved impossible though, and as I struggled through my life, making my own mistakes where I only had myself to blame, I learned to view the world with clearer eyes.
When I pictured you, I recognised a figure haunted by demons I would never fully understand. Alcohol was how you coped with the world, mollified the day-to-day existence and any spikes in your emotion. Painkillers, heroin proved to be my demon to battle and one I fight to this day. Your words would prove haunting as they forever lingered in my mind. I cannot comprehend the situation of a man that could say such a thing to his son, and the bitter irony of wishing death upon an immortal soul.
Yet over the years I have found peace with you. I only hope you became less haunted by the demons that plagued you as a person and a father. I am glad to say eventually I found my purpose and happiness in my way, a life with a meaning to cling to.
Why I write the letter today has a selfish element. Recently I’ve taken the time to reflect, step back from it all, and I want to tackle my last demon. I’m writing this letter to tell you I forgive you for all the sins you may have perpetrated in the past. The rage, the coping mechanism and the voices in your head were more complicated than I will ever be able to comprehend. I write this letter which will find you when you need it most, and I hope that it is enough to show you I recognise you not just as a father, but as a human being and a person.
There is a quote I want to leave you with. You always hated books, reading a
nd art, but I guess you will have to let me have this one. Viktor Frankl was a Holocaust survivor and writer, and said that “When we can no longer change a situation, it challenges us to change ourselves”. In times of hardship I have found these words a great help, and now I’m giving them to you. I forgive you; I love you and I hope you find peace.
Your son,
John
The silence within the walls of the house in Bellington were deafening. Repeatedly Linda reread the words upon Mike’s request, his son’s voice thick in his brain. With every passing line, the tightness in his chest and mass on his shoulders loosened. Before he died, John had forgiven him.
“Are you okay?” Linda asked with real concern as she put down the letter.
In silence, they sat for what felt like hours. Eventually with a weak smile Linda suggested that maybe Mike head home. He did, and for a long time Mike found himself alone in his front room. There were two roads that lay before Mike: the path of self-destruction he was on and the tougher one that had now opened up to him.
Drenched in sweat, like every pore in his body had opened up, nauseousness and dizziness held Mike. In his front room his body was rejecting itself, going haywire. Mike’s stomach twisted in knots, muscles aching, as his body begged to crawl out itself. Mentally and physically, he had come undone.
Wave after wave of emotion swept over Mike. Chaotic thoughts, buried so deep, bubbled forwards. David, John, Maggie. All their faces cold and gone on the autopsy table. The years of vomit down toilet bowls, falls and sorrow.
Bellington, the damn town that had gripped him from birth and never let him out. But it wasn’t the town, a place of good people. It was Mike; it had always been Mike. As his body pleaded to go to Rust’s and keep all the unravelling at bay, another part of himself forced to remain on the sofa. Had the letter, the forgiveness, changed anything? Did Mike really have anything to live for down the road? Was there still time? Something left in the broken tank?
“I forgive you; I love you and I hope you find peace,” Mike repeated as he wept.
Chapter Twenty
For over a month Juliet heard nothing. No messages, no communication or a hint of progress. The cases kept coming with no mention of the hotel room conversation or John Fitzgerald. The idea the entire conversation had been a ploy by Helen to force Juliet off the case crossed her mind several times. Yet the answers provided so much detail, and came so openly, that Juliet couldn’t believe in an idea of deceit. Daily she remained busy, patient for her opportunity to get the truth.
A security guard for protection now trailed Juliet wherever she went. Attacks on those who possessed abilities hit the news regularly in other countries. The Marco Rossi incident terrified the public. Now Juliet’s own government and employer spoke of registration acts. The public debated cures. Once she tried to raise the issue with her new partner, but he dismissed it, snapping the conversation to a halt. Juliet didn’t raise the topic again.
The call came on a standard Tuesday. Prepped in a police station, Juliet expected the morning to concern a series of stabbings in the area. Abruptly, the call shelved those plans. Juliet expected to meet Helen, but they instructed one figure, a driver rather than an agent, to transport her to the care facility. The conversation thin, part of the instructions, Juliet spent most of the journey anxious as she imagined the scenarios play out. There could be no plan for a girl who dreamt the future.
On the journey Juliet tried to keep track of passing signs, but they displayed unknown towns and villages. Alice’s care facility far away from any prying eyes. Dry concrete views drifted into flourishing countryside and after two hours, the roads narrowed.
Only at one side of a two-way mirror did Juliet get her first glimpse at the child she was to interview. In a hospital gown, hair cut short and tied back, Alice appeared every bit an ordinary girl. Hands on the table with the palms laying flat, she stared only forward, an empty vessel as far as Juliet could see. Yet despite the unnerving display, Juliet could see the youth in her features, the delicate thinness of her wrists and body. Outside of context and situation, the girl would not be out of place in a classroom or playground.
“There’s talk in the media of bringing in a registration act,” Helen declared from beside Juliet as she too looked at the child. “I have no idea how long we can keep the existence of Alice a secret if it’s brought in. The choice would be open rebellion against the government or adding fuel to the fire.”
“You really think they’d hurt a child?”
“World events are changing fast, Juliet,” Helen acknowledged. “Past any act, we will continue to tighten borders and the Prime Minister will lose his leadership election. Hell, I know they’ll replace me before too long. I hope I have time to get answers before I go.”
“She’s just a girl,” Juliet repeated her thought aloud. “A little girl who can dream the future would mess anybody up inside.”
“Like being able to read minds?”
Juliet glanced at Helen. An entire career in her employment and this encounter, off the record and as unofficial as possible, would be only a handful they’d ever shared. Abilities shaped their owners more than Helen could ever know. Yet abilities altered more than just the individuals. Every person Juliet encountered had a preconceived notion of what she would be like, even her boss. The abilities defined those like Juliet and Alice.
Juliet headed for the room’s entrance and took one last breath. Nerves now seized her. All the answers to everything that remained surrounding John Fitzgerald sat in the little girl’s mind. If Juliet failed, so did any hope of learning the truth.
The instant Alice’s eyes locked onto Juliet, the power dynamic of the conversation became clear. The facility, the guards, and the agents covering the doors meant nothing. The true power lay in the dark-haired girl’s head, waiting in the interview room. As Juliet entered the room, she felt ill as she felt herself become submissive to a little child, the conversation occurring on her terms and on her turf.
Alice’s eyes stood out the most as they rested, unflinching. The entire face carried the weight of an adult’s, utter confidence and an unwavering sureness in her gaze. The colour of her eyes was grey like smoke, and a complex machine ticked behind the blank expression. Every rare blink appeared timed and planned. The appearance gave nothing away, but contempt lingered from the firm lips to the rigid eyebrows. As her stomach swam and her instincts screamed danger, Juliet knew in her heart that Alice held the control.
The contrast between an eleven-year-old girl and the restraints that bound her remained startling. Real or imagined, the temperature of the room dropped in Alice’s company, as if Alice was a black hole sapping happiness and life from the atmosphere. Juliet had met many bad people in her time, from rapists to murderers. Alice was the first person who dripped hatred and where the word ‘evil’ felt not in the slightest hyperbolic.
“I drew you a picture,” Alice stated as Juliet took a seat. Flicking a bound hand, she slid a drawing across the table. Childlike, poorly crafted, the pencilled image showed Juliet with her arms drooping. Blood poured from a heavy wound as she hung from what looked to be a meat hook. “I give it a year before they come for you.”
Juliet slid the drawing back across the table. She would only speak when she had a read of the situation. Juliet hadn’t yet dared turn on the tap and get inside Alice’s brain fully, for fear of showing how unnerved she was. Something felt wrong and unlike anything she had experienced in someone’s head before.
“I dreamt you would come,” the girl’s voice cracked through the silent room. There was a childlike edge to it, but time had worn the hint away. Efficient, brutal and cold, each word had a slight cut to it. “You’ve come to ask why I murdered John Fitzgerald and you’ll leave once you have your answers.”
“You know why he died?” Juliet asked.
“I have never met a mind-reader before. I find it interesting that John never learnt how your ability ticked. I want to explore you. A question
for a question.”
There was real menace in Alice’s expression now. Her clouded eyes wanted to rip inside her head and swim in any trauma they found. The individual opposite getting even the slightest peek into her mind frightened Juliet. Yet this was the closest opportunity for the truth a person would ever get.
“I’ll play your game,” Juliet agreed and then continued. “Go first.”
“Tell me about your relationship with your daddy.”
“He was kind, a good father,” Juliet answered.
Alice tutted and tapped her head. “I don’t believe that. A mind-reader being able to hear every thought of her parents, every time they’re disappointed or angry. I know that would scar. My daddy stopped visiting years ago. After they put me in here, I dreamt he would have an affair. The enjoyment was keeping quiet on that one. With every parental visit, I looked for the signs until I could confirm to myself that he’d done it. The look on both their faces when I revealed he’d had his cock in the neighbour’s cunt. You should have seen it. My favourite, I laughed for months. He rarely came back and eventually my mother stopped too…”
“He loved her more than me,” Juliet interrupted. “I remember on my sixteenth birthday, the early days of my power emerging, that he loved his wife more than his daughter. He came to hug me and the thought just popped into his mind. Nothing to trigger it. He hugged me and the thought in his mind was that he loved me, was proud of me. Yet behind that mask he loved his wife and wished for the embrace of her more. It didn’t matter what I did, how much I loved him – I would never be good enough to outshine her love.”
Alice smirked. “John had daddy issues too; I think we all do. Doesn’t matter how good or caring they are over a lifetime, there will be one misplaced comment, a stinging argument somewhere. We tell ourselves they’re human, parents make mistakes, but in reality it still burns. Parents are the holy grail of perfection, and their opinions will always matter.”