Infantile cries echo, out of tune, in a vantablack darkness. One would never expect that they be in concert with one another. No child comes into this life in harmony with the world. It begins and ends with a potent, deafening scream. It always does and it certainly did for Jonah Fisher.
Staring ambivalently ahead with his forty-year-old, exhausted eyes, focused absently on the calmly painted, pastel blue wall, he sits, withdrawn and cross-armed, callously postured before Dr. Möster. An endearing woman. Fifty-odd years on this earth. Twenty-two of them a practicing psychoanalyst. Behind her cold, steel desk, she fiddles with a notebook, scribbling things about Jonah’s demeanor as he scratches at a purplish, yellow bruise around the base of his jawline. A hospital admissions bracelet wraps around his wrist, a little too tightly.
“Jonah? Are you there?”
Jonah snaps out of his gaze. Fixes his eyes on her degree hanging behind her then averts to her chin. Watches her lips nervously quiver. She still gets nervous when a patient is about to leave her care.
“I’m here.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to leave?”
Scoffing, he replies, “I was ready to leave yesterday.”
Again, she scribbles into her notebook. Watches him as he picks diligently at his fingernails. They’re nearly bitten down to the cuticle. Reddened and short.
“Is there anything else you want to talk about before--”
Cutting her off again, “You know the whole chicken-egg debate? What came first and whatnot?”
“Sure, but I’m not sure how that applies--”
“Well, why doesn’t anyone talk about whether or not it’s okay to make the egg in the first place? We just accept that both are meant to exist but no one asks if it’s even ethical,” he pauses, tears a bit of skin off the left side of his index finger, “I mean, in the end, one ends up an omelette and the other ends up in a fucking salad? What kind of life is that?”
Dr. Möster doesn’t exactly know how to maneuver this moment. She stirs behind the desk. Calculates an answer, but fails to find anything sufficient.
“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
Frustrated she doesn’t understand, Jonah readjusts on the couch, firmly places his hands onto the fabric and holds.
“I’m just... If you had the chance to go back and stop the chicken from making the egg, would you? If you had the knowledge that your egg would end up in an omelette, would you refrain from going forward with making it?”
Confusion renders her speechless for a brief second.
“But I’m not a chicken.”
“Fuck!”
Jonah jumps from the couch. Startled, Dr. Möster stands from her seat and moves around the desk. Calmly.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know if it’s possible to do something like that but the way I see it is every egg has the potential to become a chicken.”
Her answer pisses him off even more.
“People never weigh the consequences of their actions. That’s what I’m trying to fucking explain here. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go now?”
“I just have to sign your discharge papers.”
Deflated, Jonah sits back on the couch. Dr. Möster returns to her desk, pulls a pen from a luxurious pen cup, bends over her desk and grabs the discharge papers. Embarrassed by his outburst, Jonah watches her sign them quickly but when she looks to him, he turns away. Shields himself from her gaze.
“I’ll put my card in here, as well... If you want to talk further.”
Ignoring her out of sheer disapproval, Jonah stares mindlessly at the pastel blue wall again and, beyond them, he hears the sound of babies crying. He picks at his cuticles more and more until a small amount of blood drips out.
Babies cry in their cribs. Squirming like unaware worms. Freshly born. A maternity ward full of them. Gender-neutral blankets cover their frail bodies as bright, cold lights buzz above them and nurses, who routinely check on them, move through the aisles of cribs like robotic androids.
A new father, in his 30s, taps on the viewing bay window outside of the ward. Smiles endlessly at a little baby girl in one of the cribs. This, according to him and his posture, is the greatest thing he’ll ever achieve. His eyes, lit up by wonder, track every movement of his newborn before him. Jonah approaches solemnly and stops.
“Which one’s yours?” The new father asks, without looking to the man hovering beside him.
“No, I don’t have any.”
“Oh,” loaded like a shotgun, the new father clocks away from Jonah, then steps closer to the window, “That one’s mine. Rose. Her name’s Rose.”
The new father spots the bruises on Jonah’s neck.
“What happened there?”
He doesn’t respond. Just stares in at the maternity room then awkwardly, Jonah calculates the unbridled joy on the new father’s face. The skin beside his eyes wrinkle with every faint chuckle. His finger curls as it taps the window. A shaky, nervous hand lingers beside his left pocket. Jonah sees the weight he’s carrying and, rather than comfort the man, he digs into his own perceptions.
“Are you afraid?”
“What?”, The new father says.
“That you made a mistake.”
Offended and now irritated by Jonah’s presence, the new father whips to face him.
“What... What did you just say?”
“Aren’t you afraid she’s going to suffer?
“What the hell are you talking about? Why would you say something like that?”
“I just--”
“How about you just leave?”
Stepping away, hands up, Jonah moves passed the new father as he turns back to his little girl. From anger to joy, the quickest flip of emotions falls across the new father’s face but as he spots a sulking Jonah heading for the doors, an expression of doubt lingers between his brows as he turns back to his baby girl then slowly turns to see the doors closing down the hall.
A calm, perfectly up-kept suburban bungalow lives on a meticulously planned street. A subdivision built in the early nineties that hasn’t changed much since then. Sprinklers refresh pristinely cut lawns as Jonah moves down a center path toward the front door situated a few steps up on a slightly decayed, concrete porch. Black-coated, steel railings twist together to form a barrier.
Solemnly, Jonah heads for the door but not before he takes a second to eye the freshly tarred driveway that leads to a lonely garage, tucked away at the end. Taking a second, he tightens the collar on his shirt to hide the bruises around his neck before entering the home but they’re still visible.
Inside, the smell of old, plastic covered furniture irritates Jonah’s sensitive nostrils as he takes off his shoes at the front door and delicately places them down on a plastic mat that hasn’t moved in decades. Two suitcases temporarily hold court by two pairs of old shoes. He spots the them, scoffs then steps onto the magenta, shag carpet with a step lacking any sort of firm confidence. Not so much as a panther on the prowl but more in the way an ant crawls across hot pavement, unaware of the aardvark trailing close behind him.
“Jonie? Is that you?”, a shrill, overly protective voice from down the hall calls.
Quickly, Jonah spots himself in a decorative mirror, and sees the bruises poking out of his shirt collar. He moves to a closet and digs around frantically. Searches before that voice can come into view. He finds a scarf, wraps it around his sore neck to cover the bruises.
“Albert”
He callously calls back, “It’s me, ‘Ma.”
“Oh good.” That shrill voice engrained in his eardrums. The decibels eats away at his being.
Taking a deep, long breath, Jonah moves down the shag carpet, stops for a second and scans the home. A vintage grandfather clock ticks incessantly in the corner by a modern LCD TV. Its black mirror stares back at him like a void. Two recliners sat beside each other with a pair of dinner trays on a coffee table. The lived-in ass marks on the seat. As he moves away from the living room, he clocks a photograph proudly displayed. His mother and father in the summer of ‘84. Leaning together against an old Ford Pinto outside of a lake cabin. The photo haunts him. He closes his eyes and feels the skin on his body shrivel up.
“Jon--”
“I’m coming, ‘Ma!”
Irritated, he dips down the corridor.
As Jonah moves slowly into the kitchen, his mother, June Fisher, nearly sixty-eight years old, hovers over a steaming pot of stew. Hair pinned back into a silver tail. Glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. The fragrance, of both his mother and the stew, brings him not an ounce of comfort. Home-cooked meals have a way of erupting vile memories in his thin skull. She’s bubbly and dutiful as she hums a soft song, stirring the stew vivaciously.
“Would you like...” She stops as she turns and spots the scarf, “How can you be wearing that in heat like this?”
With a shrug, Jonah moves to the table. Sets his ass down on the creaky, wooden chair. Pulls up close to the table as his mother takes down an ornate bowl and scoops chunks of meaty stew into it.
“Be careful. It’s hot.” She staggers over to him. Kisses his forehead with precision and places the bowl before him. The steam rises into his exhausted face. He swipes it away as it condensates on his cheekbones.
Spotting an opened piece of mail, Jonah ignores the food and grabs it. On it, an insignia for Hopkins Public High School.
“Did you open--”
“You can’t take this failure personally, sweetheart. It’s a part of life and when it doesn’t go as planned, you have to pivot! That’s what your father always says.”
Staring with disgust, Jonah reads the letter. Which, scribed in perfect type, reads something along the lines of TERMINATION OF EMPLOYMENT, MEETING THIS WEEK.
But it’s blurry. To him, at least. Redness consumes his face as he grips the letter tight. So tight he could rip it to shreds but he won’t because this is a man so shriveled in spirit, he doesn’t have the courage to--
“June?” A thick, gravelly voice consumes the air. Jonah straights his posture and hides the letter in his pocket as, Albert Fisher, his father, enters into the kitchen.
“Albert”, she dotingly says as she leaves the stew and gracefully waddles over to her one true love.
Singing, Albert spins June in a circle on the linoleum floor, “June, my sweet June, a life with you, could never begin too soon.”
Queasy, Jonah moves from the table and heads for the hallway but before he leaves, a firm grip grabs his wrist.
“A scarf? In this weather?”
“Felt like it.”
“How was your time away from us?”
“Busy.”
“We missed you. Would’ve been nice for you to join us down south like the old days.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Maybe next time”, June softly spits out.
Avoiding eye contact with his father, he snakes his arm away from him. That firm grip still holds onto his wrist. He can feel it tightening around his bone like a python. A brief pause holds them in the kitchen as the stew bubbles and pops in the pot. Jonah looks for an out but...
“Sorry ‘bout the job, kid. You know, you just have to--”
“Pivot. I know.” He says, irritated.
“Exactly.”
The air is so thick you could choke on it.
“What do you want for your birthday?”, June asks.
“Nothing.”
“A nice dinner tomorrow? Great new steak spot downtown--”
“I said I don’t want anything.” Scowling, he stands.
“What’s wrong with you?”, Albert says.
“There’s nothing to celebrate.”
He stares his father down. Behind her slowly raging husband, June sniffles. About to break into tears. Frustrated.
“Why must you be like this? You disappear for days and we hear nothing from you! Is that why you got fired? Is that why you don’t want to celebrate your birthday? What is going on with you!?”
Albert interjects, “You’re making your mother--”
“I don’t care.”
Moving to his withering wife, Albert comforts her as Jonah, a shell of a human being, taps his fingers in his pocket.
“Go ahead. Comfort her.”
“Jonah.”
“What exactly do I have to celebrate? Look at me. Look who I live with. What exactly have you given me that I have to celebrate? What is so special about my life that I have a reason to celebrate?”
June sniffles into some tissue. Albert, scolding hot, turns to his son like the gale force wind.
“I know it’s been rough lately but do yo have to take it out on your mother? There’s no need to give up.”
“You don’t know what giving up looks like.”
Jonah storms off. Albert returns to June as a door down the hall slams violently shut, startling her in his arms as he comforts her.
Down wooden, dusty steps, Jonah quickly moves into a darkened basement then snaps on a light, exposing a desecrated room full of dogeared textbooks, scores of scientific papers and the musk of pure loneliness lingering off every piece of old, musty furniture. A bed, barely slept in. On the wall, a chalkboard covered in fantastical equations and, above his bed, a Masters PhD. in theoretical physics hangs slightly off to the side.
He moves sluggishly to it and straightens it out then stares absently at it. Takes a moment and squats down onto the bed and lies on his back. Looking up at the exposed rafters, a belt hangs frayed and broken around one of the beams. Staring at it, he gets off the bed. Reaches and tries to untie it but it’s no use. It’s there. Tightly tied around the wood. A permanent fixture of his failure. The other end of the belt sits at the foot of the bed. He gives up and stares at the chalkboard hopelessly then, an idea strikes him. He darts to the board. Invigorated, he rips down the previous equations and cleans it.
He writes two columns. One titled PROS and the other, CONS, then scribbles quickly above the two – GRANDFATHER PARADOX, and stands back. A moment passes as he stares at the two columns then he proceeds to pull down numerous books. Rips through the pages with a vicious energy, runs to the chalkboard and writes, under PROS, end this all, then writes under CONS, all of this never ends. He’s conflicted as he looks deeply at what he’s just written then looks up at the belt tied to the rafter. Almost tauntingly, it sways like a phantom above his head.
He’s made his choice.
Outside the garage, the suburb slumbers quietly in the dawn as the sun rises over the sleepy homes then sparks jump in the window then a flash of bright orange light. The sound of welding pushes through the walls and, inside, Jonah pulls back from a massive, monstrosity of a machine. Terribly welded steel formed into a coffin-like capsule, upright by about eight feet. A small window like that of a retro diving suit sits squarely in the middle. To the left, a keypad boots up with a succession of zeroes. He emerges from the welding helmet and places it on the ground. Pausing, his shaky hand moves toward it and floats before the keys. The sun penetrates the garage then—
“Son?” Albert’s voice booms from outside.
Annoyed, Jonah pulls back and, with an audible angst, “What?”
“Breakfast.” His father’s voice trails quietly then footsteps shuffle away from the garage. Breathing deeply, he eyes the keypad then averts his attention to a photo on the workbench. His parents at the cabin. He picks it up and clocks the date scribbled in the corner: September 15, 1984.
Eggs and bacon steam on the plates before Jonah, Albert and June as they silently pick through the breakfast but Jonah, with his mind on much more pressing matters, doesn’t touch a bit of it.
“What’s the matter? Give up on bacon?” Albert asks.
With a look, he scolds his father.
“Not hungry, dear?” June softly says.
No response from Jonah.
“Your mother and I were talking… Last night in bed,” Albert drops his fork and reclines in the creaky wooden dining chair, “We were happy to take you back in but, with how you’ve been acting this past little while, we think it’s best…”
“It’s fine. Mom. Dad. I’ll be leaving soon.”
His demeanor flips. Confidence pulls his posture upright and forward. A new man has emerged. He nods. Grabs strip of bacon and heads for the hallway but stops and places his hand on the crown molding and turns back to face his parents.
“That cabin picture…”
“Lake Ryce.” June says.
“What about it?” Albert interjects.
“What ever happened to it?” Jonah spells out.
June looks to Albert, “I do miss that cabin. I wish we still had it. We conceived you there. You were just a baby when we sold it. It was a special…”
Albert interrupts, “Who needs a cabin when you have timeshares?”, and chuckles softly. June joins in and, as they look to the hallway, they realize Jonah has left.
Darkness then light inside of a closet. Jonah rummages through hung clothing quickly, then moves boxes around above the hangers on a shelf and finds a safe at the back by the wall. He can hear his parents joyfully engage with one another beyond the room as he pulls the safe down and props it up on his weak knees. He punches in a code. It opens with a click. There’s something in there he needs.
In the garage, Jonah punches 09151984 into the keyboard then pulls open the heavy steel door and steps inside. He closes it and locks it tight. A suffocating sight but despite this, he smiles voraciously as the keyboard starts a countdown. The machine rumbles as lights flash erratically. 5… 4… He eyes the top. Scans the rumbling walls of the machine as its violent pulsation charges louder. 3… 2… He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 1… And a white flash of light.
Birds chirp and squirrels rummage the floor of a sparsely treed forest. Autumn leaves dance to the ground from their branches. Jonah, unconscious, lies still amongst the nature around him. Suddenly, he gasps for air and wakes in a panic. He scans the area. The squirrels scatter into hiding as he pulls himself up off the ground and crushes twigs beneath his hands. He breathes calmly then, joyful, he jumps up.
“It worked. It fucking worked!”
In the distance, a car door shuts, followed by cheery voices. It catches his undivided attention.
Moving out of the forest, Jonah emerges to the edge of a lake, where a rustic cabin sits. An ‘80s Ford Pinto, parked on a small gravel patch that leads to a small porch outfitted with planters full of dying flowers. As he inches to the vehicle, he eyes its rusty bumpers and drops his hand on the chipped paint job. He trails it along the hatch and gets to a window. In the car, he spots a newspaper. As he leans in, he spots the date in the header – September 15, 1984. A wicked smile crosses his face as he reads it then, from the cabin, joyous laughter escapes an open window. Devilishly, he looks in its direction.
In the cabin, a stillness thrives. It’s barren. A few pieces of furniture, plastic wrapped, and the old mantel holds a healthy coat of dust on it. Old beer cans litter the floor and, at the entrance, a few duffle bags, casually tossed aside, take up space by the door. Jonah enters as the laughter echoes through the quiet cabin.
“Stop it!”, around the corner a female voice penetrates the air gleefully.
“Come here.”, an authoritative male voice follows.
Jonah turns the corner to find his mother, June, thirty-years younger, beneath Albert, younger, too, on the floor. Giggly massively as he tickles her sides. They’re a beautiful young couple. Throbbing with endearment as they roll around on the carpet in their high-rise jeans and obscure t-shirts.
A rage, so vile and so heavy, builds in Jonah’s corneas as he reaches behind his shirt and, as their laughter brings a sick queasiness to him, pulls a revolver from behind him. The sharp click of the safety stop June and Albert in their tracks. He moves into the living room. Gun pointed. They turn.
“What the fuck!?”, June screams and scurries back. Instinctively, Albert jumps in front of her and holds his frightful arms up in the air.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the—”
“On the ground.” Jonah threatens. He’s serious. Sweaty and nervous, adrenaline courses through his veins as he shakily holds the gun on his parents. June cries behind her man as they slowly descend to the shag carpet beneath their feet and press their knees into it.
“Don’t do this. You can have whatever you want.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Jonah screams.
Crying into Albert’s arms, June cowers. Jonah moves closer and scans the living room.
“This place hasn’t changed.”
Confused, Albert looks into him, “What do you—”
“I told you to shut the fuck up.”, Jonah pauses and looks him dead in the eye, “Did you fuck today?”
“What?”
“Why would you ask something like that!?”, June yells.
“I said, did you FUCK TODAY?”
“No, no. We didn’t. Christ. What the fuck do you want?”
Shaky, Jonah rubs the gobs of sweat from his forehead and paces. His parents, on the floor, shake nervously as they watch him.
Softly, June spits out a burning question, “Why are you doing this?”
He swiftly points the gun at them.
“I have to stop you.”
They look to each other, bewildered and terrified. Albert turns to Jonah.
“Stop us from what? Fucking?”
“No, no, no! I have to stop you from making me!”
June and Albert have no fucking clue what’s going on now. None of this makes sense. Not a lick of it.
“I didn’t consent to this,”, Jonah pleads, “I did not ask for this. I have to stop you. You had no right to bring me into the world.”
“What are you fucking talking about!?”
“Please, don’t do this. Who are you?!”, June gasps.
He locks onto her and steps forward. Presses the gun into Albert’s forehead.
“I’m your son.”
He pulls the trigger. Blood splatters like a Pollock onto the furniture behind Albert. June screams violently and drops to the ground. Crying and, with a deranged smile of freedom across his face, Jonah turns to her raises the revolver and— BANG.
Blackness. A low rumble in silence.
“Hello?” Jonah’s voice echoes in the void. No response.
“Hello!?”, Louder, he screams then, sobbing turns into uncontrollable weeping, “Oh god. No. No. No.”
THE END
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