The Metamorphosis

            The Metamorphosis

            By Seth Walker

The auditorium was silent except for the occasional cough, and the interviewer looked intently at Dr. Higgins’ nose as the TV cameras circled around them.

            “Tell me about the experiment, Dr. Higgins.”

“Really, the only thing that I have any memory of is a shocking sensation.  It was not very painful or intense, just a mild feeling of electricity coursing through my brain.

            “After that,” he continued, “The first thing I remember is the kind of feeling you get when you’re in a dream.  It’s like being just a puff of air, floating about.  I woke up in this really cold water, and I remember that the only thing that was going through my head at the time was that I need to surface, or I’m going to drown.

            “I swam to the surface as fast as I could, but I couldn’t push my head above the water.  I tried desperately to rise above the surface but I couldn’t hold my head to the air long enough to catch a breath.  It was then that I realized that I was not drowning and I could indeed breathe underwater.

            “I was so disoriented at this point that I thought (and yes I did think, although my thoughts were rudimentary, I was self-aware) . . . anyway, I thought that it was a distinct possibility that I was dead and this was some sort of afterlife. I found myself in a little sphere of water that was set on a wooden surface in an excruciatingly bright room.

            “The glass distorted everything outside the sphere of water and made it impossible to make out the form of the objects that populated the room. One of the objects moved slightly, and then grew bigger in size until a face suddenly appeared before the glass.

            “It was my colleague, Dr. O’Hare, who was examining my condition.  The experiment only lasted 22 seconds, and then my consciousness was transferred back to my body, and here I am today.”

            “Well, it seems a glorious success,” cried the interviewer and the audience broke into a monstrous applause. 

            The frame minimized and an anchorman appeared in front of the picture, with that kind of smile that is genuine but just makes you want to vomit.

            “This marks a milestone in the development of the Depression Epidemic Adaptation Distraction or D.E.A.D.  Dr. Higgins’ famous goldfish experiments, completed almost six months ago, are now going through their first clinical trials as an effective distraction for those affected by the depression epidemic.  And that’s the Happy and Sad report, I’m Charles Turpin, your News 5 anchorman.  Good morning, and be HAPPY!”

            Dennis turned off the television and sighed.

            His roommate Jerry got up off of the sofa and stretched.  “Well, it seems like a good antidote for society’s ails, just turn them all into goldfish.”

            “Don’t be such a Negative Nancy, Jerry.  We all know that some people really need this.  Some people are so sad that they don’t even do the Happy Dance in the morning.”

            Jerry seemed disturbed.  “Shit.  I completely forgot to do my Happy Dance.”  He jumped in front of the TV and started flailing his arms about in a circular pattern and stomping his feet.

            “Jerry, what if it’s too late?  You know they are strict about these things.”

“Well if I end up getting detention then so be it.  It was an honest mistake,” he said, almost out of breath.

“Jerry, you’ve had two detentions already, you can’t afford another.  You know after the third detention they move you up to the next level of punishments. I’ve heard that the first punishment of the second tier is they take away your beer card.”

Jerry looked horrified.  “But . . . Beer is the only thing that makes me happy.”

The two men stared at each other silently as the clock hit 8 A.M.  There were piles of clothes on the floor and the carpet was stained.  Empty pizza boxes, beer cans, and potato chip bags littered the floor, table, and sofa.   

“Jerry, we’ve got to go to work.”

“I know.”

            They boarded the train and found two vacant seats.  Dennis took the window seat and the train accelerated to 90 mph.  The city rapidly moved by, and they entered the outskirts.

            The train arrived in City-B23, and Dennis and Jerry got off in the business district.  They walked past the main square and came to a crosswalk bustling with people.  A man in a black government jumpsuit stood at the corner, holding a bag of pixie sticks, but they were actually little sticks of cocaine. 

            “Get your Focus Sticks from a certified vendor!  Only five dollars! ”

            Jerry looked at Dennis. “I’m going to get one, you want one?”

            “No, no thanks, I’m already feeling focused.”

            Jerry paid for it and quickly ripped open and snorted it.  Well, at least he would be productive.  He was the slacker of the office, always turning in reports several minutes late and taking way too many “urinary” breaks.  The whole office knew he had a thing for Alice, and they would meet in the alley to make out.  His last two detentions were for these romantic infractions.  Who was he fooling?

            Well now Jerry was all coked out and “focused” so the two men headed into a building that looked more like an enlarged cinderblock than a place of work, and they went up the elevator to where there were rows and rows of people working at desks, typing on their tiny computers. 

            Burt, the supervisor walked quickly up to Dennis and Jerry with a concerned look on his face. 

            “Jerry,” he said as he shook his head ominously, “Jerry, you really did it this time.  You fucked the pooch on this one.  I got an alert from high up that you failed to complete your Happy Dance this very morning.”

            Dennis spoke up. “Look, Burt he did his Happy Dance, he just was very late, for some reason he just had forgotten.  I can attest to it.”

            “Is this true,” asked Burt.

            “Well, yes, I don’t know what came over me, I just kind of sort of forgot, and well, I remembered, and I did the whole dance, I just didn’t complete it by 7:30.”

            Burt was shaking his head still.  He was a little fat man with bulbous eyes.  He looked something like a pug. 

            “Jerry, I think you’re in for it this time,” warned Dennis.

            “Jerry, I don’t want to do this to you, I never wanted to do this to anyone, but I see now that I have no choice.  I have an obligation, no, a duty to administer the correct rewards, and if it be necessary, the correct punishments.  Please follow me to my office.”

            “See you later, Jerry,” Dennis’ voice trailed off as Jerry followed the tiny man to his office and he closed the door behind them. 

            “Jerry, I need you to surrender your beer card.”

            “But, Burt, I don’t think I can do that, I mean beer is the only thing that is keeping me sane right now I don’t think…”

            “Jerry.”

            “… that I can bare it if I can’t have my daily ale, you might as well shoot me right now, end my short little…”

            “Jerry!”

            “… pathetic life.  I never even did anything important in this short time here in this wretched city, for the sake of friendship, Burt, please let me keep my beer card.”

            “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”  The little man was almost exploding with impatience.  Jerry broke out in a full on wail as the poor man couldn’t even think of life without his lager.

            “Jerry, surrender you beer card, or I will call in the enforcers.  You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

            Jerry shook his head in between sobs.

            “Well then, I’m waiting.”

            Jerry reached into his wallet and took out a little card and handed it hesitantly to the fat man. 

            “I’m going to have you visit the Happy Doctor now; he can help you with your problems and turn that frown into a smile!”  Burt gave Jerry a hard pat on the back, turned around, and pressed a button on the intercom calling for his secretary to escort Jerry to the company’s in-house therapist.

           

            Dennis was hard at work, grinding out another report for the company until a petite woman with bright red hair walked up to his desk.  His heart was thumping and he resolved to not look up from his work, he didn’t want to give her any ideas.

            She just stood there, waiting expectantly for him to give her a smile, anything to break the ice.

            Shit, shit, shit, thought Dennis, I can’t get distracted now, I’m only one five star report away from Employee of the Day.  He could see her long pale legs in his peripheral vision, and they had some sort of gravity, because he had to strain his eye muscles to keep from looking at her.  Damn she’s still there, he thought, what the fuck is she doing there?  Alright, alright, I’ll look up and smile at her, but only for a couple of seconds.  I can’t risk losing the chance to get my 100^th Employee of the Day Accolade; the company gives you a damn good bonus for it.

            He looked up at her luscious freckled cheeks. She had a glowing smile.

            “Hi Dennis, I’m Ursula, your new desk-mate.  I’ll be on the other side of this partition, right across from you.  I just felt like introducing myself to you.”

            “Oh, well thanks, that’s splendid.  I . . . I like your hair.” She blushed and turned away.  Why did I say that, he thought, am I insinuating something?  Oh no, I think I just flirted with her, that’s against company policy!  Calm down, Dennis, it’s not that big of a deal, just put your nose back in front of your computer screen and continue the report.  

            Jerry lay on a therapy couch, and the Happy Doctor, Dr. Leonard, sat in an armchair with a notepad.

            “Now, Jerry, I want you to talk about your recent infraction.  Do you know how it happened?”

            “Well, I just sort of forgot.  I had been thinking about other things and I didn’t remember the Happy Dance.”

            “I see, and how does that make you feel?”

            “Well, it makes me feel sad, because now I can’t get beer for like a month.”

            “Mhm, and what sorts of things were you thinking about when you were not thinking about completing the Happy Dance?”

            “Well, lots of things.  I had experienced my first dream the night before.”

            The therapist looked alarmed, scribbling meticulously on his notepad.

            “And how did that make you feel?”

            “Well, it was invigorating. I was able to fly!”

            “I see, I see.  Well that’s terrible.  Dreams have been proven to greatly reduce work output.  I’m considering giving you a prescription to Undreamex.  It’s a sedative that you take right before you go to sleep.  It greatly reduces the possibility of having these . . . dreams.”  He said the last word with disgust as if he was dealing with a pervert or a degenerate.

            “I don’t think I want that.”

            “You’ll have to take two before you go to sleep.”  He was already scribbling out the prescription.

            “Doc, I think that. . .”

            “Don’t think; thinking wastes time.  Do!  Maybe you’ll get somewhere in life if you start doing.  Look at your pal Dennis, he’s pumping out five star reports like his life depends on it—and you know what, Jerry?”  His voice dropped to a whisper.  “It does.”  He smiled and grabbed Jerry’s hand, pulling him up from the couch.

            “Now go get em’ tiger, and remember, BE HAPPY!”  Dr. Leonard pushed Jerry out of his office and slammed the door loudly.  The cracking sound of the wood against the frame was drowned out by the noise of thousands of fingers typing and printers printing.

            A break alert popped up on Dennis’ computer and he stopped typing.  Ah, the first break of the day, he thought, always the best one.  The coffee is fresh, and so are the conversations.  This would be a refreshing fifteen minutes. 

            He began walking down the rows of desks towards one of the break rooms.  He entered and grabbed a coffee mug, filled it to the brim, and sipped vigorously, until he turned around and saw that magnificent red hair again. 

            Shit, he thought, what was her name?  Too late Dennis, we’re going to have to enter a conversation with this beautiful woman without remembering her name and we’re going to have to try to finish the conversation without making a fool of ourselves.  You can do this.  Just focus.

            “Hi, Dennis.  Enjoying your coffee?”

            “Indeed!  It’s a dark roast.  I love a dark roast.” Small talk.  Dreadful.  Dennis smiled nervously and took another sip from his mug.

            “Well, so, where do you live, Dennis?”

            “I live in City-B22.”

            “Oh really, my aunt lives there.”

            “Does she now?” 

            “Yes, so what are you doing working here if you live over there?”

            “I was transferred.”

            “Oh, what for, if you don’t mind me asking.”

            “Well, you see, another analyst was transferred in, and they didn’t have anywhere to put him, so they transferred me here.”

            “That’s strange.”

            “Yeah well, you’re new here as well, aren’t you?”

            “Yes, I was promoted though, not transferred.  Say, I can’t wrap my head around it, you think there’s just one long chain of people being transferred, going round and round to different branches of the company?”

            Dennis had never thought of that. 

            “Well there goes my self-worth.  I’m just another cog in the machine, aren’t I?” 

            What was that, Dennis?  Was that a hint of depression?  Get a hold of yourself man, he thought, you’re courting a beautiful redhead right now, no time for feelings.

             She smiled slightly.  “Aren’t we all?”

            “No, I’m sorry I said that.”

            “It’s true though isn’t it?”

            “No.”

            There was an awkward silence.  Burt walked in and helped himself to a donut, cramming his chubby cheeks to near capacity. 

            Shit Dennis, you lost your chance.  You had her alone and you blew it.  Okay, okay, calm down, man, you’ll have plenty more chances—but will I?  That asshole Evan was giving her googly eyes—oh stop it, Dennis, he’s got nothing on you.

            “Well, Burt, how are you doing this fine morning?

            “Productive and focused!  How about yourself, Dennis?”

            “Very good—happy, sir.  Very good and very happy.”

            Burt smiled and took another bite of his donut.

            “It’s good to be happy.  And being happy makes everything good, doesn’t it, Dennis?  You agree, Ursula?”  Ursula! That was her name, of course.

            “Why, yes, yes it does,” said Ursula.

            Burt sat down at a table and began stirring cream into his coffee with a spoon.  He picked up a newspaper and began to read the headlines, until the stirring stopped abruptly.  Ursula was staring at her feet quietly, excluding herself from the pointless conversation.

            “Well would you look at that,” Burt said quietly, his voice trailed off as he continued to read the article.

            “Reginald Orko, our beloved CEO passed away last night.”  A tear rolled down his face.

            “That’s terrible,” said Dennis.

            “Horrendous,” added Ursula.

            “I think I’ll go up to the roof; get some fresh air.  You two should go back to work, the break is almost over.”  At that Burt left, and Dennis and Ursula resumed their awkward silence. 

            The air was suddenly hot as the elevator doors opened.  Burt picked his head up and started stepping slowly forward onto the roof, looking left and right nervously, as if he had crossed through a portal into a familiar fantastical realm once again. 

            He walked towards the edge of the building, looking out at the silver city as it breathed its machinations, its billboards switching like clockwork, its smokestacks belching at regular intervals.

            Burt was a tidy man; straight-edged and obedient.  As a supervisor he had a few more privileges than your average worker, and he had begun to enjoy the wide-open sky once a week at break time.  More importantly he had begun thinking.  Now, thinking is an action that this little fat man was not accustomed to and his thoughts were frantic and overwhelming most times, but occasionally he had a worthwhile thought and today was one of those days. 

            What is death, he asked himself.  Well, death is the end, and Mr. Orko reached it.  Why is there death?  Surely death is contrary to happiness; it is the termination of life as we know it, the abyss.  Why must we be happy, if we will eventually all die; what is the purpose of our happiness, for pleasure, enjoyment, and satisfaction?  These are the good things in life. 

Burt became apprehensive about his thoughts, because he had never had such deep questions asked of him.  He was frightened that he was sick, because these thoughts made him sweat and question his existence.  Then he remembered that in no way could anyone discover his thoughts, and he was safe, so he continued.

So was Mr. Orko happy until his death?  Had he fulfilled his purpose? 

            So many times, he thought, I heard him crying in his stationary closet.  Are these the marks of a happy man?  No, no, they are the marks of a depressed man.  And how could our beloved CEO, who perpetuates such an ideal of complete happiness, not be happy himself?  What have we done wrong?

            Am I happy?  I have certainly had success, but am I where I want to be? 

            At this very moment Burt realized he had absent-mindedly moved himself up onto the ledge, only a few inches from certain death.  He stepped back off of the ledge in terror of what might have happened and slipped suddenly, managing to grasp the edge of the ledge with one hand.  His pudgy hand, vibrating with fright, released a day’s worth of sweat which had the marvelous effect of loosening the poor man’s grip, and after a momentary intake of breath, Burt fell.  His second-to-last thought was, “I wonder if I’m the last philosopher.  Maybe I’ll go down in the history books.”  It was then that he had his last thought, and he realized that the schools didn’t teach philosophy anymore, and more importantly, he hadn’t written any of his insights down, and he frowned at this fact.

           

“Dennis, thank God I found you,” said Jerry.

“I’m at my desk, where I am for 90 percent of the work day.”

“Well, I’m just glad to see you.  They made me visit the Happy Doctor, I mean can you believe that?  Can you believe that that would ever happen to me?”

            “Well, it’s not unexpected.  You didn’t do the Happy Dance, so they made you pay a visit to the Happy Doctor.  Cause and effect, Jerry.”

            “Hey!  I make one mistake and everyone thinks I’m mental!”

            “Jerry, the Happy Dance is routine for everyone, it should be drilled very deeply into your skull by now.  How could you forget it?  The only plausible explanation is that you are indeed mental.”

            “Oh, so you’re with them now?  How could you, Dennis?  I thought we were buds; pals; mates.  Like this:”  Jerry crossed his middle finger over his index finger.  “But no, that’s all gone now, I guess.  Whatever.  I don’t need your support or encouragement.  I’m going to take the rest of the day off for ‘mental’ reasons and go home and pack my things.   I’ll find a new roommate.”

            “You do that.”

            “I will, you. . . you. . . ass!” Jerry stormed away from Dennis and tapped fiercely on the elevator button, as if that would make it go any faster.  It arrived and he got in the elevator with Dr. Leonard.

            “Feeling better after our little chat?”

            “Piss off.”  The doors opened again and Jerry trudged through the lobby and out of the doors and stopped abruptly.  His jaw dropped and he let out a glass-breaking girly scream at the top of his lungs. 

Burt lay in a bloody heap at Jerry’s feet, having “jumped” from the roof of the building.

Dennis finished his last report, gathered his things, and made his way quickly out of the building to find a mess of paramedics and gawkers strewn across the boulevard.  The body had been removed almost immediately after it was discovered, and all that was left was the blood of a thinker.  Dennis avoided the crowd and rode the train back to his apartment.  The door was cracked and he entered quickly, knocking into Jerry as he carried a box full of his things.

“So you’re really leaving?”

“Yes, and you know what, I’m happy, happier then you’ll ever be,” shouted Jerry as he pushed past Dennis.

“You can’t just run away from your life, Jerry.”

“This isn’t my life, and you aren’t my friend.  I need friends that will support me.”

“No, you need to take a look at what you’re doing to the company.  You are the poster-boy for slackers.  You never complete reports on time, and you rarely contribute to the common success of your co-workers.”

“I don’t need this.” Jerry began to storm away.

            “You do though.”  Dennis put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “Listen, Jerry, I feel sorry for you, I really do.  But you can’t swim against the current.  You have to do what you’re told, and you have to do it proficiently.  I’m not trying to be condescending, or to make it out that I’m better than you, because I’m not.  I care about you, man, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, but if you keep doing what you’re doing, you’ll have to deal with the consequences.  I’m not joking when I say that.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they put you in prison for your negative impacts on the company.”

            Jerry’s face suddenly contorted into that of a small child whose lollipop had been taken away.  The walls that he had created to block out the impending doom of his situation had collapsed.  All that was left was a small, whiny man who was sobbing profusely. 

            “Dennis, I don’t want to.”  Jerry dropped the box he was carrying on the floor.

            “You don’t want to do what, Jerry?”

            “I don’t wanna go to prison.  I don’t wanna have the bosses be mad at me.  I don’t wanna be the bad guy.  I just want my mommy.”  Jerry had broken down completely.  He slid down into a fetal position against the wall and bawled his eyes out.

            “Jerry, Jerry, hush, hush!”  Dennis slid down beside him and cradled him.  “Jerry, I know this is hard for you, I know it is, but you can deal with it.  You’re strong.  I’ll help you meet your report quota.  You can do it.”

            “NOOOOO!” Jerry screamed and continued into further sobbing, completely loosing himself.  He then got up and ran down the hall like a little girl.   The elevator doors closed before Dennis could reach them, and Jerry got into a taxi before Dennis could get down the stairs. 

            Well, shit, thought Dennis as he returned to his room.

            The next morning, Dennis felt completely alone in his morning routine.  Jerry and Dennis had been roommates ever since Academy, and had forged a kind of brotherhood; a bond to trudge through the corporate obstacles that seemed to arise most days.  It was a kind of adventure, with the supervisors as dragons, and the pretty ladies as the princesses that they had to save.  In fact, thought Dennis, we have never been apart before, except for the occasional affairs with the aforementioned princesses.

            After readying himself for the day, Dennis began to walk towards the train station.  The sky was a dolorous grey, as it always had been, and the air was crowded with cottonwood seeds, as spring was waxing to summer.  Dennis felt as if the balls of fluff were attacking him, sticking themselves to his suit and flying into his eyes and nose.  He became extremely distressed and started flailing his briefcase around, trying to bat down the little seeds.

            “Fuck you, and you, oh and you thought I would forget about you, you little shit?  Well fuck you, too!”  He broke into a feverish dance, spinning around and around, trying to kill all of the cottonwood seeds. 

            Other commuters were beginning to stare, some pulling out their phones and calling the enforcers.  A black van arrived seconds later, two men dressed in white jumpsuits who had been standing on the fender jumped off and jogged over to where Dennis was, and he now had his hands stuffed with cottonwood seeds.  

            “Dennis, we’re here to help you,” said one of the men.

            “Don’t be afraid, you must never be afraid, we’re here to bring you happiness,” said the other.

            “Are these yours?” Dennis held out the seeds.

            “No they’re yours; you can keep them, just come with us.”

            “I don’t want them!” he screamed.

            “Dennis please come willingly, you must come willingly.”

            “Stay away from me!”

            The two men looked at each other and nodded, sweeping Dennis off of his feet and carrying him to the black van which then drove away, squealing its tires and spinning around a corner.  The commuters retrieved their briefcases from the ground where they had set them down to spectate Dennis’ ordeal, and continued walking towards the train station, and they breathed out a collective sigh, relieved that they weren’t the ones to have been so helplessly chosen as the epidemic’s next victim.

            “I think I love you, Dennis.”

            Ursula’s eyes.  Ursula’s precious eyes. 

            “I love you, Ursula.”

            “Why are you so sad?”

            “I’m not.  I’m very happy.”

            “No, you’re not, you’re crying.”

            “I am not.  It must be my allergies.”

            “No, look at your eyes.”  She puts a mirror in front of my face.  My eyes are waterfalls.

Dennis woke up with a man’s foot in his face. 

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Get your foot off of my face.”

            “Lick it.  I would like it if you lick my foot.”

            Dennis opened his eyes and grabbed the foot and twisted it with all his strength.  A tall man with wild eyes and unkempt hair fell to the floor of the cage with a wail of pain. 

            Dennis, not fully awake, was suddenly overwhelmed with the sound of moaning and complaining coming from the adjacent cells.  He pulled himself to his feet and realized he was standing in a chain-link cube approximately nine by nine feet in its dimensions, which was connected to hundreds, no, thousands of identical cubes filled with very sullen looking people.

            “The world is coming down on my shoulders” and “If I died today no one would care” and “I feel so trapped” were things that Dennis could pick out of the gloomy droning. 

             He turned back to the man who was writhing on the floor in pain. 

            “Where are we?”

            “The point of no return.”

            “No really, where are we?”

            “In the cul-de-sac of life, my friend.”

            “Well, shit.”

            A low buzzing noise became louder and louder until a small hoverpad stopped in front of Dennis’ cell. 

            “Well, hello there, Dennis,” said a man in a white lab-coat.  He had black, slicked black hair, a gaunt face, and a marvelous nose.  “I want to welcome you to our facilities here at the Depression Epidemic Rehabilitation Center.  I’m also here to tell you that because of all of your hard work at the company, you qualify for an exclusive position in the D.E.A.D. program.  Would you like to be a participant?

            It was only a matter of time, thought Dennis; they all knew it was going to happen.  They all knew I would become depressed.  But, am I depressed?  I have to be or they wouldn’t have put me here.  They know what’s best for me.  At least all my hard work can finally pay off.

            “Yes, I would like to be a participant.”

            “Brilliant.”  The man unlocked the cell and pulled Dennis onto the hoverpad, and quickly locked the cell again.  “My name is Dr. Higgins, pleased to make your acquaintance, Dennis.  Please be patient while I finish collecting those who qualify for the program from their cells.”

            Dennis nodded as the hoverpad accelerated and he looked down, and then up.  The cells went on for what seemed like a couple hundred feet below and above for a couple thousand feet.

            “How many cells are there?” Dennis asked.

            “50,000 transition cells, and 10,000 permanent cells.  Those in the transition cells we hope to have rehabilitated within two weeks of their arrival.  The permanent cells are for those hopelessly lost in their depressions.”

            “How does the rehabilitation work?”

            “Most methods we use are brutal and inefficient, but now with the new D.E.A.D. program, we can effectively, and permanently, distract a small percentage of those affected with the disease; like you.”

            Dr. Higgins finished retrieving the rest of the participants; there were 12 including Dennis.  He flew the hoverpad to a platform and used a keycard to open a massive steel door.

He turned back to the group and said calmly, “Please, follow me.”

            I am depressed, he thought, and these kind people are going to help me.  I can’t believe I am depressed!  How could this happen to me?  I did everything that I was told.  I followed all the rules and the epidemic still reached me.  I suppose no one is immune then.

Dennis melted into the middle of the circle of participants like a fish into its school.  Dr. Higgins led the group down a white hall towards another steel door, which he unlocked again with his keycard.  The door opened to a room filled with odd things.

            To the right was a table on which sat six potatoes.  To the left was a table on which sat ten garden gnomes.  Below the glass floor was a pool filled with goldfish.  Dr. Higgins turned around and gestured at each of the distractions.

            “To your left is a brand new distraction, fresh out of the laboratories; gnomes.  Yes, all ten of the gnomes that you see on that table are inhabited by the minds of ten previously depressed persons.  They were only transferred an hour ago, and we have plans to auction them as garden ornaments to the highest bidders to support the continuation of the program.  You may touch them gently.”

            The group moved over to the table and began to caress the gnomes; their mouths wide open in wonder, like six-year-olds that had caught their first bullfrogs. 

            “Alright, please return the gnomes gently to their original position, and look over here,” Dr. Higgins pointed at the potatoes on the other table.  “Potatoes were our second addition to the D.E.A.D. program, and they also are inhabited by the minds of six previously depressed men and women like you, and you, and you.” He winked.  “Potatoes proved to be the most ideal vegetable for consciousness transfers because of their acidity, which correlates directly with consciousness retention.  You may touch them, but do not eat them,” he chuckled. 

            There was a general gasp as the group fondled the potatoes carefully.  Dennis picked up a potato and examined it closely.  It looked exactly the same as any other potato.  He held it up to his ear and shook it.

            “Now if you all would place the potatoes back on the table, and take a look below you.  You are standing on a 10,000 gallon pool filled with Carassius auratus auratus, more commonly referred to as simply, the goldfish.  This distraction was our breakthrough, and it allowed us to secure the funding we needed to build the D.E.A.D. program.  I myself was a goldfish for 22 seconds as most of you already know, and I have to say, it was a marvelous experience,” he smiled widely and itched his magnificent nose.

            6 men and 6 women dressed in 12 white suits carrying 12 clipboards and 12 pens entered the room silently. 

            “These are your interviewers.  They will lead each of you into an interviewing room, and determine which distraction will be more suitable to your needs.  Naturally, every person is unique, and you each may require different distractions depending on your level of depression.  Interviewers, please take your interviewees to their rooms and begin the process.” 

            A woman with blonde hair and freckles stepped towards Dennis and smiled.

            No, it couldn’t be, thought Dennis.  But where is the red hair?  She was a spy! An infiltrator!  She tricked me!  That bitch!

            “Ursula?”

            “Not now, Dennis.  Follow me to the interviewing room.”  Dennis shut his mouth against his impulse to scream obscenities at the woman.   He followed her down three very long corridors until she unlocked a door with the number “12” on it. 

            “Please, after you.”  Dennis stepped inside hesitantly and glared at Ursula intensely.

            “Don’t say a word,” she whispered angrily.  “I’m here to get you out of here.”

            “But, how? How can I trust you?”

            “Hush! You don’t have a choice, you’ll follow my lead, or you’ll turn into a goldfish.”

            “Is everything alright in there,” asked a droning voice over the intercom.

            “Perfect, thank you,” said Ursula loudly.  “Now, Dennis, I would like you to sit down in the chair and answer my questions to the best of your knowledge.”

            “Okay.”  Dennis sat down.

            “To begin with, do you consider yourself depressed?”

            “I think.”

            “Yes or no?”

            “Yes.”

            “Have you lost all hope for continuing your career?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you tend to push your friends away as a result of your depression?”

            “No.”  Dennis thought of Jerry. “I mean yes.”

            “When was the last time you had sex?”

            “What does that have to do with anything?!”

            “Answer the question.”

            Dennis sighed. “Six years, two months, and twenty-three days ago.”

            Ursula snickered under her breath.  “And the final question is: What is your favorite color?”

            Dennis raised his left eyebrow.  “Orange.”  Oh shit.  I’m going to be a goldfish.  Oh, but not if Ursula helps me escape!

            “Good.”  Ursula picked one of three stamps up off of a table and stamped the paper she had been scribbling on.  She then fed the paper through a slot in the wall.

            “Please escort your interviewee to operating room number one,” said the voice over the intercom.

            Ursula motioned for Dennis to get up and she led him out of the room and into the corridor.

            “Follow my lead.”  Ursula led Dennis down the corridor in the opposite direction of a big neon sign that said “Operating Rooms This Way”. 

            “We need to run now.  We only have a small window of time.”

They came upon another large steel door and Ursula unlocked it with a keycard.  The door opened to a glass sky-bridge.

“Give me a lift, I’ll pull you up from the top,” she said.

“You mean we’re going on top of this thing?”

“Hurry!  We don’t have any time!”

Dennis grabbed Ursula’s waist and pushed her up to a hatch that opened to the roof of the sky-bridge.  She opened the hatch and pulled herself up, then lie prone extending her delicate hands to lift him the few inches to the edge of the hatch so he could pull himself up.

Suddenly, the steel door opened and Dr. Higgins walked through quickly, followed by a detail of enforcers.

“Dennis, you don’t want to do this!  You are depressed.  Your best friend left you and your life is in ruins.  Distraction is the only solution!”

Dennis looked at Ursula nervously, then back at Dr. Higgins who was now standing ten feet from him.

“Dennis, you must escape with me!  You are not depressed!  We can be happy together,” cried Ursula, still extending her arms towards him.

“But where would we go?”

“I know of a place! Just, please, grab my hands!”

“Dennis, she is deranged and delusional.  You must stay here.  You will be safe in no other place!”

Dennis, you have to make a decision, he thought.  You must choose between a life of safe serenity, or dangerous evasion.  What is there out there?  There is nothing for me.  I am not a fugitive.  I could never run from the company.  I am a worker, diligent, obedient, and . . . depressed.  The company has a remedy and I must do as they say.  I am on the precipice of discovery.  I am on the frontier of modern medicine.  I am Dennis, the goldfish.

“Dennis, please! I love you.  I can’t live without you!” cried Ursula.  Sweet Ursula, it can never work between us.

“No.  I’m sorry, Ursula.  Run.  Run while you still can!”  Dennis walked peacefully towards Dr. Higgins as Ursula jumped off of the sky-bridge in the hopeless agony of her lost love.  Only Dr. Higgins and the enforcers witnessed the woman’s leap to her death.  Dennis strode proudly towards Dr. Higgins, confident in his decision.

“Dennis, I want you to breathe deeply.  Now clear your mind.”

There was electricity.  There was cold water.  There was confusion.  There was stillness.  Then there were questions.  

The Runaway Bunny

The Runaway Bunny by Seth Walker

After

Lennon drifted through each room; each time seeing his beloved daughter exit just as he had entered and each time she escaped him, like a ghost, until she led him outside in the backyard where she had climbed a great tree.

He called her to come down, minutes turned into years as clouds moved quickly by, his own hands became wrinkled and creased and he resigned to sit on the ground beneath the enormous oak.  Suddenly she began to sing, just one note, but it was celestial.  This note quivered in his ears, bouncing off the walls of his mind, before the note became sour and intrusive and Lennon opened his eyes to find his daughter, who was hooked up to the machine that measures the beats of your heart.  

The note turned into a hollow noise, protruding out into the room like a screaming bird.  Lennon sat dazed as the doctors and nurses rushed into the room with a defibulator and tried to wake her up again but she had already climbed too high in the tree.

Before

Fastened snug on the tightly wound curls of the church girls were little pink and red and violet bows, dotting the congregation with sprinkles of color.

            “Oh Lucy, you are a gem.”

            A little girl in a flower dress stood under her mother’s elbow, shuddering at the thought of staying in the monotonous church another minute. 

            “Mom, can we go home?”

            “No, sweetie, we have to stay for the Reverend’s talk.  I hear he has something interesting to say about temptation and how we can protect ourselves from it.”

            “I don’t wanna stay.”

            “You have to stay, sweetie. It’s only an hour.”

            Lucy sighed a hurricane.  The church was just like any other; modest in its size, modest in its décor.  White walls enclosed serenity into a pentagon box with a belfry burnt sky-high.

            Beth, Lucy’s mother, sat herself down on the edge of one of the benches.  Her posture was perfect.  She was a small, pale woman that wore a baby blue dress that came down to just below her knees.  She fit well in the church.  The other women were similarly dressed and they did not call attention to their appearance.  This was a Sunday for God’s sake.

            Lennon, her husband, sat tall next to Beth, wearing his Sunday best.  Lucy eventually drifted to sleep at the drone of the Reverend, resting her head on the bench in front of her. The Reverend’s talk was not at all hinted with emotion, passion, or anything else worthwhile, instead the tone of the man’s voice was like a trumpet bursting repetitiously, accentuated with the tick of the clock hung above his head.

            Eli’s posture was not so good.  It didn’t matter, he was not in the church, nor was he in the same town or even the same county as the other Anders at the time the Reverend spoke.  He was hunched over in a great big chair in his apartment, drunk and paralyzed with inaction holding a bottle of Jack in his right hand with fingers bent like a newspaper aflame. 

After

Lennon was uncomfortable.  The cold atmosphere embraced his skin, simulating the limitless void of space.  Rebellious snowflakes were caught in the net of his beard, sprinkling his evident age with young crystals of water.  He walked stiffly down the boulevard.  Glowing streetlamps illuminated his unshorn grey hair every twenty feet.

            He reached the pedestrian bridge that arched across a small canal.  He paused in his step momentarily, surveying the meandering water.  The dark clouds covered him from the stars, enclosing him in an envelope of blue-black.

            As he progressed closer to his street, he decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway.  He regretted this decision and his step quickened.

            He quickly walked on and reached his street, then his house.  He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his key and unlocked the door. 

            Now withdrawn into his own home, he slowly closed the door behind him.  He took off his hat, and hung it on the hat stand. He slowly unbuttoned his coat, staring at a black porcelain vase on a table.  He hung his coat gently on the coat rack.  He turned towards the window and peeked out from behind the curtains.  Snow was falling slowly.  Wayward snowflakes drifted up, caught in the curling breeze.

Lennon was a man of 60 years.  In the evenings, he installed himself comfortably in a rocking-chair in his study.  His frail hands clutched longingly at a pipe.  He brushed his thick moustache with his index finger, and coughed softly.  He crossed one leg over the other and shifted in his chair.  Rain began to batter the only window in the room.  The wind picked up and whistled through small cracks in the panes.  A light-bulb flickered. 

            He picked up the papers that he had assigned to his students and began to read them.  As his eyes moved lazily across the paper, he drew a deep breath and then exhaled heavily, filling the room with a long, hard sigh.  He sucked on his pipe, flipped the page, and continued reading.           

            The walls of the room were covered in pastoral oil-paintings and photographs.  His brothers, all seven of them, each stared blankly at him, each from his own frame.  Above them were photographs of his mother and his father. 

            On the next wall, hung a six-and-a-half foot wide painting by Desportes in which a man and his hunting hounds lie lazily around him.

            As he finished reading his students’ papers, he put them down and rose from his rocking-chair.  He walked warily over to his desk and sat down on the bench.  He sucked on his pipe again and exhaled the smoke through his nose.  Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

            He reached his hand towards an envelope.  His hand shook relentlessly as he opened the packet.  He pulled out a letter written on a typewriter.  It was from his old pastor.

            Dear Lennon,

                        This is difficult.  What you have come to now in your life is something that all parents dread; the loss of a child.  Why such a tragedy has befallen you, I will never know.  I only wish to ease your suffering, and to calm your conscious. 

                        As your dear friend, I am at a loss of words.  I do not know what to do for you.  If I did it would already be done.  The only way I know how to help you is to bring you to your Lord.  In these dark times he alone can save you, he alone can solace you.

           

I will pray for you and your family, my friend.

With sorrow, Francis Hunt

            Lennon stared at the end of the letter for a minute, letting his mind wander through the avenues of his sentiments, fishing through rivers of pictures and little snippets of film, recreating what had been his daughter, Lucy.  A particularly muscled gust of wind forced the window open, bringing Lennon back to his senses where he leapt, startled from his seat and slammed the window shut.  He then paced back to his desk, crumpled up the letter, and threw it in a waste basket.

Before

In a study there were paintings hung of many people.  Lucy, who was not yet six years old, stood somberly gazing at one of them.  This painting was framed in black maple.  The frame sourly grasped the picture within, as if it had ingested something terrible but hadn’t yet decided whether to writhe in pain or not.

            As the girl gingerly stepped away from the painting and out of the study into the hallway, she saw her mother appear from around the corner.

            “What are you doing in your father’s study, sweetheart?”

            “I like the paintings.”  The girl looked down at the floor and her tiny voice trailed off.

            “Go back to bed; you should not be up this late.”

            As the girl nodded slightly and retreated back to her room, her mother went into the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.  Beth was wearing a modest, black nightgown that came down to her ankles.  She was a modest woman.  The most important relic in her life was her faith, and I say relic because it seemed some obsolete device to hold her mind together after her son Eli’s not-so-silent exit from the family.  From the beginning of her settled life with Lennon, she had envisioned such a perfect family; the cliché mother, father, son, daughter, all with their hands held in supplication to their Lord, sitting around a table filled with the fruits of the day and the whitest tablecloth you would ever see.  But now she did not have this, so she rigidly brought Lucy to church every Sunday, never missing a single sermon from the good Reverend Hunt, and in this way she kept sane.

Her husband, Lennon, was a slender older man with a trimmed grey beard.  Most days he wore a two-piece suit and a black, double-breasted waistcoat.  Edward, his father, a severe and unforgiving man, raised Lennon to aspire to become a professor of history as he had before Lennon. 

In those early days, Lennon had thought a great deal about his relationship with the man.  Now he rarely thought of him.  He had matters of greater importance; things that he could not delay by thinking of what could have been.  Lennon had come to an obvious conclusion that no matter how intensely his thoughts were of his now deceased father, he would never have the chance to tell him what he thinks of him.  In all honesty, Lennon knew little of what he would tell his father if the opportunity presented itself.  He conjured up many situations in which he would deliver a fiery speech to his father.  He would scold his father on how terrible a man he was.

He would say that the man did not deserve to be a father; he would say that such a cruel man should be locked away from his family.  He would blame him for his mother’s suicide and the bruises on his sisters. 

But Edward was not a terrible man; he was a weak man.  And like Lennon’s grandfather, and all the men before him, Edward was only a product of the men before him.  Lennon would even lament at his father’s weakness, and then he would be overcome with even more hate for the man. 

              From time to time, Lennon would discuss his thoughts with Beth, and she would give him approving nods and touch his shoulder.  But Beth would never fully understand the polarity of her husband’s thoughts.  She would attempt to be a helpful and understanding wife, but all she could really do was give a reassuring, “It’s all over now,” or an, “I understand, Lennon.  It’s difficult.”  These days she would concern herself with the financial welfare of her family and their child, Lucy, as Lennon’s salary alone could not support them. 

            Lennon was a professor of history at the university.  He did not particularly like this career, but he felt it was his duty to profess his knowledge to his students in the hope that they might do something useful with it.

            Or maybe it was because Lennon thought that he failed in another part of his life.  Yes, off in some distant garden of his lost son’s childhood.  Lennon never really gave the boy a chance.  Near the beginning of Lennon’s mind, was the flimsy portrait of Eli.  It was like a prickly thorn that kept reminding Lennon of his mistake, a typo on his resume; a spot of blood on his white shirt. 

            His eyes were green and his hair was gold.

            No, his hair was black and his eyes were blue.

            Lennon couldn’t remember.  He didn’t want to remember.  Some soft voice was whispering in his ear the poisons of his past; that inexplicable portion of his life before he had become a refined man. 

            He was a professional man now, so he folded up those memories and put them away.

The Day

Her face was so familiar.  It couldn’t have been her.  The blood covered most of her face so Eli didn’t get a good look at her, but the face he had seen somewhere before in a picture.  It was probably not what he thought it was.  Some people look really similar to other people.  Maybe it was just a coincidence. 

Eli pushed the Camaro into fifth gear.  Everything would be fine if he just got back in time. 

He was wondering whether anyone got his plate number.  It was so quick.  He hit her, stopped, glanced out the window at her face, and drove off again. 

The sun dipped a little below the trees and blinded Eli with each time it shone through.  Blood dripped from the spider-web of cracked glass in the windshield.  He had to recall exactly what happened.

She rolled up on the hood like a crashing wave against the bow of a ship.  Her face pressed into the windshield.  The car accelerated faster for a couple of seconds as Eli was perplexed staring at the bloody face in front of him.  His foot kicked the brake pedal and pressed it to the floor.  Her body sprang off of the front of the car and drifted through the air.  Eli’s head hit the steering wheel and bounced back against the headrest.  The body hit the ground three car-lengths in front of him.

            Eli’s shaking hands gripped the wheel.  Blood dripped down into his eyes.  He took his foot off of the brake pedal and slowly pushed down on the gas.  He could hear screaming outside.  He glimpsed at her face and then drove away.

            The lines of Eli’s face crumpled as he whisked through the memories that were so fresh in his mind.  Sweet green pastures drifted by as the Camaro flew across the countryside. 

            Eli glided to the side of the road and slowed to a stop.  He reached between the seats and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  He slowly stepped out of the Camaro and meandered to the back of the car where he perched himself.  His shaking hand pulled a cigarette from the carton and planted it between his teeth.   He extracted a lighter from his pocket and tried to produce a flame.  His hand would not be still long enough to light the cigarette. 

After

“Where is Lucy Anders’ room, please?”

“May I have your name?”  The nurse didn’t look away from her computer screen.

“David Foster,” said Eli.

“Your relation to the patient?”

“I’m her cousin.”  He put the flowers in the other hand and rested his forearm on the desk.

The nurse looked up quickly from the screen and glanced inquisitively at Eli.

“If you want ID I can show you some,” he bluffed.

“No, that won’t be necessary.  She’s in room B3003.  Visiting hours are almost over.”

Sweat glistened on Eli’s forehead as he stepped onto the elevator.  Floor three.  The lift moved fast and the doors opened again.  He strode quickly to Lucy’s room.  A nurse was standing at the door.

“Is this Lucy Anders’ room?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to come back another time.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Visiting hours ended at five.”

“Well I just came to give her these flowers.”

“I’m sorry sir but you can’t go in at this time.  If you would like, I can put the flowers in the room for you.”

“No, I will give her the flowers.”

“Well then you will have to come back tomorrow.”

“No, I just came here by bus from a long way away, lady.  Let me give her the fucking flowers.”

The nurse’s eyes widened and her brow furrowed.  She took a key from her pocket and locked the door just as Eli put his hand on it.

“Sir, back away from me!”

Eli grabbed the keys from her hand and pushed her to the ground.  He then unlocked the door, stepped in the room, and locked the door behind him.

Eli could see the nurse get up and run down the hall shouting for security.  He turned around.  What a sight, a sleeping beauty if he ever saw one.  His kid sister lay on the bed in a coma.  He walked over to the side of her bed and set the flowers on the end table.  He then dragged the back of his hand across her forehead and sat in a chair.  He could hear heavy shoes sprinting down the hallway.  Closing his eyes he said a prayer for her just as the guards began banging on the door.

The Day

            The class filed out of the room and Lennon began packing his lecture notes into his briefcase.  Lennon’s phone went off.  It was Beth.

            “Hello?”

            “Lennon, Lucy is in the hospital.”

            “What? What happened? Is she okay?”

            “She’s in surgery right now.  She got hit by a car.  I don’t know what to do.  Lennon, please come now.”  Beth began sobbing.

            “Shhh . . . sh, sh. I’ll be over there as soon as I can.”

            Lennon drove in complete silence, but he could hear the wide, white roar of the tires against the asphalt.

            The elevator doors opened and Lennon ran over to where his wife sitting in the corner of the waiting room.

            “Is she okay?”

            “I don’t know yet.  The doctor said we should know in an hour or so.  She’s still in surgery.”

            “Who hit her?”

            “Whoever it was drove away.” Beth stifled a sob.

            The second-hand on the clock measured every other beat of Lennon’s heart.  The waiting room’s stale air encircled his body and drove needles into his fingertips.  He could not think of anything other than his precious daughter.  His odious conscious bombarded the walls of his solemn mind with terrible thoughts of death.  His mind was automatically coming to terms with Lucy’s supposed death before Lennon had even heard the news.  It was some visceral response to loss and he hated it.

            Beth sat pale-faced and grave, staring ahead at the white wall in front of her.  She was thinking how people would have recognized the lines of her face in the face of her daughter.  It was the same coping mechanism that Lennon was dealing with, a bloody war between reality and what might be.

            A doctor, cold, hard, stern-faced walked quickly towards Lennon and Beth.  Lennon awoke from his thoughts and pulled Beth out of her slumber. 

            “Is she okay,” asked Lennon.

            “Your daughter is in a coma.  We stabilized her but she experienced a great amount of head trauma.  There is no telling how long the coma could last.  Some last for as little eight hours and some last for months or even years.  Given the amount of trauma, I can tell you the outlook doesn’t look so good.  I’m so sorry.  You can go and see her right now.”

            Lennon and Beth entered Lucy’s room slowly.  Beth ran over to the side of the bed and put her hand on Lucy’s forehead and clasped at her little hand. 

            Lennon stood in the corner of the room just staring at his daughter.  This is the kind of thing that is supposed to happen to other people.  Not us.  This is the kind of thing you hear on the news.  How has this even happened?  How could someone hit my little daughter and drive away?  He was overcome with anger.  The room seemed stifling, yet he couldn’t leave his daughter.  He had a sudden sense of urgency; he had to catch whoever did this to Lucy.  Right now he has to go catch them.  How could he let them get away?  He had the responsibility to find this criminal, to bring this criminal to justice.  He wanted to bring this terrible person, this intruder on the stillness of his life, to know pain, to know what he was feeling right then.  But he couldn’t, so he wept instead. 

Before

            Eli was about thirteen years old.  He was walking through the house carrying a tall glass of milk when he tripped and fell and spilt the milk and broke the glass.  Eli’s lip started to bleed as he had hit it on the hardwood.  The blood mixed with the milk and it swirled around like red smoke. 

            Lennon heard the ruckus and walked quickly over to where the boy now sat a little dazed. 

            “Eli, what the fuck did you do?  Look at this mess you made.  Your mother just mopped the floor yesterday and you go and spill shit all over?  What is wrong with you?  Are you retarded boy?  It’s not that difficult to carry a glass of milk.”  Lennon’s voice rose.  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you!  You think this is your house to do whatever you want with.  You’re a fucking pig!  You never clean your room, you never wash any dishes, you never do any of your own fucking laundry, for Christ’s sake you’re thirteen years old, boy.  Your mother does everything for you and you don’t even thank her.  You’re an ungrateful, little prick.  Now clean up this mess right now, or I’ll kick the living shit out of you.”

            “Fuck you, Lennon.”

            “What did you just say to me?”

            Eli spoke louder and separated his words.

            “I said—Fuck—you—Lennon.” Eli stared straight into his father’s eyes as he called him by his name.

            Lennon stood with rage in his eyes.  His fists clenched and quivered.

            “Get out of my house.”

            “No, I live here.  I’m your son and you treat me like complete shit.  I have no respect for you and I never did.”

            “Get out of my house.”

            “Make me.”

            Lennon walked straight over to where his son was still sitting on the floor and dragged him to his feet.

            “Get your hands off of me!”  Eli struggled and then landed a solid punch right on his father’s jaw.  Lennon dropped the kid and stumbled back a couple paces before jumping at him.  Beth ran into the room screaming. 

            Lennon was kicking Eli repeatedly in the stomach with all his force.

            “You’re going to kill him!  You’re going to kill my boy!” Beth rushed over and tried to pull Lennon away, but he pushed her away.  He then picked up the boy and brought him outside where he tied him to the oak tree.  Lucy, then about three years old, stood at the door watching her father bind Eli to the tree.

            He left him there until the next day.  Blood had dried on the boy’s mouth and he hadn’t slept at all.  It was autumn and the nights were bitter.  Lennon came back outside, untied the boy, and stared straight into his eyes.  Eli spat in his face.  Lennon stepped back and wiped it off. 

            “Get your ass off of my property and never come back.  You’re not my son.  You never were.”

            Eli looked back at him.  “You’re a weak bastard, just like Grandpa Ed was.”  And then he walked away, down the street, and to the other side of town where he got on a bus and did not know where he was going, only that the sun was high in the sky and the bus smelled like ash.

The Day

            The school bells rung and children poured out, jumping down the steps and into the afternoon sun.  The wind picked up and the trees around the school were excited as they were surrounded by gleeful smiles and screaming kids. 

            Lucy said goodbye to her friends and began the long walk to her home, skipping most of the way.  She came to a crosswalk and looked both ways carefully, dutifully following what her mother had drilled into her head every time they went out in the town.  She saw a black car going fast, but she was already in the middle of the road and resolved to run the rest of the way. 

            The man in the car pushed harder on the gas, testing the limits of his new Camaro.  He stared at the speedometer, watching the needle move from forty to sixty quickly.  He then looked back at the road and saw a yellow light.  He could make it.  He pushed the gas to the floor and watched the needle rise to ninety miles per hour.  His eyes rose once again to look at the road where he saw a little girl running across the road just as the light had turned red.  He pushed hard on the brake pedal and his head flew into the steering wheel.  There was a thump on the hood and then the sound of cracking glass as his head slammed into the headrest and he was forced to look in the eyes of the little girl while her face was pressed into the broken glass and the car lurched to a stop.

            Lucy felt her bones crack and her skin break and then she was floating in mid-air and it was all very dreamlike until she hit the cold asphalt and blackness poured into her vision.

           

After

            “After much deliberation and discussion, the jury finds Eli Anders guilty of leaving the scene of a crash involving a fatality, vehicular homicide, and DUI manslaughter.”

            The judge nodded and spoke up with his gravelly voice.  “Eli Anders, I sentence you to 25 years in prison with no bail. Bailiff, please take Mr. Anders out of this courtroom.”

            The courtroom was silent.  Lennon rose from his bench and walked over to where his son now stood. 

            “May I speak to my son before he is taken away?”

            The judge nodded.

            “You took my daughter from me, and for that you can rot in hell—”

            “Dad, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  Eli stared into his father’s black eyes and saw his reflection hanging high.

            Lennon continued as he stifled his tears.  “I want you to know that I will not write to you, nor will I visit you.  You will serve your sentence alone; you will take your punishment in solitude.”

            Beth stared daggers at her son from across the room.

Before

            Lucy stared with curiosity into the eyes of her brother.  He picked her up and propped her on his shoulders and spoke to her.  She didn’t know what he was saying, only that his words were high-pitched and fey.  He pointed at a big Ferris wheel and shouted.  Lucy became excited and was shouting with her brother.

            He then brought her into a room filled with mirrors.  When she looked into the mirrors she became fat, or her head grew to an enormous size and she laughed infectiously with her brother.  Eli put Lucy down on the ground and knelt down to her level. 

            Lucy couldn’t understand what he was saying, but it sounded serious, and he finished talking and kissed her forehead.  His eyes were green and his hair was gold. 

After

            Lennon was going through the things in Lucy’s room.  He found a stack of old drawings that the girl had done when she was still very little.  He pulled one out.  On this drawing were stick figures.  There was him, “Daddy”, Beth, “Mommy”, Eli, “My bruther”, and Lucy, “Mee”.  Lennon’s character looked angry, his eyebrows were bent down and his eyes were big and frightening.  Beth was holding a book (Lennon assumed it was the bible), Eli was giving a toy to Lucy, and Lucy had an enormous smile.

            Lennon stroked his finger across the bumpy crayon marks, and discovered for the first time how he looked through his daughter’s eyes.  At that moment the only thing he wanted to do was to beg forgiveness from his daughter, to kiss her little black shoes and comfort her.  He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay and not to be frightened.  That death would slide over her all warm and fuzzy, and it will be just like pulling a blanket over her eyes.  He wanted to hold her hand tight and never let go.  She was asleep and she was brave; courageously trudging through her dreams to meet death.  Now she was gone.

            What could he do for her?  He thought of Eli, that wretched boy.  Yet somehow before he left, Lucy had loved him.  He took Eli away from Lucy.  He destroyed the relationship between a brother and sister.  He was selfish.

            Lennon set the paper down and exited her room.  He walked past the dining room table; the divorce papers were scattered and crumpled.  He pushed open the door and closed it behind him.  The air was humid and hot and the sun was rising.  He walked over to his car, got in, turned on the ignition and backed out of the driveway. 

            He drove to the other side of town and his car smelled like ash.  The prison became visible in the distance.