by excruciatingly unrapidly. And as the current night slowly waned, Envision’s ever-so-loved, forced lunch break ensued. Just as the blue hand hit the red square, I bolted out the door into the wet, hanging air.
I found the archway with ease and without the guidance from the estranged thin ghost of a man. I pulled the metal door open and walked down the corridor confidently. Look at me, working while I’m on break.
The false door, after a hefty and concentrated kick in the center, opened with effortlessness. Behind it was a small dark, cubby hole of a room. I stepped inside and peered around, using the company provided torch as my seeing light.
The space was like a shrunken and efficient clone of my security office—it had a few monitors, a table, filing cabinet and a box of video cassettes near the table. “This seems like something I should ‘a known about,:” I pondered aloud with some perpetual attitude.
I casually pulled a randomly grabbed video cassette out of the box and pushed it into one of the monitor’s slots and pushed the PLAY button. It played with a fuzzy sound, a myriad of black and white pixels exploded on the screen. Figures.
I opened the unlocked portion of the filing cabinet and riffled nonchalantly through the numerical coded folders and papers. Something thick caught my attention and I drew it forth. The static playing continuously on the monitor cut out, I abruptly flipped around. The color picture on the screen was of the security office. And of me. I unnervedly stepped closer, keeping in my hand the thing I had taken from the cabinet. The feed of the secret camera was still frozen-like, I was sitting at the table resting my shaven head in folded arms—napping. The camera suddenly, and to my modification and horror, begun to zoom in on my form. I was now the full body picture on the monitor. Perplexed dread filled me from the unanticipated lead role I had played in their movies. I let my eyes drop to my last remaining hope for solvency, the thing from the cabinet. It was dark in the room, but I still recognized it—even through the charring. It was the journal that had burnt away to nothing in the same murdering fire that stole my wife from me.
After the disturbingly eerie home video from the office, seeing the estranged man so many times, receiving secret notes, and now seeing my lost journal—I fell back, first hitting the table (which tipped over) then the ground. I slumped over and starred forward.
As the deafeningness of melancholy mood pumped into my blood, I noticed, above the monitors on the wall, was what looked like a satellite image. Curiosity negating the awesome effect the cubby hole room has had on me thus far, I scrutinized the map further. And doing so saw a row of roundish islands reaching from left to right on the map. They had heavy black numbers next to them. And, not too much to my surprise, the number two isle was circled.
“Nope,” I said out loud. I was done with the ritualistical sacrifice of my human privacy. “Nope,” I repeated. I stood and walked out of the room—and directly into a down looking Dr. Prodere. We knocked heads slightly and both recoiled. Following him in tow was a shorter man, also in white and slightly portly. Dr. Prodere’s smile was long gone and his eyes were as wide was they could possibly be. I inhaled growing pale instantly. Then things slowed, not really, but what happened was so fast, so blaring and blurring of sighted scenes, that it seemed time had slowed.
The thin man in grey robes was suddenly and miraculously behind the pudgy follower. His arm and hand sprung out, pointing to the exit door at the end of the corridor. The eyeless sockets penetrating my every emotion—then, in my head, the same stern voice that had bade and demanded me make the Doctor leave the office, returned and utterly screamed, “Little black stones!—black stones!” I obeyed without further time enhanced hesitation.
Beckonings to “stop” and “wait” chased me down the hall, even as I burst past the door into the rain they fled after me. I ran at full length into the darkness, my torch had fallen from my hand in the frightful room—no friendly light was at my side helping. I sprinted past pillar-structures and arches; finally I reached the furthest I could have seen from atop the wall. Past that invisible boundary of sight were rows of gigantic cotton wood trees and taller weed-like grasses. I bound through and eventually past these, the supposed spry old Doctor sill hollering at me.
Past the out stretched for the stars cotton woods I misplaced my footing and flew head first at the ground. The trip sent me crashing down, ironically—as to symbolize my arrival—catapulting little black stones into the moist air in every direction. The smell of salt, although it had always been in my nostrils just not under the eye of my intentional thought, hit my face. I was standing on the shore to an ocean.
I could hear the Doctor coming; I put my back to the waves and faced him. He slowed his pace and stepped onto the rocky gravel cautiously, hands up before him. The little black rocks were too light for the writhing waters at my back, and with every inwards surge of dark reflective sea, little black stones were sent sailing into the air and landed with little clinks further up.
“Ok, ok. Let’s talk,” the Doctor’s words sounded so therapeutic, it was revolting.
“What the bloody hell is going on!!” I shot back, my vocal cords raising above the clinks and crashing waves that created them.
“I know… you’re a little confused.”
“A little!? You’ve been spying on me! And you have my old journal!” My words came out fast and outstandingly cowardly sounding.
Dr. Prodere dropped his hands, “this is far beyond the importance of privacy.” This time his words lacked all grace and felt hard in my ears. His facial muscles relaxed and he said apprehensively, “let me try to explain. They told me extensively not to, but maybe if I do… you will be able to see the need.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist. I held my bold, pleaful eyes on him as he went on, “what is your name?”
“Huh?...ha… what is this? A trick?” My fear leaked into every anxious word.
“What is your name?”
“….ha…” It was nervous childish laughter. I glanced around—but I found no answer. I looked at the Doctor again. “What is this? A joke of some kind? One last fleeting attempt to rule over my privacy and sense of self?”
Dr. Prodere didn’t so much as a smirk at my misplaced sarcasm. Rather instead he repeated, “what is your name?”
“I…I…” How could this be…
“What is your name?”
Silence still on my part.
“What is your name?”
Finally I spoke the words I dreaded saying, “I…. I don’t know.”
“You don’t have a name.”
“Yes I have a name. I have a wife… I had a wife. And baby on the way. I have a name. I had a life before this stupid job!”
“You have no name. Those emotions and memories you have so unregreattably attached meaning to, are not yours,” the Doctor’s words were soft but still piercing through the clinks and clacks of the rock water foam. I looked at him puzzled, and quite a bit insulted.
“Those memories are the memories of one Medax Prodere. Those memories are my memories. You have no name, no life to remember. You,” he paused and his face curled with frustration, “scum, are simply a shell. You are a tool. A tool that apparently doesn’t work and needs to be thrown out.”
I stepped back and looked down at my “crowned finger,” understanding the meaning and message now; there was a no shadow of a nonexistent ring. And as I searched my memories for dainty fingers putting a ring on that finger and a kiss sealing a marriage—those memories evaporated. And I was left with nothing. I turned and vomited, flavorless food erupted from my mouth and spelt onto the stones, the rain began washing it away. I looked up at me—Dr. Prodere—Medax.
“Why…” all I could utter was why. Why was I there, why I had been induced to know such things—such memories I had unregrettably attached meaning to, why the love of my life Heather was not real and why my food tasted so gross coming up?
“Why?” I demanded. “Why?! Why?!”
Medax moistened his lips and glanced, again, a
t his watch, “about two decades ago alien travelers landed on our planet.”
I stared at him blankly.
“They have been here before, a very long time ago. Then they came back. This time, our planet was ruined by us… our cities overpopulated… trash and filth piled up in hoards… we needed help. We requested care from the Advena—that’s what we call them, traveler in Latin. Surprising they didn’t like it, something about ‘denying the leadership and approval of human arrogance’ or whatever rubbish they tried to feed us…” his eyes narrowed and the old man half leaned forward. “They didn’t want to help,” he sneered, “so, we butchered them. We’re arrogant?! Well fine! They’re ignorant. To think we’d be peaceful and civil? That’s true ignorance. To bring such technology,” he saw he was losing me, “ships, like that here and expect us not to take them. Humph.” He leaned away, satisfied.
Cocking my head to one side, the memories might be his, but the attitude was mine, “so, let’s pretend I believe that, where do I fit in?”
“The Advena are more of a shifting form. Like what we call souls. They have a body, but they lurk around after death, searching for a new puppet to master.” He stretched out his hands sideways, palms up catching bits of rain, “They’re presence causes this you know—the persistent feeling of night as well… They float around…